I really want to declutter, but getting rid of things that hold precious memories is tough

I’m in between writing projects, a self-enforced summer lull that beckons with possibilities, and since I’m not one to turn away from such a promise. I’ve decided to embark on a long-postponed enterprise. I’m planning to declutter the house, top to bottom, east to west, inside and out.

“Our life is frittered away by detail,” wrote Henry David Thoreau, long before superstar Marie Kondo hogged the limelight. “Simplify, simplify, simplify.”

I’ve taken that to heart. I need less, not more. I want quality not quantity, empty spaces not overfilled places.

But where, oh where to start?

I have closets with clothes I no longer wear, kitchen drawers with redundant gadgets, and outdoor storage containers that house … actually, I’m not quite sure what’s in them. It’s been many, many months since I’ve peeked inside, and I suspect that the items have rotted or rusted.

This makes me sound like a hoarder, doesn’t it? But I’m not. Really, truly. I occasionally donate or throw away stuff I no longer use, but these tend to be half-hearted attempts to impose order on my possessions.

However, like the majority of American consumers who have been conditioned to buy-buybuy, I own too much, and some of it is the wrong stuff. Though I resist the barrage of advertising that invades our lives, I do foolishly fall for its siren song every once in a while.

For instance, during Amazon Prime Day I bought a jar opener that suddenly became essential when I read an online story that listed it as a best deal. I justified the purchase in a couple of ways. For one, it was heavily discounted and reasonably priced. For two, having one of these around means I don’t have to always badger The Hubby to use his brawn.

For the sake of transparency, I’ll admit that I already have a jar opener, but it doesn’t work very well. I invariably end up chasing down the muscle in residence. Hence, the need for a second jar opener.

But I digress.

I’m determined to pare down and thin out. I simply need some guidance, an extra nudge to get me started.

“Do one room at a time,” my friend Nancy suggested. “That way when you’re done, you’ll have a sense of having finished something.”

She’s right. Pending matters nag at me.

So, I’ve started on the bedroom that was my late father’s. Though he died two years ago, I’ve done little to it except replace his hospital bed and give away his clothes to a homeless charity. As a self-contained area with almost nothing of mine, it seemed the perfect first step for a launch of a grand project.

I was wrong.

Instead of adding to the Keep-Donate-Toss piles, I’ve found myself perusing random folders, stacks of photographs and barely legible handwritten notes. In short, I keep getting sidetracked. A couple weekends’ worth of work has turned into a long, meandering stroll down memory lane.

Even worse: I can’t decide what I should do with the huge family portraits that were lovingly framed by my mother and treasured by my father. I feel I’m betraying my parents if I store them away from view, somewhere easily forgotten by the next generation.

Which has led me to a singular realization of why we hold on to the old and the rarely used, why we find it so dang difficult to rid ourselves of so much of our stuff. It’s not always inertia or lack of time. Sometimes it’s nostalgia, that bond to what once was. Sometimes it’s our need for stability, for assurance that all was well and can be so again. Sometimes it’s fear that the loss of an item will translate into a loss of attachment.

I know, I know. All this sounds like an excuse. It’s not. It’s a recognition that minimalism doesn’t always work for everyone.

Ana Veciana-Suarez writes about family and social issues. Email her at avecianasuarez@gmail.com or visit her website anavecianasuarez.com. Follow @AnaVeciana.

All the puzzles on this page were prepared for publication on Saturday and ran in our digital edition. They are repeated here as a courtesy for print readers.