Tons of paper have been shredded and burned today. My hands are rough and dry from handling it all, and I have a tartan arm and leg from sitting too close to the fire, feeding it with old documents.
Two large boxes of work papers had been hiding in the attic, unnoticed for years. I hastened to get rid of them, filled with unwanted and unhappy memories and an urgent sense of needing to cleanse my home of them.
I unearthed the Lovely Son's old school reports, but they didn't get minced or burned. I'll keep them for another time, when I feel like a good laugh (or possibly a cry).
The old mahogany tallboy (or Scotch press, depending on where you're from) has been cleared of its top layer of clutter. The tall thin top drawer holds a million small assorted objects; too easy to put off clearing them out! But I will.
The recycling bin is now full to the top. A friend took away four bags of shredded paper to put in her bin. Some have gone for compost.
The small attic hasn't been so tidy for years. Another day of sorting, thinning out and letting go should see it ready for new paint and carpet.
I feel strangely relieved. For some time I've been saying that I felt oppressed by all my belongings; now they seem more manageable and orderly. They belong to me, not I to them.