Sentimental Clutter

So with the annual Romance Writers of America coming up this week, I've had to dig through closets to find things for the conference, stuff that in some cases I haven't used since LAST summer's conference (like my special name badge holder with the three RITA finalist pins that mean so much to me or the bright garment bag that's so easy to spot on airline carousels among navy and black luggage). Anyway, whenever I'm forced to brave the walk-in closet of my office or start pulling things out from under the bed, I always bang up against these two truths:

1. I can never find anything

in large part because

2. I keep EVERYTHING!

I hold onto the strangest things. There's a piece of driftwood my husband and I found walking on the beach when we were engaged. There's a tag cut off the first dress he brought me (a cute red and white polka dot number that went in the Goodwill pile YEARS ago and would not fit on this post-baby body, but I still have the price tag from a chain store that I don't even think exists these days). There's an old copy of Gone with the Wind that's literally rubber-banded together because the binding broke, it's missing pages and what's left has yellowed (then again, it was my first copy of GWTW, given to me by a favorite English teacher who encouraged me to write.) I have approximately nine zillion business cards that I've accumulated at all manner of events but don't actually use for any practical purpose. I have drawings from kids who were once in my Pre-K class, back when I dreamed of one day having children of my own but were told my doctors that it was unlikely. (So dh and I filed for adoption, immediately got pregnant and now have TWO children, one of whom just finished Pre-K this year).

When I open that closet door and see the piles and shelves and overstuffed bags, I always think that it's time to get stern with myself and throw at least half of it away. Do I really NEED the champagne cork from the day J proposed? (Sunday, Dec 1, 12 and a half years ago). I have this conversation with myself about three times a year, and wade into the mess, resolute.

And the same thing always happens. Two hours later, I find myself sitting on old newspapers, my eyes misting up at my mother's wedding picture and the plaster cast I made of my daughter's foot when she was a few months old. I didn't get much packing done, but I thumbed through cover flats of my first three books and relived the thrill of my first sale. I stopped to appreciate all that I've accomplished in the last decade and thought about the people who mean the most to me. (Note to self: It's been way too long since you talked to your aunt in Tennessee or your best friend from high school.) I called my children into the closet to laugh at early pieces of artwork and to show my ballerina daughter pictures of me in a recital twentysomething years ago. (We were doing Cinderella. I was a lady in waiting, and my younger sister was a mouse in the same production.) And, oh yeah, I found my conference badge with its three lovely silver RITA pins.

Even if it wasn't a productive afternoon in the strictest sense, it was time well spent. Eventually, I shut the door on my memories and told myself that maybe NEXT time I'll clean some of it out...but I doubt it.

So what about you guys? Pack-rats, neatnicks, or a healthy, happy medium somewhere in between?