In the last few weeks I've cleaned out seven drawers, two stacks of shelves, the garage, the storage closet, and miscellaneous old toys stacked in a precarious pile in John's office. I've brought hundreds of dollars worth of lovely wooden toys to David's old pre-school, four boxes of clothes to a friend a size smaller than David, a box of clothes to a friend a size smaller than Rose, a box of baby items including a breast pump and sling to the couple across the street who are expecting in a few months, two carloads to Goodwill, and a carload to the dump.

I have mixed feelings about all this.

No matter how much I get rid of, it never seems to make any difference. I know empirically this isn't true. I can now see the printer in John's office. I can see the floor in the tool shed. I know that previously to get the lawn mower out of the garage I had to move two bikes, tip the rake to the left, get the red wagon handle out of the cord, and lift it off the old jog stroller. I know 40 poems are no longer sitting on the shelf; they are filed.

But, it doesn't feel any less cluttered because the stuff that was buried is now strewn across the floor demanding attention. What am I going to do about the box of broken jewelry? Should I store the binoculars in my underwear drawer or a random shelf in the back closet? What about the old valentine's, chuck or box? And don't even get me started on the financial records.

Much of this stuff was hidden away because I wasn't able to make decisions about it before. Some of those decisions have been thankfully taken away from me. I love expiration dates. But now I have to weigh sentimental value against practicality. I have to draw on my almost non-existent spatial intelligence in order to store everything.

You'd think I'd be feeling freed, purged, clear headed from all this decluttering, but mostly I'm feeling guilt. I feel guilty I'm not the type of person that doesn't get cluttered. I would dutifully go to the "how to keep your life uncluttered workshops," and hope that this expert had the magic formula. Then I'd spend hours deciding if the notes from the diversity outreach program should be filed under diversity or outreach or never going to touch this again. I am a naturally messy person. I am mostly ok with that. John and I have come up with systems to live with me, but a few months like this makes me face the incredible monster clawing at the closet door.

I feel guilty that I'm not trying to sell all this stuff on Craig's list. If I were the type of person who could fold and photograph each piece and then post it with a cute description and haggle and feel safe passing it off to strangers, I could probably make several hundred bucks. I feel guilty that many people desperately need that money, and I am letting it slip away. Interestingly, my class guilt doesn't extend to the fact that I have so much stuff in the first place. I'm not ashamed that my children out grow their clothes or their toys. But I feel guilty that I have decided my time and energy are worth more than recouping any cash.

And, of course, I feel guilty about the dump run. In recycle conscious Seattle, the dump is a failure of creativity and ingenuity. If only I were more clever, I could turn the old mop into a scarecrow.

I did say mixed feelings, and I hit you with all the bad first. I am actually very proud of myself. Please come over and admire my garage. I made decluttering a goal, and I'm making it happen. And I am unearthing possibilities. Those 50 dead poems in the file cabinet? They might get resurrected.