The clutter of us

Grief, mess and the objects that define us...

I’m a messy person. In all senses of the word. I rarely wear white, as I know I’ll stain it. My tights are almost always ripped. I wear heels that my ankles can’t handle so I fall over often. I get white wine drunk and flop over stranger’s laps. I spill. People who can wear white should avoid me. I also seem to accumulate stuff. Stuff that I have no control over, that litters its way throughout my house. I’m a charming person to live with, I suppose, but hygiene wise, less so…

I’ve been thinking about all of my things, lately. What each object might tell someone about my life, were I to no longer be here to tell them. Do others know that each bracelet stacked on my wrist represents a friendship, or moment I want to treasure? That I have multiple copies of Death Of A Salesman as I have a compulsion to buy one in each second-hand bookshop I visit? It would be so easy to look at the pile of crystals gathering dust on my bedside table and presume that I believed in their supposed power… when, actually, they remind me of writing my first book and the crystal healer influencer character I created.

The things we surround ourselves with tell our story. When my grandma died I inherited the contents of her china cabinet - porcelain birds, dogs and cats line my bookshelves. As does the figurine of a little girl, sitting with a book resting on her legs: an ornament that reminded her of my mum as a child, as she was always reading.

I used to wear my mum’s sunglasses and when, on a canal boat holiday, they flew off my head as I was jumping to land, I mourned them as if I was mourning her. We even, in an almost dark sitcom worthy moment, threw in some of her ashes after them while passers by tried not to look in our direction.

I cling to the possessions of those who I have lost, as if their presence means, somehow, the particles of that person remain with me. Each object also has an unseen, layer of value to it that I’ll never know. I know why we have the ‘Susie’ book girl ornament… but not why or where my grandma got the tiny birds, or the vole eating the apple. Come to think of it, I don’t even know if he even is a vole. The mystery of how and why we accumulate things, what they tell us about our lives, I find both romantic and intriguing.

Others aren’t like this. They don’t see the grand clearing out of the house after someone has died as particularly noteworthy. They remember people in a different way. They see stuff in a more binary way: useful or clutter. However we choose to remember people, and keep them close, is meaningful.

This was something I spoke about with Sarah Tarlow, the author of The Archaeology of Loss, and my interview with her is what you’re supposed to be reading this week. But, messy old me, realised last minute that I had told her I’d run her answers by her before publishing. And I forgot! So I’ll do that and publish the interview next week. 

But, all this talk of stuff, of mess, reminded me of an old Tumblr post I wrote. I used to write a blog, over a decade ago, about all sorts - body image, grief, confidence, trying to make it in journalism etc. This Substack is its namesake: Crocuses In The Snow. It’s cute looking back on it, so as it’s a Bank Holiday and as I messed up the planned post this week, I thought I’d republish it below. But, before I do, I’d love to know - do you have an object that belongs to someone you’ve loved and lost? If so, can you please get in touch? I have an idea for commemorating all of these trinkets somewhere. Thank you! 

Treasured Trinkets

Having just moved in with my boyfriend, I love to take pleasure in the little objects he has brought with him. Not the huge pile of books (now nicely adjoined with my collection making it look a little more intelligent) nor the tool set sprawled across the spare bedroom. But the insignificant things:

The egg-shaped pillow on our bed, the little orange ashtray, the Yorkshire tea bags and the HP brown sauce: I smile every time I see them. You may wonder why, when really, in the scheme of things, they make no difference at all.

But I know that if he weren’t here, they wouldn’t be either. 

When you think about losing someone close to you, you think of their personal traits: their laugh, how a hug from them can make you feel like everything is going to be OK or the fact that you know they will always be there if you need to speak to them.

When I discovered my Mum was going to die these are the things I thought I wouldn’t be able to live without. But now she’s gone, although I do miss all those things, it’s the tiny things that choke me, the missing items that mean she isn’t still here.

When she had a bath she’d liberally sprinkle talcum powder all over herself, leaving a Mum-shaped shadow on the bathroom floor. And chopsticks! We had so many chopsticks in the kitchen drawer, collected from Chinese restaurants all around the world. There was also her orange and black writing pens, a selection of herbal remedies (which were forced down our throats as children) and a grey fur coat hanging on the hook when you entered the house.

Slowly these things have disappeared. The coat’s stored away, the pens thrown out, the talcum powder is sitting unused on our bathroom shelf and no one seems to know where all the chopsticks have gone. 

And if you ever stumble across, say a stray pen or a pot of arnica, they look sad somehow. Dead. As they have no one to love them.

I know I could take the coat out of storage, wear it, love it and hang it on a hook. Or take a bath and dust myself with the talc. And then the items would be loved. But it wouldn’t be the same.

For the coat on the hook meant that shortly I’d be hearing a call of: “cooeee! Welcome home!” and the talc shadow meant she was in bed, reading and I could slip in beside her for a goodnight cuddle, inhaling that special Johnson’s Baby Powder scent. 

So now, in this new house, far away from the empty coat hook and lost chopsticks, I appreciate everything belonging to the one I love. 

The little orange ashtray means soon he will be home, smoking a cigarette with his arms loosely draped around me and at bedtime the egg-shaped pillow will come to life, propped behind his bed whilst he reads his latest sci-fi novel. 

So next time you’re cleaning the house and scowling about clutter, remember exactly what that mess means: that someone will be returning home soon, for you to wrap your arms round.