There is a room in this house, the door to which is always closed. In fairness to my guests, I really should put up a sign, "Enter at your own risk." It is the equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle or a black hole in space. It is the room where things go, never to be seen again. When I was doing medical transcription as a home-based business, this was my office and was set up with two desks and computers because I also trained future transcriptionists here. The closet was converted with shelving to hold office supplies, and there are several floor-to-ceiling bookcases for resource materials. When I closed the business, the room slowly started changing. I finally had time for crafts and, although I didn't get rid of anything that had to do with transcription, tubs of material, yarn, paints, polymer clay, crochet thread, silk flowers, instruction books, and beads, beads, and more beads filled not only what little shelf space was available, but started to fill floor space, too. Pretty soon there was only a small path, and then stuff got stacked on top of stuff and the piles began to grow. The room became the repository for anything I didn't have room for elsewhere, or that armful of stuff that I wanted to get out of sight in a hurry because a car just drove up. That room had become a hoarder's paradise.
It was as if Nature had a hangover yesterday. The big blowout of the previous days was over, but there was a residual headache; cloudy grey skies and below-par temps. It wasn't a day for outside chores. Passing the closed door, I decided to peek in. Perhaps the good fairies had come in the night and organized everything while I was sleeping. Aaargh! No such luck. Resisting the impulse to quietly close the door again and pretend the room no longer existed, I waded in, armed with good intentions and trash bags. When did I become obsessed with boxes? Boxes of all shapes and sizes, boxes full of other boxes. Just clearing out stacks of empty boxes opened up a lot of space. (And just what am I supposed to do with all those boxes now?) There were also boxes with stuff; I'd wondered where those earrings had gone. I checked with Deb, my resource person, and found I could dispense with 1989 tax paperwork; lots of those kinds of boxes. Baskets: Easter baskets, shallow baskets, baskets with handles and baskets without. I see that there are also shelves of baskets that I can't reach yet. For crying out loud, how many baskets does one person need?! I come from a generation that believes in "use it up, wear it out, make do or do without," but this is ridiculous. I've got to go to town today, but when I come back, I'm on a mission. I haven't cleared even halfway across the room yet. In the meantime, I'm going to shut the door.