O - Os Little Guide to Starting Over

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When one road ends, its time to look ahead in a new direction. And know that as far as your eye can see, the universe can see even farther.

O PRAH W INFREY

The need for change bulldozed a road down the center of my mind.

M AYA A NGELOU

My mother was not the traditional spring cleaning sort; she hated housework of every kind, and if I had ever seen her beat a rug or clean a window, I would have known the end of the world was upon us. But every spring shed look at her wardrobe and mine, and eventually my childrens, and declare it was time to start fresh! Everything that was a mistake (puce, velour, edged with rickrack) went to charity. Everything that was too large or too small went to a bigger or smaller cousin. She was smart enough to keep things that were merely, and only temporarily, out of style, and her Ferragamo pumps have now served three generations. She also made allowances for the once-in-a-lifetime (which is why I have a perfect Lilly Dach hatbox from the fifties).

I have taken her approach to heart in the matter of my closets. And I have taken her approach to heart in matters of the heart, and even of the mind.

There are things, as she used to say, up with which one should not put, and spring cleaning is a good way to deal with them. Rude children, indifferent spouses, bad bosses, lousy friends, social injusticeall have no more place in our lives than painful shoes and shirts with huge yellow stains. Im not suggesting you throw out your children or your spouse or that you turn your entire life over to righting wrongs, but there is something to be said for addressing your burdens.

The key to addressing them is to learn to love what you have, change what you cant love, and get the hell away from what does you harm. From my point of viewthat of a person with a poochy tummythat means live with your poochy tummy (Spanx, people; its there for a reason) but not with your toxic mother or energy-sucking job.

A good psychic spring cleaning calls for a walk through every room in the psychic house. Mark some things Fix now, some Try again next spring; on some just scrawl Oh, well and move on. In my real house, last spring, I threw out every spice that was more than three years old and every cosmetic that was more than two. However, the suitcases with broken zippers (and Cabbage Patch dolls and crib mobiles) remain. In my psychic house, I got rid of all obligatory social engagements that dont include family. Im adding physical therapy on my postsurgery knee to the daily routine; Ive called the nice lady who took care of my parents in their last days, as I have been meaning to do since October. And floating through the psychic rooms, I see my mother blithely ignoring dusty windowsills in favor of fresh flowers, championing repose with a good book rather than baking from scratch, and celebrating spring with a bag of things for Goodwill and a glass of Champagne.

The garbage bag bulges with sweaters, dresses, tunics, shoes, and belts that have languished in my closets for years, waiting for a comeback thats just never gonna come. Shirts that no longer button. Bras built for my nineties-era bust. A rain hat that has lived a life of captivity inside a drawer, never having felt a single drop.

Two Hefties sit with their mouths open, waiting to be fed. My possessions avert their gaze, as if afraid to attract attention. You there! You ugly, itchy, horizontally striped alpaca poncho bought at that street fairto the Hefty! Random candlestick: Hefty! Mystery cell phone charger, stop trying to hide behind the Flip camera!

This lack of mercy isnt like me, and thats the point. No matter how redundant or useless my possessions, no matter the money they cost me each time I move, an overwhelming glut of stuff has always found sanctuary in my home. But now that my home is a Boston apartment barely big enough for one human and her little dog, Ive had it. I shouldnt have to spend so much time jostling for space. My energies should go to friends and family and work, not to the continual repuzzling of junk: the never-worn suits, the nearly identical pairs of boots, the proliferation of sofa pillows, thenot even kiddingvelvet and taffeta ball gown, price tags intact. Barnacles, all.

I knew I had to act when I caught myself saving that rectangle of cardboard that comes at the bottom of the Chinese-takeout delivery bag because I might need it someday. So last fall I started loading boxes and bags with orphaned earrings, burdensome purses, heavy ruby curtains I havent used since that time I had the Peeping Tom. Getting rid of such things is easythey mean nothing to me. Even I can admit the logic of saying good-bye to all but one of three colanders, all but one of four coffeemakers. I know I dont really need a whole forest of brooms.

Steadily, the boxes and bags have filled. The surplus stuff has gone out into the world via Freecycle and eBay and the Salvation Army. Theres just one problem. When I began, I figured the more I purged, the lighter and less messy my life would feel. Surprisingly, though, nothing feels less messy except the cabinets and floors.

* * *

In the past twelve years, Ive lived in Charlotte, Boston, Atlanta (twice), Manhattan, Portland (the one in Oregon), Oxford (the one in Mississippi, and my hometown), Tupelo (also in Mississippi), Europe, and on Long Island.

My Oxford move, the one that signaled the beginning of the end of my four-year marriage, occurred in the wake of my fathers death: I left my husband in Charlotte to teach at Ole Miss for a year and be near my family. But when the visiting professorship ended, instead of moving to the home my husband and I had just bought in Atlanta, where he had taken a new job, I ran off to Spain. After Spain, Atlanta, just long enough for the divorce. Then New York, for graduate school. Then Atlanta again, for a magazine job. Then Portland, for another magazine job. Then Tupelo, when that job fell through. And finally to Boston.

I can trace all my moves by the artifacts that came with me. The little Moroccan jar is where I stored my wedding ring when I lived in Spain. The photo of my ex and me smiling on a downtown sidewalk was taken in Charlotte before I left. The green-and-gold tin on the bookshelf contains the ashes of my cat, Harry.

Poor Harry. When I left the marriage, helike the furniture, the Christmas ornaments, my favorite rice cookerstayed behind. But when my ex remarried, the new wife was allergic, and Harry had to go. I was living in a two-hundred-square-foot Manhattan studio apartment with a terrier, so Harry went to stay with my mother. By the time I moved back to Atlanta and was able to reclaim him, he was skinny, elderly, mewling. The morning he could no longer stand, I took him to the veterinarian and sobbed as they administered the final injection.

Since then, each time Ive passed his ashes Ive thought not of his formerly happy life (sunbeams, cuddles) but rather of his miserable exile. So I take the ashes to our once-shared bungalow in Charlotte, now the home of another nice family. With their permission, I stand beneath the Japanese maple my ex and I planted in memory of my father.