By a (mostly) tidy old man who finally let go of his parachute pants. One of the first posts on this blog discussed the hellish landscape of indoor storage facilities, but the feedback was all about the Swedish gentle art of death cleaning, so here is a little more on the subject. 

Let me tell you, nothing makes you contemplate the mess you’ll leave behind quite like trying to find your birth certificate and instead discovering a box labeled “Important Stuff” that turns out to be a fossilized sandwich, a dried-up highlighter, and a cassette tape marked “Elton John – do not toss.” I recently dove headfirst into the wonderful world of Swedish Death Cleaning, and my friends, it has been a wild, liberating, occasionally dusty ride.

The Swedes, bless their tidy souls, have a term for this – döstädning, which roughly translates to “cleaning up before your descendants discover your terrifying taste in novelty mugs.” I started reading a book on the subject by a delightful author named Margareta Magnusson (or “Messie,” as I now lovingly call her), and I’ve never laughed so hard while simultaneously weeping over a collection of mismatched Tupperware lids.

Let me start with the gut punch
Messie says, “If it’s in a box, you’ve already said goodbye.” Now, I don’t know about you, but I’ve got boxes that haven’t seen daylight since Trudeau Senior had brown sideburns. Boxes of university papers, photos of people I’m 80% sure I never dated, and a particularly unnerving ceramic owl that I swear moves at night. After that chapter, I went spelunking through my basement like Indiana Jones, only to emerge three hours later, sweaty, triumphant, and hauling four garbage bags and one guilty conscience.

And then came this gem
“If everything is special, then nothing is.” I stared at my wall of “precious items” and realized I’d given shrine status to an angel made from glass banana split dishes. I’d been treating every doodad like it was a sacred relic. When I started trimming it down, a miraculous thing happened: the few things I kept? They actually meant something. My grandfather’s watch. A photo of my kids at the lake. My first submissive’s collar. The rest? Off to the donation bin, where someone else might actually want a mug shaped like Elvis’s head.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not heartless
I had a few hiccups. I kept a concert ticket stub from Elton John’s 1974 Newcastle City Hall concert because “it was the best night of my life.” But then I asked myself, when was the last time I actually looked at it? The memory’s not in the scrap of paper. It’s in the way I still grin when I hear the opening chords of “Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding.” So into the recycling bin it went, and I swear, a little weight lifted off my soul.

Here’s another kicker Messie delivered with a smile and a slap
“Saving for ‘someday’ is a waste.” I had candle sets still in plastic wrap from 1992. I had a bottle of wine I’d been “saving for a special occasion” that had evaporated into a raisin-flavored mist. So I did what any self-respecting sexagenarian should do, I lit the damn candles, poured a different bottle of wine, and toasted to the fact that I was still upright enough to enjoy it. Honestly, what’s the point of hoarding “the good stuff” for a day that might never arrive? My good china has seen more use in the past two months than in the previous two decades.

Then came the hard truths
Clutter, Messie says, is often about fear or control. Oof. That hit harder than my second marriage. I had outfits “just in case,” knickknacks I didn’t even like, but kept because someone once gave them to me and I didn’t want to hurt their feelings. (Newsflash: They don’t remember.) When I started letting go, I realized decluttering wasn’t just spring cleaning – it was therapy with a trash bag.

And perhaps the biggest takeaway of all
“Decluttering isn’t a chore. It’s a gift.”
Not to you, necessarily, but to the poor sods who’ll have to clean out your place after you go. My kids love me. But do they love me enough to sort through 14 boxes of DVDs, three broken vacuum cleaners, and a mineral collection that hasn’t been seen since the Harper government? Doubtful. So I’ve started pre-editing my legacy. They can have my stories, my recipes, my dad jokes, and that one legendary, home knit Doctor Who scarf. The rest? Poof.

Letting go, it turns out, is loving yourself
And loving your family, as well as loving the fact that you won’t be found crushed under a teetering pile of National Geographics from 1987. When you start decluttering your mess, you start making room for joy, for memories, for now. And if you’re lucky, you’ll inspire someone else to do the same, preferably before the dessert glass angel becomes a family heirloom.

So here’s to Swedish Death Cleaning.
It’s not morbid. It’s not sad.
It’s hilarious, humbling, and oddly heartwarming.
And if it means I finally toss that ancient fondue set? Well…..
Skål, my friends. Skål.