THE MEANING OF HOME

There comes a point where you have to abandon rather than accumulate possessions. But the change of direction can be a tough one to navigate

Why whisky is not the declutterer’s friend, and other throwaway thoughts

My mother and my son were both ill, and I knew that at least one of them was not going to survive. Meanwhile, I was holding down three part-time jobs and trying to maintain some semblance of functionality and good humour. In an extraordinary fit of petulance, I hunted for something to distract me from the ghastliness I was feeling. Of course! Sell the house and move…

I moved into a small settler’s cottage in the Auckland suburb of Onehunga. Built in 1858, the house had sloping floors, leaking windows and a cluster of very tiny rooms. Yes, it had character aplenty – but not one cupboard, unless you counted a nasty little white thing in the bathroom.

My belongings lay in wait, ominously stacked in three vast storage units that were almost exploding under the strain of containment. Over decades, possessions had grown into mountains, especially since the discovery of a cramped but exquisite shop called Country Antiques. To soothe myself after a visit to my mother, it was my habit to drop in and coo over rustic, handcrafted things with proven longevity. In no time, I had acquired an Irish pine dresser, a workman’s bench, a bookcase, a Romanian harvest table, antique rubber pigeons, religious icons, French confit pots, old glass bottles, a vintage pull-along toy horse, a 19th century regimental drum – essential counterbalance for sad spirits. Or so I told myself.

“I’ve learned that downsizing is a bit like waiting for surgery. The worst bit is the anticipation”

Actually, I was weighed down, stressed and in a cluttered mess. There was nowhere to put anything.

Marie Kondo and her book, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, proposed an impossible shift of attitude. Ignoring her, though, most certainly meant permanently blocked passage between one room and the next. I sweated as I thumbed through her book. I felt paralysed.

It took the insistent, rapid-fire interrogation of a professional organiser to start loosening me up. Hawk-like, she watched as I extracted belongings from the boxes, one coffee cup at a time. The challenges came like hammer blows: “Do you use it? Do you love it? Do you need it?”

It was horribly hard. I was afraid I’d need things again. I liked what I had. I’d spent so much good money on things. This was my life! But I began, slowly whittling down the mountains of taped-up cardboard boxes, bubble wrap and butcher’s paper.

The most surprising releases were the wedding presents – generous, well-meant tokens of encouragement toward domesticity. The wine glasses had come in handy, but those platters and bowls had never seen service, even before my marriage dissolved. Discarding them was a conscience-pricker. I prayed that real friends would not want me saddled with useless, albeit tasteful, things.

Furniture, clothing and books were surprisingly easy to let go of. The biggest wrench was the family silver – sterling silver cutlery slipped inside blue felt bags lovingly stitched by my very careful mother, complete with cards she’d written explaining the family tree through which this outdated treasure trove had been passed. Her beautiful penmanship and the care she had taken made my offerings to the auction house feel like the most scathing betrayal of heritage. But not, I admit, for that long.

It took months before I could comfortably squeeze into my little cottage. Mum died, and of course it was awful. One tiny comfort was the thought I’d never have to own up to what I did, and I would never have to polish that teapot, sugar bowl and jug again.

This winter’s plan is to reduce my belongings by another 15 per cent. I’m on a roll, you see. I’ve learned that downsizing is a bit like waiting for surgery. The worst bit is the anticipation. Once you’re in the hospital gown and the orderlies are wheeling you into theatre, a merciful dose of sedative removes the anxiety and it all becomes quite pleasant. It’s the same with streamlining. At the contemplation stage, the mental anguish is overwhelming. “But I might need it” is the hardest argument to conquer. I’m improving, though, lightening up as I embrace some unlikely bits of wisdom (see right). But here’s the rub – any space you create will soon fill up with something else. I confess: I just couldn’t resist that decorative camel’s headdress.

‘We don’t need to increase our goods nearly as much as we need to scale down our wants. Not wanting something is as good as possessing it’ Donald Horban, The Everyday Minimalist