I am a hoarder of small things. I save receipts, restaurant cards, flight stubs, hand written notes that are no longer meaningful. Whenever I clean a purse or a drawer I end up stuffing a plastic baggy full of miscellaneous scraps of paper and placing them in one of those “assemble yourself” paper boxes from Ikea. I stack them in various places in the house so my failure to purge it isn’t quite so obvious and with the well-meaning intent to revisit at another time when I will be more self-disciplined.

Placing these small items that are like short stories from my life into a box is not just for the tactile. Mentally compartmentalizing, sorting and setting aside, is a survival skill I have long honed. A coping mechanism in order to “not take it personally”, to “work the problem, not the personalities”, to get through a meeting, a day or a month or a year in corporate life. Salvage what is good, put the rest in a box and put the box away, back in the corner where I do not wander often. Where I do not dwell on it.

Sometimes what goes in the mental Ikea boxes are scraps. Scraps of anger, regret, resentment. And more often than not, they are work related. The easiest way to face another day in an often brutal and abusively dysfunctional environment was to pack the worst of the previous day away. Add another plastic baggy to the paper box marked “Work” and move on. Look for the good and stay focused. It helped me work with individuals who were demeaning, get through days that were meant to grind down to the bone, and survive leadership actions that were often incomprehensible. There are many work boxes. It is no doubt a waste of space.

But other boxes are more precious, filled with heartbreak and grief that simply could not be processed. Days and nights that were so difficult, conversations so painful that I still have no ability to share them. They are delicately wrapped and the box glued shut for self-preservation. Placed carefully on a shelf, always visible. I do not look away from them, but I do not open them either. In my mind’s eye they sit in a soft glow of a nightlight. Waiting their turn.

Like any hoarder, I know this cannot go on forever. I have read Marie Kondo, and its clear I have many boxes that do not “spark joy”.

Recently, when mentally shuffling Work boxes (to make room for Frustrating Pandemic Shit boxes), I noticed that while full, they felt light, a reflection of how little I still cared about what they contained. Maybe they are ready to toss. No need to unbox – no actual life lessons learned to sort through. What was of true value, (people, purpose, friendship), I carry close with me. Mentally, it seems time to put them on the curb and bring some light into the room. Spring cleaning.

And the precious boxes? They remain heavy in their cargo. They’ll stay. They are both a reminder and a challenge. The mind only has so many compartments, so many spaces to cordon off with Temporarily Closed signs. Deep emotions do not run silent forever. There will come a time of strength and solace. These boxes do not go to the curb. They are slowly opened and embraced. Looked through with care and remembered. Each day their own.

As I wait I think of how to open the box. In this time in between I prepare myself.

For unboxing day.