It sparks joy: The life-changing magic of clutter

Occasionally, we’ll see a social media clip about an adult human who has designed and managed to live in a functional, minimalist shipping container and marvel at how they can function. But it’s nice to have warmth and fish and plants and life. We’re not robots.

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Don’t get me wrong, there have been purges. Every time we move houses is an opportunity to decimate our possessions, in the Roman sense of getting rid of a tenth – usually with less stabbing and stoning – but given the stairs I make no promises for next time. Lots of once-treasured possessions have fallen at these hurdles, usually because of the ravages of time or breakage, but sometimes because I grew up and realised I didn’t need to keep my first rainbow-coloured notepad from kindergarten.

Moving as a younger adult was quite an efficient method of getting rid of stuff. There were 11 moves in as many years across five cities when I was at my most peripatetic, although it seems middle age is slowing me down. Since we’ve taken root recently, the annual hard rubbish collection has become the catalyst for re-evaluating our possessions. It’s not the same. It’s much less ruthless. Without the need to pull every plate and partly used packet of Christmas cards from every nook and cranny, there’s less impetus to turf the trash.

Yet through it all, the detritus has stayed. The box has changed over the years, but the emotional debris has been opened, sifted through and repackaged. The pine cone stays, so long as it is intact. And there’s no question about the teddy bear. As long as there’s space in my heart, I’ll find space in the wardrobe.