• Allen wrenches.
• Laminated cards from customer “Rewards” programs.
• Warranty policies for small appliances I’ve been meaning to register.
• Keys that I’m not sure what they open.
• Rubber bands, staples, mostly used Post-It notepads
• Expired tranquilizers for my dog, dispensed after her surgery two years ago.
• Restaurant carryout menus.
• Small packets of powder that extend the life of flowers in a vase.

These types of things have ended up in my kitchen utility drawer.

I’ve been home, like most people during the pandemic, almost 24/7. I’ve had time, and yet, I’ve not taken on this cleaning task.

But it has seemed important to me now that we’re moving into a new year. I want to make space — in my life, in my heart — for things that lift my spirits.

I’ve not only examined and decided to throw out items from my kitchen catch-all drawer, I’ve emptied the two drawers in my nightstand on the side of the bed where I don’t sleep. (This is supposed to attract new relationships.)

I’ve cleaned out my fridge. I’ve even taken time to delete old emails and a slew of folders from laptop directories. Inexpensively storing such files in the cloud only delays the sorting and purging process that, I believe, needs to be performed.

The other week, I thought about people who died in 2020 and the qualities they brought to life that I want to be part of mine as I move forward.

This week, my mind has been centered on my physical space and personal progress. What objects and beliefs do I want to take with me and what (after thanking them for their service) do I want to let go?

I shredded two large bags full of papers, things like business receipts from 2011 and a graphics enhanced print-out of “best practices” from the company that laid me off in March.

I threw out old birthday cards, after lingering over a few, thinking about the sender, and put animal toys that my dog, India, never took a liking to in a pile to give to a friend that fosters pups.

Not a hoarder of any sort, but not one to get a lot of pleasure from completing regular organization tasks, this kind of deep cleaning is almost a spiritual process, a “burning bowl” ritual without fire or requiring me to clean any silver.

In lots of different ways, I’ve asked myself what I want.  What do I want to make space for?

Although I believe that it’s much easier to get what you want when you know what you want, this week, I’ve found myself dwelling on feelings rather than visualizing objects. Because there are things I think I want but have never had, some things have been hard for me to picture.

I know what I want to feel, though, and I’ve expanded my conception of what I believe is POSSIBLE.

Just over a decade ago, I realized I had filled my back porch with fear. I was in a car accident in 2008 and accumulated devices to help me walk. I had two walkers (one collapsible and one rigid), a couple canes, and a shower chair. I kept these items, which took up quite a bit of space, in case I would again need help walking.

A friend reminded me that this was an unnecessary energy to surround myself with. If I needed these kinds of tools again, I could easily replace them. I didn’t need to think of hardship and calamity as likely. This made sense to me.

I ended up giving the shower chair to a friend and donated the other devices to a senior center.

In making space now, I am consciously deciding to let go of the assumption that “lack” is my natural state. I don’t need to keep every pair of earrings I’ve accumulated over the years or every idea that ever found its way to paper. There is a constant flow of new things to tap into.

Knowing how to direct my mind towards things already in my life that I am genuinely grateful for has changed me in a fundamental way.

Knowing that I can have what I need and can gratefully welcome surprising delights into my life to occupy the space I’ve just cleared, is no small thing.