Spring cleaning has never featured in my life in recent times. I don’t subscribe to designating a set time to unclutter my life of clothes unworn for months or unused paraphernalia of a hobby, passion or trend long forgotten. No time for that. And in any case, my asthma disorder lacks the patience to outlast a deluge of dust and rubbish for a prolonged period of time.
I happen upon a confused multitude of closet, cupboard or wardrobe in the course of my life’s movements, deal with it immediately and keep it moving.
I declutter in bits. Like a stage play in acts and scenes but not all occurring in one huge block of time.
And that’s how I tackled my shelf of books just before the holidays set in. A space I had been procrastinating on.
Of course, I spent too much time mulling over relics of different times of my writing, reading and formal education life.
I barely finished cleaning and clearing out before the first sneeze and a slight wheeze both burst out almost at once, the combination leaving me gasping for breath.
But the ensuing discomfort was overshadowed by the pages of memories I clutched within my palms – old short stories and articles I had written, compact books I had read only once, workout pamphlet, forgotten items that would be worthy of my scrutiny. And who knows what else that scrutiny would result in? A trip down memory lane? Definitely. Reminder of some really good creative times? Oh yeah. And unwittingly insert themselves into my plans for a memorable and intriguing 2018.