The Declutter Diaries: Days One & Two

We own too much shit!

So we’ve decided it’s time to start getting rid of some stuff.

We’ve started small. Gently. No pressure. The idea is - January 1^st , we get rid of 1 item each, January 2^nd , 2 items and so on until 31^st January which will be 31 items each - it will be 992 items in total - and that cannot be individual paperclips…

I created us a Clutterbook each to help with the process, full of fun illustrations, inspirational quotes and decluttering words of wisdom. Days One and Two have mostly been about Christmas decorations, yes, the tree is down, because it turns out that we’ve been running an unofficial festive storage facility in the loft. There are decorations I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen before in my life. Some are going to charity, some have gone in the bin (which has been emptied, so no sneaking out to retrieve things!), and some have gone into that mysterious halfway-house (shed) where things sit until we decide whether they’re special or just… a pile of sparkly crap.

So far it’s been pretty painless. No tears over baubles. No emotional meltdown over a tinsel garland. We were feeling quite pleased with ourselves.

And then I found something I genuinely thought was gone forever.

A painting.

It’s one I did years ago of a Native American. Watercolour. Soft colours. Sad eyes.

I painted it when I was away on holiday with my ex-husband and my son, at a time when life already felt a bit squiggly around the edges. One night, I had this really vivid experience, something-that-wasn’t-quite-a-dream. I was walking around the caravan talking to someone about my dad, and it felt so real that the next day I went out, bought paints and paper, and that face just kind of appeared. I didn’t plan him. I just painted.

When we got home, I found out my dad was in the hospital, Mum had not wanted us to rush back from holiday - he’d been a sick man for many years (kidney failure, renal bone disease and associated heart problems). I framed the painting and took it in for him, and he absolutely would not let it out of his sight. The nurses moved it once, and he was furious. That painting stayed exactly where he wanted it - right next to his bed.

There’s a whole extra layer to this story involving a psychic medium and a decision that had to be made, but that’s one for another day when I’m feeling brave enough to write it.

Dad died five days later.

We put a print of the painting in his coffin. And somewhere along the way, through several house moves, life and chaos, the original vanished. I honestly thought it was gone. Until Day Two of decluttering, when we opened a box, and there it was, just casually existing like it hadn’t disappeared for well over twenty years.

This is the thing about decluttering that nobody really prepares you for. It isn’t about the stuff. It’s about the stories that are attached to the stuff. Some things are easy to get rid of, like tatty decorations or random clutter that means absolutely nothing anymore. And some things pull on your heartstrings and remind you that grief doesn’t really leave; it just gets quieter until something wakes it up again.

The painting is staying. Obviously. - It's already on my Studio wall with Kahmeyah.

So that’s where we’re up to. Two days in. A few bags lighter. Slightly more space to breathe. And one powerful reminder that this whole process is going to be emotional as fluff at times, no matter how gently we try to do it. We’ll keep going, though. Slowly. Kindly. One drawer, box or cupboard at a time.

No big rush. No perfection. Just less noise.

And yes, I’ll keep writing about it.

Because it turns out clearing a house is never just about the house.