Clutter

Write about clutter. Is there a cluttered spot in your home? Car? Mind? Go through some of the clutter today—actual or mental—and write about what you find and what it makes you think about.

This time last year, I found myself worshipping at the altar of Marie Kondo. Specifically, her show on Netflix. I watched her peacefully, gleefully rearrange and reorganize the cluttered homes of everyday slobs. “I love mess,” she beamed. I was inspired.

But twelve months on—either because of the pandemic or in spite of it—I have yet to purge much of my own excess. Pre-quarantine, my small studio apartment in the heart of the city served as a brief respite from my life outside of it. I rationalized the piles of things and stuff. They indicated a busy life, a fulfilling life.

Now, stuck inside most days, I am forced to sit with my clutter. And it turns out that I don’t love mess as much as Marie. I crave order, if not minimalism—but I lack the drive or know-how to achieve it.

Perhaps I have outgrown my space, as I have outgrown so many things in my thirty years. This ivy-coated, hundred-year-old apartment has long been my sanctuary. But now it may be time to stretch my legs. Literally—it would be nice to own a couch.

I have so many books they don’t fit on the shelves; the overflow are stacked beside them. Dr. Fauci’s office is the same way, I remind myself. But I also have too many dresses for my too-small closet, too many kitchen appliances on my counter, too many knickknacks without a real home. Making me feel like I don’t have a real home, either.

But there is comfort in the clutter. Comfort in the knowledge that this space—and all the things within it, as many or as few as there may be—is mine. In order or in disarray.