After 'I Do,' a Time for Separation From Too Much Stuff

"Making progress," I yell. I toss Ron's "Gatsby."

Four hours later the Space Case points to the guest room.

This woman does not mess around. She's like the Tasmanian Devil, spinning through our lives and stirring up the dirt Ron and I have -- until now -- chosen to ignore. So here we are, all three of us, standing in a cramped closet where clothes are packed so tightly the hangers don't budge. There are photo books, Rollerblades, magazines, audiotapes, golf balls, broken sunglasses and maps of Europe. We are silent, surveying the massive workload. A ski pole falls over, triggering tears (mine).

Suddenly I'm questioning this process. Am I throwing away my life? Like it or not, my "stuff" makes me feel secure.

"You have to honor what you love, but rid yourself of the junk," the Space Case says. Otherwise the things you care about end up crammed into closets and you forget they're even there. Then their purpose is wasted, she tells us.

Good point.

The Space Case pencils us in for the coming week and calls it a day.

Ron and I tread carefully through the damage. He pushes his way through a kitchen full of overstuffed trash bags, then, digging out leftovers, he follows me to the living room. Countless gigantic red bins are everywhere, holding household goods categorized according to the Space Case's system. I pick up Brainy from my Smurf collection; he's been relegated to the "homework" pile. I'm supposed to decide by Tuesday whether I'm keeping him.

It's hard work, but it's time to tackle this project, and I mean that in more ways than one. It's time to yank down the boxes and scatter their contents on the floor for inspection. I have to ask myself, Why am I hanging on to this belief? This argument? This perspective? I have to make a conscious choice to honor my core values and the essential aspects of who I am, but weed out the superficial ones. I have a feeling this isn't a one-time deal.

The next week, I drag my Smurf collection closer. I loved these guys as a child. If I'm ever blessed with a daughter, I'd like to give them to her.

"I'm honoring these," I say. And I do. The Space Case wipes down a shadow box she found who-knows-where and uses it to display the blue figures. But I don't honor my law books, not "Possessory Estates and Future Interests," not any of them. I feel Ron's arm on my shoulders. He's shredded his receipts and says I can shred his notebooks, too. But somehow the Space Case has managed to pare them down and sort them into neat folders, so I just shrug.

The Space Case is snapping pictures. Our former dumping ground, a nook off the hallway, has been transformed into a Zen area, complete with candles and yoga mats. The garbage has been moved to the back alley for tomorrow's pickup, and the items in the red bins have been donated or designated to their proper place.

Space Casing our home may have been an external process, but it felt like an internal cleansing. Best of all, there's plenty of room to grow.