🧹 Clearing the Attic: A Lesson in Mental Clutter
I didn’t plan on stopping.
Driving back from a weekend retreat, my head was spinning with thoughts—half-formed ideas, task lists, unresolved conversations—when a small, wooden sign caught my eye:
“Antiques & Curiosities — Open Today Only.”
I had no reason to stop. And yet, I pulled over.
The shop was the kind of place time had forgotten; stacks of books, faded furniture, dusty mirrors. The air smelled like cedar and stories. There was no one at the counter—just the creak of old floorboards and the hum of stillness.
“Looking for something?” a voice asked from behind a shelf.
An older man emerged. Gray beard. Calm eyes. A worn sweater. He didn’t look like a salesman. More like a man who had seen things and didn’t feel the need to prove it.
“Not really,” I replied. And yet, I was.
He motioned toward the back room. “That’s where the real stuff is.”
Out of habit or curiosity, I followed.
The room was almost empty. A wooden stool. A large mirror, leaning against the wall. A box of chalk. And a single rag.
“Start by cleaning the mirror,” he said.
I looked at him. Was this a joke?
He didn’t flinch. So I wiped it down. Slowly, my reflection emerged—tired eyes, tense shoulders, the faint look of someone carrying too much.
“Funny thing about mirrors,” he said. “They won’t show you anything worth seeing until you clear away what’s blocking the view.”
We sat in silence for a while. Then, without meaning to, I started talking. About the stress. The overthinking. The constant pressure to stay ahead. I told him how I couldn’t remember the last time I felt actually present.
He nodded gently, like he’d heard this story a thousand times.
Then he pointed to a cardboard box in the corner.
Inside: a broken watch, an old photograph, a ring of keys to doors that likely didn’t exist anymore.
“My brother’s things,” he said. “He kept everything. Couldn’t let go. Thought it might all matter someday. But the more he kept, the harder it was to find what actually did.”
He looked at me. “Our minds are like that attic. Filled with stuff we no longer need. Thoughts we didn’t ask for. Stories that never belonged to us.”
I didn’t know what to say. But I knew he was right.
Then he asked:
“What would you get rid of if you truly believed you didn’t need it anymore?”
I thought for a while. Then knelt down and picked up a piece of chalk. On the dusty floor, I wrote:
– The need to be constantly productive
– Worrying what others think
– The story that I’m never doing enough
He smiled. “That’s a good start.”
I asked him what this place was.
He shrugged. “I open it when people need it. Sometimes the world needs a little less adding… and a little more clearing.”
I walked out without buying a thing. And yet I felt lighter. The drive home was quiet. No music. No calls. Just silence.
And in that space… something shifted.
A Few Questions to Sit With
What belief or thought have you outgrown—but still carry?
What clutter, physical or mental, are you ready to release?
Where could you carve out ten quiet minutes in your day?
We often think transformation comes from adding more. But sometimes, real change begins by letting go.
Thanks for reading.
Sridhar