13. Spiders’ Webs and the Not-So-Gentle Art of American Death Cleaning

As I was sitting in my car at a stoplight one morning on my way to my thrice-weekly exercise class, I noticed a spider was busily building a web on my side-view mirror. I felt a little sad that when I accelerated, she and what she had constructed so carefully would be swept into the street, awaiting certain destruction. The light turned green and I stepped on the gas, quickly reaching a speed well over the speed limit (as per my usual modus operandi); I glanced out the window and was surprised to see that my little passenger had curled herself up into a ball next to the mirror, her surprisingly strong web swinging precariously in the wind. I carried her around all day with me, to the Y, the grocery store, the coffee roastery...later in the afternoon I got back in my car to go to the farmers’ market, and she was back at work, making ever more intricate patterns. Once again, she drew herself into a ball and weathered the journey to the market, remaining industrious when standing still. I admired her tenacity.

I realized that when you’re in the midst of building something new, sometimes you just have to curl yourself up into a little ball to weather the world speeding past you at an alarming rate. And you have to have faith that at some point it will slow down again, and you can resume your projects. But it feels like I’ve been curled up for weeks and months now, holding on for dear life, the pages of my day-to-day calendar flipping like a pinwheel.

And, speaking of spiders’ webs, I’ve been clearing out a few lately, from my basement, my attic, the storage area above our garage….a few months ago, shortly after the announcement of our move, I received a mysterious package. Someone had sent me a copy of “The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning” by Margareta Magnusson. After some sleuthing, I discovered my dearest friend Amy from Belgium had sent it to me; she also was in the throes of decluttering, and had run across this delightful little book about döstädning, the idea of clearing out your good stuff and your junk and dispersing or discarding it the way you want, so that your loved ones don’t have to deal with it all after you leave. But the key to Swedish death cleaning is the gentle part—take your time with things, find the right home for them, dispose carefully of the things you do not want or need, think about how best to pass things on.

I read the book from cover to cover in one sitting. The author’s tone is pure Swedish wry humor, and she covers everything from grieving a partner’s death to making sure you dispose of your dildos and secret letters and journals before your death. It truly made me reflect on how we depend on things, and how the things that are important to me during my lifetime will not necessarily be important to my son or my grandchildren (if one day I have them). Some things could even be embarrassing.

But it also made me realize that right now I do not have the luxury of time for gentle “death cleaning.” Mine will have to be more brutal. In the space of two weeks I will have to answer these questions:  What will fit into the moving van? What am I willing or not willing to pay someone to move? What is just taking up space? What was once beautiful and useful, but now is looking sad and tired—am I only holding on for sentimental reasons? Is this something my husband will miss if I throw it away? What if I’m throwing away a really valuable item? Are we going to pay to store this? Will we ever, ever use or display it again? Now there’s no time for Antiques Road Show. No room in the moving van for nostalgia. No spare moments to muse “who would like to have this?”, then lovingly delivering it to that person. No holding everything in my hands to know if it gives me joy or not, à la Mari Kondo. It’s just time to divide into two piles:  Take or Don’t Take.

Amy’s gift of the book was valuable, but even more valuable was her advice:  just remember, it’s only things. Things are not life. Sure, they are interesting, enjoyable, useful. Of course, they provide us with memories, a bit of history; but if I’m honest, there are so many things that I haven’t touched in years, that are gathering dust in the basement, and would continue to do so in our new house. They will not be valuable. They will not bring me joy. They will weigh me down, cost me money, and steal the energy I need for future creative endeavors.

My hope is that, once I’ve settled in my new home with a pared-down set of household goods, and freed myself from the bondage of so many things, I’ll be able to uncurl myself from my ball, and begin building my new web, strong and intricate.