Decluttering until death do us part

Margareta Magnusson was an artist in Stockholm who wrote a bestselling book, "The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning." Decluttering, the removal of unnecessary items from our living spaces, had already become an international obsession. That was doubly so for Americans, whose large houses became easy repositories for the cheap goods arriving by container ship from low-wage countries. We declutterers had already gotten going 15 years ago, when Marie Kondo, Japan's high priestess of neatness, came out with her big book, "The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up." I tried to copy Kondo's orderly ways. Heaven knows, I tried. Magnusson went a step further urging possession-burdened Westerners to raid their closets with Viking fervor. Her vision was a Super Bowl of downsizing, urging players to get rid of so many possessions, their heirs won't have much cleanup when they're gone. Magnusson died recently, so how did she do? Not bad, according to reports, though short of perfection. Her attic was empty, but she had left an old bike in the cellar. Magnusson had kept shells she'd collected at the beach as a child, plus three ragged stuffed animals with cute names. Sure, she'd given away her late husband's massive tool collection. That was easy — as was shredding old bills. But that business of giving away 10 of her 16 plates because her table could only seat six sounded like mere stagecraft, a colorful detail to sell books. I have lots of dinnerware, from crockery to fine china, some bought, most inherited. One item is an ancestral beanpot given to me by a long-departed Yankee in-law. I recall her growing incensed when I presented a great-granddaughter, then moving to Boston, with a new beanpot as a clever gift. In that matriarch's honor, I've kept that old beanpot, cracked and laced with lead (though not used). My sets of plates, teacups and soup tureens take up only one long shelf in the basement. When I'm gone, the clean-out crew can keep what they like and put the rest on eBay or the curb. They may even enjoy the treasure hunt. Kondo's mantra was to treat each item as a special, almost living thing, especially for clothes: Pick up a sweater and then ask yourself, in her words, does it "spark joy"? If not, out it goes. I found "sparking joy" a high hurdle for most of my clothes to clear. I'd hold up a comfy worn bathrobe and think, "I like you well enough, but can't say you make me do backflips." Sadly, I'd given away a dress or two after concluding the garment didn't make my heart soar, only to ask two years later, "Where is it?" Another Kondo strategy I tried was to fold T-shirts into neat triangles, then store them vertically so you could see them all on opening the drawer. Aha. The origami approach worked, but, I regret to report, it made room for more T-shirts. Decluttering influencers almost all advise automatically getting rid of any clothing item you haven't worn in a year. I did some of that for a while, then gave up after being revisited with where-is-it regret. An evening gown in the attic managed to evade several purges. Not only hadn't I worn it in years, but the decades-old frock failed the spark-joy test. Then, when I was invited to a formal occasion, I tried on the dress and found it too big. Simple tailoring fixed the problem. I happily wore the gown to the gala. And on returning it to the third-floor closet, I held it up, whispering, "You spark joy." Reservations aside, I shall continue decluttering unto death. I just hope it's in a sober state of mind. Follow Froma Harrop on X @FromaHarrop.