Adventures in Spring Cleaning: The Cleaning Games We Play – Part 4

To celebrate the arrival of spring, I thought I’d run some excerpts about the endless de-cluttering process from my memoir, Picking Dandelions, a quirky reflection on ongoing personal growth. Read Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3.

Adventures in Spring Cleaning: The Cleaning Games We Play – Part 4

My piles of cast-off junk make my room resemble a landfill. If I grieve the loss of any of this, I tell myself, I am a moron.

I find an old phone cord, and we haven’t owned a landline in years.

I find an inspirational bookmark that never inspired me. I throw it away without even a tinge of remorse, declaring that never again will I own anything uninspiring.

I toss coupons that expired in 2006.

I do not, however, throw out any chocolate. No matter how old chocolate is, I must keep it in reserve, in case my Rainblo runs out.

How To Get Organized

I plow through a pile of things I meant to scrapbook—pictures and concert stubs and airline vouchers for European destinations. I worry I kept these not to remember the trips—which I recall perfectly well—but to prove to myself how good and exciting my life is. From now on, anyone who wants to experience my thrilling past is going to have to free some time up to listen to my stories.

I hesitate at a collection of letters from previous bosses and scores from standardized tests for educators. These are portfolio pieces, evidence to marshal in case I need to prove my own worth. I determine that from now on people are just going to have to take my word for it.

I’m down to my last green Rainblo, which I chew slowly as I dump materials from mind-numbingly boring conferences, a pack of thank-you cards that are too ugly to send, and old school newsletters that never adequately documented what a privilege it is for students to learn in my classroom.

I toss old Christmas and birthday cards. I only keep a card if the person who gave it to me wrote something meaningful in it, or if the person who gave it to me is dead.

(If you’re a friend reading this, I just threw down a gauntlet: if you want me to keep your card, write something meaningful, or die—otherwise your card is headed for the dump.)

Lastly, I hold in my hands a copy of my first book that is translated into Korean.

My publisher graciously sent me three copies of the Korean version, one of which I gave to Jennie and Bethany who stayed in Korea for a time and one of which I gave to my dad because he is so devoted to my publicity that he is probably even now marketing me in Asia. Now all of us have the same problem: we each have a Korean book and we don’t speak Korean. I move it to the shelf in the basement, which serves as a book critical care unit, where literature goes to die.

Pick up an on-sale copy of the full book at Amazon for just $6.00 this week only (while supplies last).