spring cleaning

that time of the year

Without fail, as I rattle through the year, foolishly imagining that I move through time unfettered by the passing of the months, I end up looking to clear out my closets come springtime. What is it about the springtime that brings the desire for cleaning? It can’t be the nicer weather prompting action, movement. Even in May, wind whips through the fog-covered city, shaking my building’s gate in an erratic rhythm. In the mornings, I consider turning on the heat for a reprieve from the cold air that snakes across the floors of my apartment. It’s a wonder that I’m able to get out of the warmth of my covers each morning, even as the windows grow lighter. No, the desire comes despite the weather, if anything.

Perhaps it’s the travel that every summer brings that shines light on the sheer amount of stuff that accumulates in a home. While packing, one must find their bags and face their items as they look for their suitcases hidden in a closet somewhere. And, on a trip, it becomes apparent how few things are really necessary for day-to-day life: a set of clothes for each day (with half a dozen extra pairs of underwear, just in case), some toiletries, maybe a book or a tablet for entertainment. With these limited items, without so many of the things that we use to define ourselves, we experience life more vividly than our normal lives, flourish in the novelty of a new place, make new memories in ways that we rarely can in our own homes. I was so much more out there, and I didn’t need anything, not really.

And then, we return to our little constructed palaces, once again immersed in the creature comforts we gather over time. After I returned from my New York trip, I spent some time taking in my own room, sitting in my ergonomic office chair and spinning slowly. It’s always too dark in here, thanks to the sole window facing another wall. The many lamps don’t help, colored bulbs offering more of an aesthetic than any light. As I rotated slowly, I looked at my desk and my tables, stacked with books, CDs, candles. I looked at my overflowing closet, jam-packed with clothes, paper, boxes. I looked at my too-small rug, my mounted TV, the boxes beneath the bed. It all felt like too much, a kingdom too vast for a single person to hold onto. When did all of this stuff appear? How could I even sort through it all? Do I need to keep all of this stuff? How could I get everything in its right place, if that even existed?

The process was slow, covering multiple days, as I extracted things from my closet day by day, mentally deciding to look at them more closely later. The different shoe boxes filled with notebooks, stickers, stationery, and more needed more attention, along with my CDs, books, and clothes.

Among all of my trinkets, some shone slightly with a warm glow. Sometimes an item is just an item, and sometimes a book drips with feeling, of the day that I felt hopelessly alone and found solace in the poetry section, or a CD sings of sorting through albums at Amoeba Music while talking on the phone to a friend across the country. There are the t-shirts of bands that I loved with another, boots that were complimented by someone I’ll never see again. I never meant to turn these things into talismans, didn’t whisper incantations over their forms until they hummed with power. Yet here they are, tearing me from the present into fractured memories, impressions of feeling, blurry reflections.

The most powerful ones, of course, are the hand-written notes, gathered from past travels, past relationships, and past birthdays. These postcards and letters and cards feel like the most valuable things in the world, covered in the handwriting of people I love, loved. When was the last time you saw the handwriting of your mother, or your best friend? Can you imagine it without seeing it? I still remember the way some of my classmates wrote, but now struggle to imagine how some of my closest friends form letters on a page. I’ve learned to recognize word choice, texting styles, but as I look at these notes, the strokes made by pen on paper I see the trail of a hand dear to me. A hand that willed itself to drive ink, when digital will always be easier.

I can’t fully recall what any of the notes said really, as I struggled to decipher the handwriting in my dimly lit room, but my body felt full and heavy, a dam about to burst with emotion. A cloudy grief filled the air, over the stacks of books and boxes, over the thin layer of dust that coated them. Grief for these moments that had passed, and that I hadn’t been grateful enough. Grief for all the time I didn’t remember the sweetness of these messages. Grief for how rarely I shared my own love in written cards, scattered throughout the homes of my loved ones, waiting to be rediscovered once again and maybe ignite a heart. And from the cloud came spring showers: purifying, sanctifying. What a joy it was to see these words again.

I moved these notes to where I kept my passport, my social security card, and my birth certificate; finally, all of my most important documents together.

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We must do what we can to push back against the genocide in Gaza, especially as the government attempts to silence us. Consider calling your US representatives to support de-escalation and a ceasefire, donating to Care for Gaza, a grassroots organization delivering food to Palestinians, buying e-SIMs to keep folks connected to their families, donating to funds to help families escape.

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💧 Drops of the Week 💧

• ALBUM - Black Classical Music by Yussef Dayes - one of my favorite living jazz musicians!

• POEM - “Blessing the Baby” by Diannely Antigua - Usually, / I'm a people pleaser. I am a people.