I’ve long felt the pull to clear out parts of this house. This big, old French farmhouse has been home for over two decades—a place that’s been deeply lived in. Its nooks and crannies brim with the accumulation of years, despite periodic clear-outs.
Multiple clear-outs have happened because of painful deaths. Yes—much of Mike’s stuff is gone. Yes—much of Julia’s stuff is gone. And yet, there’s still more. My stuff. Others’ stuff. Just…stuff.
If—and when—I downsize, if—and when—I move somewhere new with Medjool, if—and when—I find myself in a smaller apartment, shaped by age or frailty, I want to know what I truly need versus what I merely want.
So, not as a New Year’s resolution—because I don’t favour resolutions—but as a commitment, I started a project: 31×31. Thirty-one days to let go of 31 things each day. Reduce, recycle, repurpose, or enable someone else to reuse.
I didn’t begin on 1st January, but no matter. February will do just fine to finish my 31 days. On days when time is scarce or emotions feel too tender, I focus on easy wins. But I am committed to finding 31 items a day. This isn’t mindless chucking; it’s intentional sorting. And sorting comes with its companion: trips down memory lane.
Last night was no exception.
I tackled some clothes—summer shorts, long- and short-sleeved tops. High up, tucked out of reach, were some shoe bags. (Back in the day, posher shoes came with lovely cloth bags for travel.) One, unexpectedly, wasn’t empty. I gave it a shake.
Inside: two packets of medicine.
Anti-anxiety drops. Pain tablets.
Julia. And Mike.
I stopped. My heart pounded, sank. My breath quickened.
A resigned inner voice whispered, Oh dear…
I knelt on the floor, staring at the medicine in my hands, letting the sadness pervade me. Julia’s medicine—hidden away during her worst days, weeks, months. And then there was Mike’s: pain relief for the disease that ate him away.
I’ve stumbled upon hidden paracetamol packets before—hidden because Julia had already taken a handful. But here was more. More remnants of those terrible, heart-rending days. And now Mike, too. A reminder of his bravery in the face of pancreatic cancer, and the helplessness of watching him suffer.
It still hurts to find traces of their pain. But I notice it hurts a little less.
And I know I’ll find another stash in time. I squirrelled away so much medicine during those times—trying to manage, trying to protect. It will show itself, for sure.
After a while, I stood, placed the medicine somewhere visible—a reminder to take it to the chemist for safe disposal—and went back to sorting.
Trip wires are all over this house. Clearing out can’t simply be about letting go of “stuff.” It’s also about revisiting and reliving events, conversations, memories—not all of them easy.
If I don’t make my full 31 each day because I hit a booby trap, I promise to be kind to myself. Kind to my memories.
7 January 2025
