Filling entire rooms with nostalgic bric-a-brac? That was a problem. But what was wrong with keeping a few key items as reminders of experiences you enjoyed or moments you cherished or people you missed? As far as I could see, nothing. Natasha would disagree.
That’s why her one attempt to get my apartment in order ended in tears. When she’d showed up on my doorstep holding the garbage bags and the Swiffer, I was initially glad to see her. With her organizing expertise and knack for making the best use of small spaces, I figured she could do wonders for my cluttered little studio.
As soon as we got down to business, though, I started having second thoughts. First, she set up a system to tackle the apartment in quadrants, scouring every nook and cranny for clutter. Then she told me all about BUGS, explaining how sentimental items were always the hardest to get rid of—but they’re just things, Bree. Suddenly, I had a vision of her finding the box under my bed and forcing me to toss the whole thing in the trash. That’s when I flipped out and told her to leave.
I was not willing to part with that box.
My sister didn’t know the box existed. If she did, she’d have been horrified. Because it was filled with things she thought we’d disposed of a long time ago.
When our mom died, Natasha had been adamant about clearing out her stuff as soon as possible. They’re just things, Bree, she’d said, after tossing out what seemed like the hundredth garbage bag full of Mom’s belongings. The sooner we get this process over with, the sooner our healing can begin.
I trusted Natasha implicitly. Plus, she was my new caretaker now that Mom was gone, so I had no choice but to follow her orders.
She was right, though. We didn’t need these things anymore.
But these things had touched our mom’s skin. They still held traces of her fingerprints. I couldn’t haul them to the dump, when it was all I had left of her to hold.
So when Natasha took a bathroom break, I snuck a few things out of one of the garbage bags. Nothing special, just a few random items to remind me of her. A dog-eared copy of her favorite Danielle Steel novel. The flour-stained cookbook with the recipe for those delicious cupcakes she always baked on our birthdays. A ratty red T-shirt that smelled of soap and food and sweat, the toil of unconditional love that was now gone forever.
I crammed it all into a bag and hid it under my bed, way in the back toward the wall. When I moved out of the apartment, I took it with me and transferred the items to one of those flat plastic bins.
I didn’t need these things. I never used them, barely even looked at them anymore. But I wanted them all the same.
Secure in my decision to keep selective sentimental clutter, I placed the now-empty junk drawer back onto its track, put the electrical tape and koozie inside, and pushed it closed. It slid forward easily, effortlessly.
Energized, I practically dove into the cabinet under the sink, reorganizing cleaning products and purging old rags. When that was done, I went to the shelving above it, filling my trash can with stale crackers and that empty canister of Folgers and a bag full of skunky weed Rob had shoved in a sugar bowl.
I unearthed a long-forgotten bottle of Fantastik, and sprayed down each surface, wiping them until they shined. I arranged my favorite pink mug artfully next to my single-cup coffee maker. I watered the withering aloe plant on my windowsill. Then I stepped back and took in the scene.
It looked positively Instagram-worthy.
Inspired to make the rest of my apartment look just as fabulous as this tiny corner, I searched the #organize hashtag for some ideas of how to spruce things up. Most of the results didn’t apply to a space as small as mine, though they did provide some highly satisfying eye candy. Pantries, walk-in closets, laundry rooms, all of them monochromatic and neat as a pin.
Then there was a sponsored post, another one from Demi DiPalma. Considering my bio contained the #aspirationalactionplan hashtag, I wasn’t surprised. It was a photo of wildflowers in a valley surrounded by brown mountains and blue sky. Black text in the foreground read SYNERGIZE.
If you’re looking to get more out of your Aspirational Action Plan—more #DRIVE, more #HAPPY, more #PASSION—sign up to attend my next Semiannual Synergy Summit in Palm Desert.
Featuring some of the greatest thought leaders and wellness experts of our time, the Summit is an intense inspirational experience that will help you #SYNERGIZE your dreams, #ORGANIZE your purpose, and #REALIZE your deepest desires.
During this immersive, restorative, and educational three-day gathering, you’ll exchange positive vibrations with other members of the DiPalma Tribe, release negative energies into our ceremonial firepit, and make crucial connections that will elevate your mind, body, and spirit.
Space is extremely limited and tickets are selling out fast. To dwell in possibility with me and the rest of your Tribe, follow the link and sign up now!
#choosehappy
#synergysummit
#aspirationalactionplan
The targeted ad worked, because I followed the link to check out the details. Apparently, these Synergy Summits took place twice a year, not far from where the Coachella Music Festival was usually held. The agenda seemed interesting, albeit slightly unfocused, with a variety of interactive chat sessions, wellness workshops, product demonstrations, and chanting circles.
Accommodations were provided on-site in the form of glamping tents, replete with beds and carpets and places to plug in your phone. Every morning there were sunrise yoga classes, and every evening there were farm-to-table dinners. It sounded kind of wonderful.
Unfortunately, the cheapest ticket was twenty-five hundred dollars, so it also sounded totally out of my reach.
I scrolled on, through the endless feed of organization porn, until I reached a photo of a tidy little kitchen. It wasn’t much bigger than my own, but everything in it looked so clean and chic. Chrome drawer pulls, color-coordinated dinnerware. There was even a huge vase of round, pink peonies on the windowsill. It put my single-cup coffee maker and half-dead aloe plant to shame.
So I reposted it to my vision board. Even if my kitchen wasn’t currently Instagram-worthy, maybe one day it would be.
The original photo belonged to @nomessnostress, one of those official Instagram accounts with the coveted blue checkmark next to their name. The profile read,
Ellie B. | Certified Professional Organizer®
Helping you reach your #organizing #goals.
Preorder my book, NO-STRESS DECLUTTERING, today!
For collaborations, email [email protected].
Her photos reminded me of the kinds of projects Natasha told me she took on, organizing playrooms and cleaning out closets. But Ellie B. had over ninety-one thousand followers, and a quick scan of her feed showed numerous partnerships with furniture stores and cleaning products. On top of that, she had a book coming out.