Sometimes, after a loss things start to pile up. We just can’t handle anything other than the swamp of sadness, the fog of loss. We’re busy trying to get through the day – trying to pretend everything is okay; everything is normal. So we lay some things down. We turn away; tuck stuff into corners. We sink down a little, let things settle into place. Sometimes, the piles become a kind of nest. It’s what we have left of those we’ve lost. And it’s familiar, a kind of comfort. It’s ours. We don’t want anyone else messing with it, either. And we don’t want to let go.

I read recently about “the clutter of grief” – an interesting concept. According to Peter Walsh, “Clutter is not just the stuff on your floor – it’s anything that stands between you and the life you want to be living.”

With that in mind, the following is a little note I recently wrote to my aunt even though its been years since she’d moved on. ….

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“I still have so many piles of your stuff. Some boxes are in my garage, where every year I walk around them to get to the gardening tools. Others boxes wait in my living room closet. The stored winter coats have folded around them, and I forget they’re still there. Every once in a while, I’ll pull out a box, go through a few things. Lately, I’m looking at some of the letters you saved, trying to sort them into piles. There’s the “family” pile, with letters written by you and your parents and the generations before them. Most of the notes are little everyday things you were sharing with each other. There are some small love letters written back and forth from Grandma and Papa when they were away from each other (which didn’t happen very often), or when he just had a few moments at work, and was thinking about her. He’d repeat how much he loved her – how he hoped the children weren’t running her ragged.

And there’s the pile of notes I haven’t had the heart to throw out, even though they wouldn’t mean anything to most people: your invitation to Truman’s inaugural ball; a little note from a German prince with whom you had danced one night in Munich; small love notes from someone who was infatuated with you. There are letters back and forth from you and Helen about Major’s health; notes from Johnny about how depressed he was, and how bad the medications were making him feel.

I like my little excavations into what’s left of you – each attempt is a journey backwards into who you used to be. I learn more each time. But my own life is moving along – I have to pay attention to that, too. I guess I’m a kind of “in-between” place – I so love the mysteries and graces and questions and discoveries of who you used to be – who you all used to be. But I am also making my own way forward – still discovering who I’m becoming as I age, and how I’ll manage the rest of this curious life.

And after a while, all your remnants begin to seem like just another thing to do. Walk the dog; call the cable company; figure out what to give Alison for her birthday; find someone who can repair the roof; figure out what’s eating the new seedlings in the garden bed; figure out what to do with your stuff. I’m still between worlds, in a way – what’s left over of yours, and what’s pulling at me from my own.

So I have a new plan – I’ll do one box a week – sort through and rescue what’s tender and meaningful, and toss the rest away. And instead of seeing this as yet another chore, or another wrenching tearing away, I’m going to celebrate. Maybe I’ll light a candle while I work, and take a few photos, so that each box will be a little ceremony of discovery and gratitude. And I’ll share things with daughters and cousins, so I’m not carrying you and your left-over life all by myself.

I don’t know if that will solve the problem of clutter – I’m pretty sure I’ll keep making my own little piles as I trundle along. But it will be a little step toward wrapping you up, loving and letting you go. And along the way, I know I’ll keep trying to get used to this wrenching and transformative work – learning to live in a life full of holes – in peace and understanding and gratitude. Because – what else can we do, after all?”