Of reorganising and rediscovery

What is affectionately known as "the little room" (what the French call a "dressing") opens into our study, and is the black hole of our apartment - the place where things go in and never come out.

Entering "the little room" requires being equipped with a packed lunch and a torch. I have hurt myself numerous times, picking my way through the random objects (paint cans, bikes, boxes of wine, shoes), and it is the one space in our apartment that we never ever let guests see. When showing anyone through our place, I always wave vaguely at the door, explaining that it is a storage area and of not much interest to anyone.

Both Sylvain and I are packrats, keeping things "just in case we need them", and we each have our weaknesses. Much of the contents of "the little room" were computer parts, empty boxes and shoes.

In recent times (ie. the last 4 years. ahem), the contents of "the little room" have gained a life force of their own, and have started to take over the study as well, to a point where I was cringing with embarrassment whenever anyone other than Sylvain or I went into the study. In fact, I cringed with embarrassment whenever Sylvain or I went into the study - that's how bad it was getting.

We have known that this is a problem for quite some time, but have found every excuse under the sun to avoid dealing with it. Both of us are well schooled in the art of procrastination. But finally, after a bit of blackmailing on both sides, we crossed everything off our social calendar and stayed in all last weekend and dealt with it.

Who knew that two people could have so much stuff? The sheer quantity of it still astounds me. Mountains and mountains of stuff. Sylvain threw a lot of his old computer parts away, but he kept a few boxes of things, "just in case". I threw out at least 30 pairs of shoes (ahem, again), but I managed to keep quite a few by squeezing multiple pairs into boxes. But what I want to know is why on earth did we think we needed to keep so many empty boxes?

All weekend, we hauled, we sorted, we emptied, we threw out bags and bags of stuff, we rearranged, we reorganised, we ached, we washed our dusty hands, and once we were done, we stood back, arms crossed, and surveyed our work, satisfied.

Our study now officially doubles as a guest room and I am not horrified at the prospect of someone accidentally going into "the little room".

There are still a few boxes of papers sitting in the lounge room to be sorted through. I sat down on Wednesday night and started putting things in order. I came across a box filled with some things that I don't know if I'll ever throw away. Bundles tied with ribbon. Words on pages. Postcards. Early letters between Sylvain and I.

I flicked through these packages, smiling, then retied the ribbons carefully, and put them back in the box.

Downsizing can be a necessity at times, but you also have to draw a line somewhere. One day, maybe, we'll throw them away. But not just yet.