Near-Death Cleaning: Lessons from my Linen Closet

 "It's not really death cleaning," I told him. "It's more like 'near-death' cleaning." 

This was my attempt to reassure Bob that he wasn't going to come home to an empty house, that I wasn't planning to sneak any of his beloved items into the Goodwill box without his knowledge, and that I hadn't joined some Swedish death cleaning cult. His raised eyebrows and silence indicated he was not convinced.

The truth is, for a few months now, I have been radically clearing out closets, drawers, and cabinets. It all started with the linen closet. 

I remember the moment I pushed something out of the way to grab a bath mat. It was like the flashback loop started automatically. How many times had I pushed this thing out of the way? Five times? Five hundred times? I stopped. Something didn't seem right.

I organized this space when we moved in over seven years ago, and I did a bang-up job. The towels were all uniformly folded and stacked. Sheets and pillowcases were also uniformly folded (even the fitted sheets!) and placed neatly in baskets. The toilet paper was stored in a decorative tote, and on the floor was a basket that held blankets, comforters, and throws that were not currently in use. Organized! 

But the more I looked the more I saw what real life can do to a well-organized closet. Where'd all these towels come from, anyway? And why are the stacks leaning? What's in that container on the top shelf? What was that hair dryer doing in the basket with the throws? When was the last time I used any of those toiletry bags? And what are all these little random things clustered on that shelf in front of unrelated items? 

The glass was shattered. My perfectly organized linen closet had gone to hell. And I was the one who sent it there. 

I'm not a professional organizer, although my dear mother-in-law thinks I could have been. As a contender in the amateur division, though, I will say I have a knack for taking a lot of things, putting them in groups, and containing them. As I looked at this closet, that was exactly what I had done. The problem was simple: too much stuff. (It makes me laugh because there is a show on HGTV about organization, and I often find myself yelling at the TV: you just have too much stuff!)

Not everyone feels the same way I do about purging. Of course, it is something I had to learn, and it's never easy at first. Take this set of embroidered hand towels, for instance. They are lovely—so lovely that I never ever dared put them out or, God forbid, let someone wipe their hands on them. Or worse, only one would get used, and they'd never match again. A single run through the washer, and they'd be done for. So instead, they just lived on this shelf in this closet for all eternity, lovely towels that never saw the light of day. 

Those I kept, resolving to use them often and love them dearly—right up until they become threadbare little rags, ready for a second life, drying wet dog feet. 

Then there was this set of sheets and pillowcases, purchased at a time in life when money was most definitely an object. Like the hand towels, they were buried, but they were unused because they were uncomfortable to sleep on. But mostly, they were reminders of a time when we were flat-broke. They were so uncomfortable I couldn't even donate them: they went straight into the dumpster. 

On another shelf, in another basket, was an old quilt. It wasn’t anything special—not bought at a craft fair or custom-made for me. Quite the opposite. It was picked up during a time when money was tight. I got it at a discount store, with matching shams, at a price that was just enough to sting. Unlike most discount bedding, though, this quilt was pieced construction, not printed, and one of the things I loved about it was how it got prettier and plumper with every wash. It had been well-loved and used, but over the years, it got buried and forgotten. Still, even though it was also a reminder of a harder time in our lives, it spoke to me of comfort, resiliency, and hope. I laundered it and put it on the guest bed, where I could see it every day. The more stylish, trendy bedding it replaced went to Goodwill.

This became a sort of process I used to decide what to keep, what to toss, and what to donate. It wasn't a hard and fast rule (thus "near-death" cleaning), and it wasn't a method tied only to feelings of joy about an item (good towels do bring me joy, but there is a strictly practical side to this, too). I was able to go through everything in a few hours, and what was left I washed, dried, refolded, and restacked in a few new baskets or filed in organizers I had on hand. It wasn't HGTV-good, but it was very Polly-good.

I could go further. I have thought this many times since the major purge. We don't really need all of the beach towels I kept. We use the same three or four every season. But I wasn't ready to let go of them all just yet. They're stored up and out of the way, not taking up any space needed for more necessary items. Some other blankets and throws are now packed away in zippered cloth organizers, and eventually, some of those may go away, too. It's death cleaning—just slower. 

Swedish death cleaning, or döstädning, is a practice of decluttering and organizing possessions as a person ages, with the goal of easing the burden on loved ones after they die. It focuses on sorting through and letting go of unnecessary items to leave behind only meaningful belongings for family and friends. For the living person, it is a way to simplify life now. 

This idea appeals to me, not just from a practical standpoint (fewer things for someone to have to deal with after I'm gone) but also from an emotional and spiritual perspective. It's not that I want to live in a house devoid of all comfort—I'm just aiming for a balance. I don’t need more things, just the right amount of things, those that have meaning and purpose—a little curation of both life and linen closet if you will.

From Benedict Wong in Avengers: Infinity War (perhaps borrowing from St. Ignatius): "Attachment to the material is detachment from the spiritual." To which Dr. Strange quipped: "I'll tell the guys at the deli. Maybe they'll make you a metaphysical ham and rye."

Sure, attachment to handtowels might be detachment from the spiritual. But I'm not going to toss out perfectly good ones to prove the point. Detachment is great, but practicality deserves a spot in the linen closet, too.