Earlier this year, I did the Kon-Mari method of tidying. You may have heard of it from that book, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, by Marie Kondo. Funnily enough, I’m not sure I ever embraced the method fully. I have to accept that I didn’t set aside a day to make an “event” of it like she said we should do. As such, I find myself in the position where I feel in need of applying my tidying skills once again. Having said that, leaving my faults to the side, the book certainly altered my thinking about possessions. Why do I own what I own? Is it truly freeing for me to own it? To put it another way, what is my relationship with my possessions?

Anxiety. That’s all I can say. The best example (in my case) would be books. Before I did the Kon-Mari method, my shelves were probably sinking into the earth, laying pressure on the foundations of the house, and exploding out of every spare nook and cranny I could use as space. And now? I’ve probably halved that collection, if not more. What are books for, after all, if not reading? Will I read all of them? Can I read all of them? Of course not! (Funny enough, this phenomenon is proper not just to consumers but book publishers, too. If you’ve ever wondered what those scores of felt marker are on the sides of your books, that would indicate a “leftover” book that didn’t sell initially.) So, if I can’t read them all, then why do I own so many? It’s not like they’re all precious “keepers”!

However, not everyone is a reader, like me, but this speaks to a larger trend of ours to covet possessions and seek material security. Books are my faiblesse, but for you that might be scented candles or shoes or paperwork that you “might need” someday.

Whatever the specific psychological motivation is, whatever the item is, and whomever it is for, I think we could all agree that this type of behaviour, while not necessarily hoarding, constitutes clinging. And the trouble with clinging is that it can make one terribly anxious. Consider, for example, those depraved and immature adolescent tales of infatuation that suffer no boundaries and excrete insecurity: how on-edge must those kids be? Or imagine the man who stacks money under his mattress, worrying that he may run out: inevitably, he’s more worried than ever about the pile’s safety—if it will be stolen, or disappear if the house catches fire! Or let us return to our late-capitalistic, consumer society: how many possessions until you finally feel full? How much until it’s enough? Or is there always something else that you want?

Economics 101 would say this is indicative of a human being’s “unlimited wants”. A Christian is likely to say that this is a sign of a heart longing for God: “Our hearts are restless until they rest in You,” St Augustine would say. I would take it further. Of course, I’m speaking not of owning personal property in moderation but of excess, or the addiction to acquiring more and more things—pleonexia, the Greeks called it, a boundless desire. And in this respect, I would say that we develop these clinging relationships to things because we struggle with empty spaces. It sets us at unease. Whereas, if we can control the conditions and characteristics of our immediate environments, we feel much more secure. This spiritual tension between material control and material insecurity has existed since humanity began to collect useless shit to keep in their huts.

My therapist once hypothesised to me that the reason I’d rearranged my room and the reason the genres of my books changed was because I was mapping out my physical space to match my mental space. I didn’t disagree. It was a good take, and it fit for how I understood the changes I had gone through. So, I ask, what does your cluttered space say about you and what’s going on in your head? Why can’t you sit in an emptier room? How would it feel, do you think? Sit, and imagine what it would be like—close your eyes! Think, and consider how much freer. This room is not only empty but spacious: a space for anything. Having relinquished control, you are more in control than ever. You are unburdened, the steward of next-to-nothing, and therefore of everything that truly matters.