My friend and I were discussing The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up and Marie Kondo and our mutual dislike of it. Although Marie Kondo as a person seems lovely, and I respect her entrepreneurial prowess, I disagree with her philosophy as a whole. My friend and I were able to come up with logical reasons for our dislike, the inherent classism of the concept of minimalism, the way that tidying up, particularly in the Netflix series, seems like a band-aid delicately placed over the bullet-hole wound of much deeper emotional issues.
While these are valid concerns, at least for me, I think what it really comes down to is that Marie Kondo's advice clashes with my lifestyle. Contrary to what the photos of my bedroom look like, I don't mean that I am an incredibly messy hoarder, or that I'm simple close-minded and unwilling to change my ways and throw out that moth-eaten sweater that I haven't worn in years.
What I mean is that I understand the world-- and myself --through preservation. Not everything I keep sparks joy, but it is representative of a certain aspect of myself, a time in my life, or a person, and having a physical reminder of that is beneficial to me.
That's not to say that my entire identity is hinged on the material objects that I own. But I like the sort of involuntary memory that occurs when I rummage through my room, even though it might be unpleasant sometimes. In many ways, it's my job, as a writer/journalist/curator to document, save, and catalog everything, and the way I live my life reflects that.
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