Get rid of stuff.
Isn't that crazy?
Ever since I was an executor a few years back for the estate of two very packratty people, I was scared straight about accumulating stuff and seriously cut back on my second-hand-shop-shopping. Even so, I've managed to fill the last three weeks with the largest-scale shedding in the history of my life. And that, my friends, is saying something.
Among the stuff I sent on its way:
my daily planners from 1991 through 1993 (though I'm sure my biographers will curse me for this when writing about my creative life once I am gone, being left with no other way to determine the precise days on which I took individual days off work)
an inadvertent collection of keychains
a rather nice-but-needing-refinishing oak table shelf thingy which I repurposed from its job of 'holding junk up off the floor' in the storage zone to an exciting new one of 'holding junk up off the floor' in the living room
a truly eye-popping series of inkless pens
What I am left with, I'm in the process of redistributing. My former work area, aka the dumping ground for 15-year-old stuff from jobs almost as distant, is morphing (much like the aforementioned creative life) into a sewing/craft/giftwrapping area, whereas my china cabinet appears to be turning into - prepare yourself - a china cabinet.
I read in one of the magazines I unearthed (and then shot into recycling) that clutter happens when you don't have designated homes for everything in said clutter. Designate homes: all you have to do is maintain them. And darned if you don't get a bigger home of your own for your trouble.
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