clear out

on the people in our closet

Francine Van Hove

“When we are no longer so tightly identified with who we used to be and how we think things should continue to be—based on the past—every moment of wakefulness is an opportunity to actualize and enjoy our inherent freedom, wholeness, and perfection.”

Surya Das

I dig under the bed and wipe off the coating of dust that accumulated for nine months on top of the winter coat box. It’s another clear-out. I demand it.

I dump it open and haul out the coats, scarves and thick-knitted jumpers that are likely moth-ridden. An issue to solve another day, I tell myself. I don’t know how to get rid of moths.

Last weekend, the bedroom was in such disarray that I promptly decided that Saturday was going to be an admin day, a decluttering situation ramped up to level 11.

In the back of closets, crammed into bottom drawers, I found items that I have no recollection of buying. Who was in charge of my wardrobe? Was it always me? I pluck a pair of black mesh kitten heels from the back. They were worn by someone reaching for a confidence she hadn’t quite found. Dangling from a plastic hanger, another mesh item. For someone who’s relatively conservative when it comes to dressing, why do I own so much mesh?

As the digging continued, I found more evidence of the people I wanted to be: the leather-pant wearer, the aviator jacket phase, the I-work-in-London situation where I bought far too many gathered blouses. I cringe. I promptly slide them off the hangar and into a donation bag. Sorry love, it’s time for you to move on. I’m not those people anymore. I’m not sure I ever really was.

I’ve written about the other lives that I might have lived. I think about it a lot (a symptom of being in your twenties) — the things I could have done instead that I’ll never know about, the possible shadow lives that dance on a different plane, run parallel to my own.

It can be exciting to imagine what else we could have done with our lives, that person who made different choices, took different paths. Maybe I became a journalist. Or bookshop owner. Or a marine biologist. These people have their unique perspectives and experiences. I imagine if this was a movie, there would be versions of myself standing behind me at a fork in the road, their paths each shooting off in directions that I didn’t choose because of decisions I didn’t make or, in some cases, were made for me.

We think of the past people, the skeletons, in our closets as something to turn away from, but I think they can be a gentle reminder of who we wanted to be. They represent change. Those tight-acid wash jeans or that suede jacket reflect who I was at one time, who I needed to be then. They show that I’ve moved forward, tried new things, and found something else along the way.

There’s no particular reason for this decluttering other than I think I wanted to clear out space. And maybe because I feel uncertain about how my life is going, I have this urge to tidy my physical space. Tidy space, tidy mind, or something like that.

It felt good to clear our closet. I was tired of shoving my hand behind the back of the drawer to release the caught piece of clothing. Freeing is perhaps the best way to describe it. These clothes that, at one time or another, I used to try to find identity in myself will soon make a journey into someone else’s home. They will maybe begin to shape their habits, help them find themselves. Maybe that jacket, now too heavy for me, will offer someone else the protection or confidence they need.

Initially, I tried to Marie Kondo my way through. I held up each piece and asked if it brought me joy. But that fell flat. Lots of things bring me joy. I can’t make decisions based on feelings alone. I took the emotion out of it and aimed to be realistic with my decision-making: If I asked someone to select my outfit in the closet and they pulled out this top and those jeans would I readily accept them as an option? If the answer was No, then it was put into the donation pile.

I found myself making my way through clothes much faster — the decluttering had a sort of soothing effect. There’s something spiritual about deciding I’m no longer the mesh top wearer or the exuberant floral print dresser. It’s an identity cleansing, I suppose. A revision and washing of self.

In removing who I was or maybe wasn’t, I made way for who I might be in the future. The version of myself I hope to be.

I think about who I was before, these past people, and I realise I don’t wish to reprise my former self. I’m content with who I am in the meantime, even if I don’t wholly know who that person is. I know more than I did yesterday and I think that’s all I can hope for. Each decision I make creates a distinct separation from these ghosts. Each step moves in a different direction, different possible lives stretching forward instead of glancing over my shoulder wondering if I’ve done this right.

Outgrowing is not a loss, it’s a sign of evolution. We shed these layers not to forget the past, but to make room for what’s to come. Each bag is filled with people I’m no longer interested in being. I pack them up, knowing that they will continue their stories elsewhere. I’m excited to meet the person I will eventually be. I’ll let her know that I’ve saved space for her.

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