I was grocery shopping when the wire in my bra started digging in. Time to burn it, I thought. As soon as I got home I binned it (I’m still a feminist). It was the last maternity bra I owned and it had done it’s time. Eight years of time, in fact. But I tend to hold on to what works and what’s useful, because it feels like a waste to let go of something purposeful.
It also feels good to know I’ll never see that bra again.
A few days ago I bumped into a friend who told me she just cleaned out her pantry and got most of it done in one day, save for the jars of pickled vegies and stone fruits that were canned a few summers back and needed to be used, stat. I commended her for considering the job needed to be done and getting right to work. I tend to procrastinate for a few weeks at least.
I’ve just cleaned out my wardrobe; swapped the woollen knits for cotton dresses, finally parted with the stretched and threadbare. I mull over whether I’m the kind of person that would donate it all and start again because sometimes that feels revolutionary, especially on those days when nothing fits quite right and I question what clothes really feel like ‘me’. Imagine starting again with a handful of essentials? The freedom must be exilirating.
This cleaning and sorting is whatI tend to do when deadlines are approaching and the world feels chaotic. Because there is something undeniably comforting about controlling the controllable and seeking order under your own roof. We should never underestimate the sense of satisfaction that comes from a dusted bookshelf, a cutlery drawer without crumbs, a wardrobe rid of the piles of worn-but-not-dirty-enough-to-be-washed clothes that were shoved in, no chance of being folded or hung.