The File Cabinet
On thirty years of clutter, a Beatles-shaped epiphany, and finally understanding what you're really holding onto.
The file cabinet sits in the far corner of the cobweb-festooned garage, a dusty sentinel guarding the ghost of finances past and not-yet-relinquished relics.
A multi-drawer, beige, serviceable container, if you were an adult working in an office between 1970 and 1990, it’s likely you slammed your fingers in your fair share of these testimonies to sheet metal craftsmanship.
Taking up space going toward 30 years, it was time for the major purge that would also transition me out of my volunteer position as an unofficial curator for the Smithsonian Institute of Seemingly Important Crap.
With the advent of the term “sparking joy” via Marie Kondo, prioritizing what really matters is very much at the forefront of our culture. Who doesn’t want to live a healthy and vibrant life, free of emotional baggage? Besides, I wanted to ensure my children didn’t submit my name to the Hoarders show for consideration.
Initially, my goal was to clean out this rusty eyesore and get it out of the garage. It wasn’t long before it became clear there was a far bigger—and, arguably, better—outcome in play.
The process was less about what was being cleaned out and more about why it was time to examine—and release—these items from my past.
I recognized this time capsule needed to be excavated because there comes a point when holding onto things means you’re just holding onto things. There’s no purpose; no meaning.
These artifacts no longer served me. After one last look, I could move on from the period of my life the file cabinet encapsulated in its steel amber.
It was a daunting task, not just by virtue of the sheer volume of material, but because I needed to sift through items that were emotionally charged.
The Inventory
I began sorting through a mountain of material:
College essays. The journal I kept for the baby I miscarried. Bank statements with actual returned checks. Conservatorship papers from my grandmother’s estate. Loan documents. Broken childhood tchotchkes. Film negatives. My kids’ artwork. Literary agent pitches. Old résumés. Baby shower invitations. Newspaper clippings. Published humor column clips. My father-in-law’s knitted baby bootie, circa 1934-ish. And a cache of Rolling Stone magazines that would rival the professional archivist for Rolling Stone magazine’s own collection.
As day turned into night—time is fluid for a storyteller and humorist—I was closing in on finishing up my task when I had THE epiphany.
[Cue thematic music.]
Hauntingly similar to the refrain in the Beatles’ nonsensically-fun-and-somehow-meaningful-in-the-moment song, I Am the Walrus, I realized something.
I didn’t need the file cabinet anymore because I AM the living, breathing version of that file cabinet.
I hold all the memories, events, and accomplishments that create a well-lived life. It was time to let go because I didn’t need them to hold a metaphorical space and a literal place for me anymore.
Now if I could just get there with the 20 bins sitting across from where the file cabinet held court, I’d earn the equivalent of an Olympic gold medal in Emotional and Physical Purging.