Esther McCarthy: I gave Swedish death cleaning a go — here's what happened
Esther eases into her death clean with the junk drawer: 'I spend 10 minutes and get rid of exactly one marker that has no top and is gone dry.'
Money!
Now I’ve got your attention, let’s talk about sex. Nah, it’s actually a column about death cleaning. Fun!
(Sorry to all the dirty birdies out there, or those pondering their pension. Get an independent financial advisor, gals. I’m the wrong one for that kind of thing. I still have no will made.)
More specifically, this column is about the “gentle art of Swedish death cleaning”.
Those Swedes are a great bunch of lads in fairness.
Read More
There they are with their plentiful forests and pristine lakes, they’re recycling disciples who love nothing more than a good hike after taking a Fika (coffee and cake breaks) and did you know it’s the pop music capital of the world?
The crowd that invented IKEA, Volvo, and Abba are OK in my book. So when I heard about their death cleaning idea, I said I’d give it a go.
Swedish death cleaning is a gentle, practical decluttering method where you sort through your belongings with the mindset of keeping only what truly matters.
Basically, it’s for the benefit of those you leave behind, so you don’t leave a big burden for them after you cark it.
It’s not about being morbid though, they assure us, it’s about lightening your life now by clearing out unnecessary items and organising what you keep.
It’s more of a long-term gig rather than the scrabbled panic when you know the man from the charity shop is coming to pick up the bags on the Tuesday morning.
It promises to makes your home calmer and your family’s future easier.
But... why should they get off so easy? I kinda want to haunt them and their future partners through my ridiculous belongings.
In fact, I intend to stipulate in my will — when I get around to it — that each son shall be bequeathed a portion of my ashes.
They must display these in a golden receptacle of some sort in a prominent area of their abodes.
Maybe over the telly, if they’ll still be a thing in 2096 — I intend to cling to life for decades — or in the bathroom above the mirror, so I can watch over them brushing their teeth.
I might pay someone at the funeral home to include a recording of my voice intoning spookily, “dooo it for the fullll threeee minuteessss, do you know how much I paid for your invisssssalinnnnes?” just so they can remember me as I was: Bossy and annoying.
I will give the cleaning thing a go though. Right!
Let’s ease in with the junk drawer. I spend 10 minutes and get rid of exactly one marker that has no top and is gone dry.
But everything else is necessary! I need those keys, they must open something.
Sure, these buttons are from coats I threw into those charity bags in 1997, but I might need them for another coat.
Yes, I order takeaways online now, but the menus might be handy for something. Oh, that restaurant closed during the Celtic Tiger? Into the recycling it goes. Hey, I’m good at this!
What’s next? Ooh, the bottom drawer with the tea towels and cloths and 29 plastic bags shoved into one other plastic bag.
OK, but those ratty tea towels I’ll make into rags, so I’ll put them out to the shed... and the cloths are all good — well, OK that one has a weird waxy substance on it that didn’t come out in the wash, that’ll make a good rag too.
The bags, also known as environmental consciousness, actually, can stay where they are, when I curse them to high heavens the next time I’m doing a quick shop with no car and have to buy another reusable plastic fecking bag.
The next basket I tackle — it’s from IKEA, neat! — has all the boys bits from when they were smaller, report cards, Valentine’s Day cards with frankly worrying anatomically incorrect hearts for their beloved mama, teeth in little envelopes that the Tooth Fairy wrapped for them, cards from precious family members — shur, I can’t dispose of any of these memory kickers.
How are they going to weep for my passing if I’m not ensuring they wade through all the Mother’s Day cards they made me with pudgy hands and pure hearts, where they literally wrote that I’m the best in the whole wide world?
That’s a binding contract. If that doesn’t get a tear or two, they are dead inside.
Ooh, I find a ball of hard, hairy mala, I’ll death clean that instead. Man, I’m on fire.
I’m exhausted now, memory lane takes it out of you. I think I’ll leave the Swedes keep their death cleaning nonsense. I prefer the Irish way — leave behind so much stuff, the kids will have to rent a skip or 10, have a big fight over who get what, and then spend the next few years finding an earring under the couch that will make them cry.
That’s not a burden, silly billies, that’s my legacy of love. I’m clearing nothing, they’ll have to kill me first. Oh wait…
