The Weight Of Memory: Decluttering The Past

The process of letting go often begins in the quietest of places, such as an old cupboard, a forgotten box, or the corner of a room that has held the same shadows for years. For me, it recently began with an old TV cabinet, a vessel filled with the dust of the past. As I sorted through wedding gifts and family heirlooms, I realised that decluttering is rarely just about the objects themselves; it is about navigating the complex landscape of our history.

My parents were not hoarders, but through five children and many grandchildren, they simply didn’t know how to let go. Downsizing my mother’s home in 2018 was a task that felt like a shared trauma for my siblings and me. It was exhausting, both physically and emotionally, requiring trailer loads to the tip and second-hand stores to part with decades of accumulated life.

On a lighter note, I recently found an old creative writing book covered in brown paper and plastic, with some Barbie pictures cut out from a magazine stuck on it. I had to honour the writer in me and keep that one. Thank you, Mum.

My dad was a bit of a collector. He had a whole wooden cupboard filled with ‘Mad’ magazines, not all in the best condition, but probably worth money. It was organised for a man to come pick them up, and he would have been rubbing his hands together, but we honestly had no time to look at selling what was just too many things. Dad’s things made us feel like he was still with us; we all felt a huge gap when he was gone. His collection of things was almost as big as his personality and his hugs.

Model trains were his passion, and we had to decide what to do with them, as some were quite valuable. He loved electronic things like speakers, wires, amps, video players, and remote-controlled toys. Mum felt that Dad was making up for what he lacked from his own childhood, being so poor and a big kid at heart. He had hundreds of tools; he was always tinkering, building, painting, drilling, or hammering the roof down before a storm. Honestly, when you don’t have money, you have to learn and adapt.

The beautiful old neglected piano had to go; it cost Mum money to carry it up a flight of stairs and take it, sadly, to the tip. I still have memories of playing the pianola with the foot pedals, watching the roll turn in the little sliding window while I pretended to play. We all had piano lessons, played basic music on it, and sang and laughed around it.

Boxes of Dad’s old vinyl records and large hardcover books went, too, though some family members kept a few. If I could turn back time, we would have kept more vinyl records, especially given how they came back into fashion and became so valuable a few years later.

Dozens of boxes were taped shut to go through at a later date, filled with photos, documents, paperwork galore, family history, and books. But Mum’s health declined over the next few years, and she never felt like going through it all. That became another task we undertook after her passing in 2021. The photos and family history boxes came back to my house, and it took me another year or more to finally go through them all.

Everything was harder to scan and catalogue without Mum. I looked at photos of her I had never seen before, through tears, and couldn’t ask her about them. There was one of her at the beach at around age fifteen, looking sweet, pretty, and happy. Another showed her all dressed up with a beehive hairdo, posing against a cupboard as if she were from an old movie. She was gorgeous, with an Elizabeth Taylor-style beauty.

My parents kept things for those just-in-case moments, like a spare wardrobe or three, old clothes, shoes, or encyclopaedias with their green covers and gold lettering. I can still smell the musty, magical nostalgia of those books. Mum kept so many old schoolbooks, but now that I have grown children, I realise there are things they just won’t be interested in looking at again.

I kept huge plastic tubs of my children’s drawings and crafts for many years, alongside baby clothes and toys, until I realised they were making me feel stifled in my own home. I went through it all and asked my son and daughter what they wanted to keep, and put a few in plastic sleeves. I decided to scan some of their drawings and paintings for digital copies, and then I finally let the physical versions go.

As I move toward minimalism, I find that letting go of the physical weight allows more room for the memories they hold. I have been taking many carloads of things to charity stores, and it is such a good feeling to know these things will be put to good use. My children have also been going through their rooms again lately, so it’s great we can all feel lighter as we clear out some space.

Objects often carry the weight of our history; take the time to decide if they still fit the person you are becoming today.

Some treasures, like a nautilus shell from a 2001 honeymoon I kept, serve as beautiful reminders of nature’s simple gifts. Revisiting my younger self, perhaps through an old poem I wrote or a ballet certificate, can offer a sweet sense of closure and peace. I am still deciding on a few items, whether they will stay or go, or maybe become an artwork like a collage on the wall. I shift from these creative ideas to thoughts of just letting them go.

I am currently adding hundreds of my poems to my poetry archive on my website, My Poetry Diary, starting in 1988, when I was 12. As the years progress, so do my writing skills, but just like an accomplished painter who probably began painting stick figures, we all have to start somewhere. I am far from an accomplished poet and have yet to publish, yet I am just allowing, letting go, and sharing my heart.

Whatever your current path is, if you walk into a home with too much stuff and clutter, I hope you find your own moments of stillness as you sift through your treasured memories.

I’ll leave you with a poem I wrote in 1991, which I also read in my recent video. I was fifteen, and I have a vague memory of sitting at my dressing table, thinking about cleaning my bedroom, when this funny poem came to me after sketching a picture of a little girl in her room in my art book, with a mouse hiding nearby. It’s innocent but sweet, marking the start of a lifetime of writing.

Dusty

In a little dusty house

there lives a sad, dusty girl.

Facing a dusty mirror

She flicks back her dusty curl.

She sits on a dusty chair

and she does nothing but sook.

Although there is a duster

hanging on a dusty hook.

She can’t dust the dusty world

which she is now bound to stay.

She’s afraid that she might find

a small mouse that wants to play.

But she gets up her courage

to shine up the little house.

How silly she was to be

afraid of a little mouse.

I hope you enjoyed this reflection and the poem from my archives. I read the poem in a recent video while cleaning my TV cabinet. You can watch this journey here: Cleaning My Past: A 1991 Poem and Decluttering Treasured Memories.

I invite you to join our growing creative community at Woolcottage Bloom. Click here to subscribe to my YouTube channel, Angela Woolcott, and stay connected with my poetry and nature walks.