One of my goals is to get organized. Unlike two of my sisters, whose spaces spell Real Simple and Martha Stewart Living, I am a certified packrat. I have this tendency to collect, amass and hoard. Minimalism, I know, has high eye appeal, but my shelves can never remain "minimal" for long. They almost always get invaded by stuff.
(My built-in clutter magnet, is, I believe the product of genes. Dad and Ma--whose early growing-up years were spent hiding from the Japanese--cannot let things go to waste. They built a two-story bodega on our Molave Street home to accommodate books, long-playing albums and 45s, 60s furniture, tools, broken appliances, construction surplus, even a mannequin. They held on to the GE fridge bought in 1970for almost 25 years. And only because the thing--which had gone from white to yellow--had turned into a power-consuming monster.)
In any case, because I am starting to feel hemmed in by my things, I declared this to be a decluttering weekend. First I tackled my "creativity" cabinet. From among the piles of scrapbooking supplies I found "dear diary" entries, idea files, yellowing lists of projects not (yet) started or not (yet) realized. There were 78 pencils harking to my Sanrio days; cards and letters that were not sent; forgotten pictures. The home-office desk drawers and a three-level shelf yielded other "museum" pieces: letters from 20, 30 years ago, raffle tickets, a tinful of State of Mind candles, handmade cards from the hubby, clippings, recipes, receipts.
To the trash went the manuals that outlived their subjects, articles that I know I'd find on the net, calendars and planners from the '90s, magazines and inkless pens. Things I'm iffy about went into the not-sure pile. If I don't use them in six months, off they'd go.
As for the rest, I'll let them be. The cabinets and shelves are not as messy anymore. There's more than enough room. For now.