Back when I was part of La Leche League, I had regular conversations with other young mothers. We cried about our failures, and asked for encouragement with gnarly toddlers. We shared the bliss of holding a sleeping baby in our arms, and shrugged over the chaos that was our kitchens. It got me through. 

 

One of the more surprising strategies for wrangling the clutter involved a paper bag. A friend said she would scoop up everything on the floor into a grocery bag and stuff it in the closet. After a few weeks of such purging the floor stayed clear though the closet was crowded. If by chance there was something important missing she could go rummaging in the bags for it. But anything whose absence went unnoticed stayed in the dark. A couple of times a year the inhabitants of the bags all landed in the trash. We laughed, but it turns out I still remember it. 

 

I never succumbed to her tactics, though I do keep a pile for the thrift store in the entryway. There have not been young children in our home for a long time, though Benjamin's Legos live permanently on the living room table. I don't mind. It brings him joy. 

 

The other day I had a clutter of negative thoughts. This person was pressuring me to comply with her opinions. That friend was ignoring my efforts to connect. I started to trip over them on the way to more enjoyable musings. 

 

Then I remembered my friend from thirty years ago. In a brusk sweep I relegated those unhelpful ideas to the closet. I closed the door and walked away. The absence of negativity was calming. It brought me joy.