borrowing bones

The occasional weblog of writer Dora Dueck

Tidying Up

Recently, and almost back-to-back, I read two non-fiction books that are quite different, yet about the same thing: tidying up.

51GcOr7cfuL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_Plum Johnson’s They Left us Everything: a memoir, which won the RBC Taylor Prize for non-fiction earlier this year, is a compelling account of Johnson’s attempt to clean up the large family home, which was crammed to the rafters, after the death of her mother. What she expects will be a task of weeks stretches into years; there is so much to sort through and get evaluated and dispose of or divide among the siblings. A book about stuff may sound boring, but it’s not, because in handling the possessions of her parents, who seemed unable to dispose of anything themselves, this eldest daughter also remembers and confronts their past, and hers. Most of all, she attempts to sort through her fraught relationship with her mother. If ambivalence about that relationship remains at book’s end, the journey proves necessary and beneficial for the daughter and is a pleasure to share as a reader.

51Kz4zmXqbL._SX345_BO1,204,203,200_Processing the past is exactly what handling possessions is all about, states Marie Kondo, author of The life-changing magic of tidying up: the Japanese art of decluttering and organizing. Hers is an easy-to-read self-help type book. It seems to have taken our possession-heavy North American culture by storm, at least if its “millions sold” is any indication. I found it chock-full of insights, some that I argued with and will probably not implement, others that resonated immediately, but all of which, if not changing my life, have at least partially changed my surroundings. (For someone who by personality needs to be in tune with her environment, that may amount to the same thing.)

We’ve moved enough times for this divesting to have happened somewhat regularly. And without the benefit of her book, I’m proud to say, I reduced my personal filing cabinet from a four-drawer to a two-drawer unit some months ago, which felt amazingly soul-freeing. And the process was continuing in various other categories, mainly as a headstart should we transition to a smaller place some time down the road.

Near the end of her book, Plum Johnson writes, “I used to think parents should clean up their own mess before they depart this world; now I think just the opposite. Don’t die early. Wait till your children are old enough to appreciate it, and then leave them everything.” I want to think that’s at least somewhat tongue-in-cheek, but if it’s not I quite disagree, and so would Kondo. Her criterion for what we (continue to) surround ourselves with is “does it spark joy?” So if that’s what our children encounter when we leave them “everything” then they will discover what we are like just as easily—surely more easily—than wading through reams of what we ourselves were unwilling to process and clean up.

Marie Kondo is young, and it seems she lives alone, and she doesn’t have young or teenage children, which necessitates a constant flow of accumulation and discarding (which ought to be non-obsessive on a parent’s part, in my opinion), but her advice is great fun. And her claim that tidying is great fun is infectious—and proves true as well.

IMG_5267I found her somewhat cavalier about books, but as I considered and resisted her advice in that category, I realized that in fact our various walls of books—particularly the one in our living room—spark joy in me. Which is exactly why I need to keep them as is for now. I realized, though, that I had been inhibiting that spark by hiding far too much of that LR wall of books behind a love seat and hassock. So my mind went to work (and my inner ears, trying to listen to what the room needed/wanted, as per Kondo too) on how I could re-arrange that room. It happens to be a lovely south-facing room but very difficult to arrange furnishings in because there’s a large window I don’t like to block with furniture either and a fireplace to one side that can’t be ignored and two entrances to the room that can’t be blocked. I decided to put a single chair in front of the books and fiddled the love seat and other chairs into a group. As I’ve long suspected, it was the big square coffee table “inherited” from my parents that was half the problem in that part of the room; it wouldn’t orient to any one piece without disorienting the others. A relatively inexpensive round “fix” from IKEA (thanking the square table, of course, per Kondo, for its provenance via my parents and for its excellent service over the years), that problem was solved too. With some additional work, the paintings found themselves re-arranged on the current nails to accommodate the changes, which seemed not so much magical as miraculous.IMG_5269

So it’s been fun—and clarifying—both to read these books, and to do some practical things that emerged from them. I could go on with other stories concerning the tidying of bedding and aprons and purses, but enough already. I know that some of my readers have read one or the other of these books and have had interesting thoughts and adventures and memories-arousal because of them as well. And, just to say in wrapping up, we’ve had lovely weather this summer, and quite a bit of company, which we’ve enjoyed. After a holiday from my writing work, I’m back at it. Perhaps I’ll say a bit more about that in a subsequent post. In the meanwhile, happy August!

R is for Recommend

I had read several ecstatic reviews of Helen Macdonald’s H is for Hawk, a memoir of grief via the taming of a goshawk named Mabel, so eagerly reserved the book at the library. It arrived for me then, some months later, at an inconvenient time. We were going away, plus there was a pile of other books I’d committed to already.

Fortunately, I thought, as I retrieved the book from the Reserve Shelf and signed it out, I had in the meanwhile read a dissenting opinion by a blogger whose views I appreciate. I too sometimes find myself disappointed with the latest hot thing to read. Relieved at the possibility of this being the case again, I decided I might just take a quick peek for peeking’s sake and return the book to the library unread.
H is for HawkNo such luck. I was immediately hooked. Not by the theme, for though interesting and important, grief is ubiquitous in memoir, and not by its topics of falconry or hawks or the life of T.H. White, author of Arthurian books, The Once and Future King, which winds through Macdonald’s narrative. It was the writing. Her descriptions are remarkable — “a brumous, pewter light outside, as if someone had stuck tracing paper against the glass”– and the language rushes along with both suspense and insight — “my heart is salt”– even though there is much that remains unrevealed and most everything concerns not human encounters but fear and wildness in nature and the psyche. And just when I was beginning to wonder if she would ever address the killing business, which is what hawks do–“Kill things. Make death.”–she does. I watched Macdonald train her Mabel and tramp about the fields with her like one watches something repellent yet impossibly compelling. Like one stares at an accident. It’s the kind of book that makes one ache to write like that. Read the rest of this entry »

What was the highlight?

“What was the highlight?” I’m frequently asked this question about my recent trip to Europe with my daughter C.

A good question, and a completely reasonable one too, even its built-in hint for the Coles Notes version, please, not the Complete Works Of… And I do love to answer it. But honestly, it’s difficult, because once again I realized–more forcibly than ever this time–that travel accrues intensely and steadily in a long series of experiences, moments not huge in and of themselves perhaps, but memorable in their combination. Read the rest of this entry »

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