For years, nine o’clock in the morning belonged to my mother.
That’s when I called her, every single day. She’d tell me about the weather and the birds, and I’d tell her about nothing much. (I wrote about those calls in living alone after 70.)
After she passed, I kept looking at the clock at nine. The phone sat there, and I had nobody to call.
One Monday morning, I couldn’t stand it. So I set my kitchen timer for one hour, and I pulled out the drawer by the phone.
It held old rubber bands, dead pens and menus from places long closed. In the back was a card with my mother’s phone number on it, in my own handwriting.
I kept the card, and the rest went in the trash. When the timer rang, I had one clean drawer and a little less ache.
I did it again the next Monday, and the Monday after that. A few years later, I’m still at it. This is my weekly decluttering routine, and it’s the only one that has ever lasted.
Why One Hour Beats One Big Day
I used to do it the other way. Years ago, I spent a whole Saturday clearing out my hall closet. My back was sore for days, and the closet was full again by spring.
A big day is hard on the body, and it’s harder on the mind.
On my first day clearing my mother’s house, I worked nine hours. By supper, I couldn’t even decide what to eat. (We had toast.)
After so many choices, I had none left in me. I shared what helped in the decisions that wear you out when clearing a parent’s house.
One hour doesn’t wear me out. I can sit down for most of it, and I still have my day when it’s done.
It adds up, too. One hour a week is 52 hours a year. That’s more than six full workdays, and I never once had a sore back from it.