I had a big day yesterday. Not only did I declutter seriously (and, I think, successfully) but I also started to learn something about my clutter problem.
I picked up a book called Clutter Junkie No More at the library. I thought the title was kind of stupid, but basically, I don’t want to buy declutter books, and this was only one of two books on the subject at my local branch. So, what the heck.
And what do you know—value. I recognised myself in the pages, a person building walls of clutter around herself as a kind of social insulator.
I know this makes me sound like a crazy old newspaper hoarder, making bundled corridors in my house, so I have to assure you it isn’t quite like that. But stashes of stuff (hello, yarn?)…check. New art and other gadgets? Check. Always feeling overwhelmed, never have enough time? Kind of weirdly keeping myself in the state of never having time? Check check checkity check check.
The book points out that people with clutter problems often build little ‘nests’ as a form of retreat from the world, and I see myself in this idea. Perhaps my ultimate retreat was my little bedroom in a big house where I grew up, in the woods of northeastern Pennsylvania (among hoarders, as it happens). It wasn’t big enough for a huge amount of junk, but it was always a safe place, among people who loved me, removed from teenage trials & tribulations. The room, and the house, recur in my thoughts and my dreams, especially in times of stress.
After bedtime last night, after boring my husband witless with tales of decluttering triumph and insight, I slept pretty well, until the wee hours of the morning.
I dreamed I was in my old bedroom and, hearing a familiar scraping rumble outdoors, looked out of my window in the darkness to see heavy snow, and a plow clearing the driveway. (That’s not unrealistic—we used to need to have the long gravel driveway plowed out frequently during snowy winters.)
Happily, I watched the falling snow and the little plow, but then I saw a shadowy animal emerge from the woods. A … dog? Deer? Black bear? (All realistic options.) But no. As I looked down from the second-story window with mounting disbelief, I saw it was a wolf. A big black one, half the height of the front door, where it now stood.
I woke up abruptly in a cold fright, having made some fairly ridiculous noises in my sleep and scaring the crap out of myself and my husband. “Bad dream?” he murmured.
“Wolves at the door”, I mumbled back, by way of explanation. “Now there’s a metaphor for ya.” And then, after I lay there for a bit listening to the scraping rumble of my neighbor dragging his rubbish bins in from the sidewalk, I went back to sleep.
