Lifestyle
Downsizing, decluttering, Swedish death cleaning — why we're obsessed with clearing out our stuff
When I asked my mother what she might like for her birthday this year, she quickly texted back: Nothing. We are downsizing.
My parents already live in a small house — a former fishing cabin on the edge of a lake. Our family moved a few times when my brothers and I were growing up, our childhood belongings pared down at each step. My parents relocated after we graduated from college, stripping their belongings down further and shipping what furniture was left to each of us kids. I got the Sellers Hoosier, a wooden hutch with a built-in tin flour bin and a metal bread kneading shelf, now more than 100 years old, that my great-grandmother used to bake on.
I wondered what was left for them to downsize. And then it hit me: Were they doing the Swedish death clean? “Döstädning: The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning” is the bestselling book that sparked a TV show and popularized a decluttering technique that has people clean up their belongings before they die, so their friends and family won’t have to. My mother will be 80 this year, my father 82 — was there something they weren’t telling me?
It turned out that my parents hadn’t seen the show or read the book. The real problem was that they had just inherited a bunch of “stuff” from my aunt, who has dementia and was moving into assisted living. My mom told me about all the things my aunt had treasured and saved that now sat in cardboard boxes: plates and linen dish towels commemorating the British Royals; Hummel figurines (and some fakes); newspaper clippings. There were also letters, photos, notes and journals. Birthday cards. Those personal items we save, private and special only to us. Our “stuff.” My aunt had never intended for anyone else to see it or have to deal with it.
My mother didn’t think it was appropriate to throw any of it away, not while my aunt was still alive. “She asked that some of the Princess Diana things be sent to you,” Mom confessed. “But,” she whispered, “I don’t think you’d want it.” She’s right, I don’t, but the larger question is: Who does?
The idea of döstädning (and the fact that my aunt clearly didn’t get around to it) made me think about all the stuff I’ve collected over the years. When I moved from New York to Los Angeles more than 20 years ago, I couldn’t afford to ship most of my books, so I sent only the most precious, signed editions I had. I also sent the journals I’d written in for years, stuffed with the small details of my life in New York City. What I wore on a first date. A promotion. An unrequited crush. I was moving to Los Angeles for love, but I couldn’t part with these chronicles of all my previous relationships.
Now those journals live in the garage of my family’s Los Feliz house. I know exactly which plastic bin they’re in, even though I haven’t read them since I left New York. If I were to die tomorrow, how would I feel about someone else reading them — my parents, my son, my husband? And if I don’t want anyone reading them after I’m gone, why have I kept them?
This led me to ask my friends and family: Is there anything that you would want automatically destroyed after your death, before your loved ones found it? Most of the answers revolved around sex: naked photos, sex toys, pornography, dirty notes and sexts. Other answers were more comical: A pot stash they didn’t want kids to find; specifically, weed butter in the freezer. The secret family in New Jersey (I think he was joking).
Some people revealed that they had pacts with a friend or relative to destroy certain items after their death. I loved the idea of a trusted friend tossing all my buried secrets, until I remembered what happened to Franz Kafka. His friend and literary executor, Max Brod, had been entrusted to burn all of Kafka’s letters and manuscripts after his death — a wish Kafka put in writing, even though Brod told him he wouldn’t do it. Indeed, Brod published the material, and we would not have “The Trial,” “The Castle” or other great works had he followed Kafka’s instructions.
Did Brod have the right to overrule his friend? Perhaps it’s better to ask if Kafka had the right to ask that the manuscripts be destroyed. As an artist, do you owe the world your work, even after death?
My friend Cecil, a novelist, says: “As artists, it’s our gig to keep the embarrassing things that inspire us around. We are complex, and hopefully everyone gets that.” She says her journals would make a “boring read” — but if she asked me to destroy all her works after her death and I found some beautiful piece of writing among them, I would be torn about how to proceed.
Even though I’ve published a memoir and works of fiction that allow readers a glimpse into my life, I still have parts of myself that I don’t want anyone to see. In this age of over-sharing, talking about what I would want wiped out after my death has given me a better understanding of döstädning and its appeal. It’s less about saving our families from having to do the cleaning-up work, and more about applying some small measure of control over how we are remembered by those we loved. Perhaps it’s also a nudge to live a life worthy of remembering — sex toys and all — while we still can.
Cylin Busby is an author and screenwriter. Her latest book is “The Bookstore Cat.”
For half a century, Deidre Hall has taken on every kind of disaster in the drama-packed town of Salem, Ill., as a star of “Days of Our Lives.”
There was the time — actually, it happened twice — when her character, Dr. Marlena Evans, was famously possessed by the devil and even levitated.
In Sunday Funday, L.A. people give us a play-by-play of their ideal Sunday around town. Find ideas and inspiration on where to go, what to eat and how to enjoy life on the weekends.
Or the time a serial killer, who was actually Marlena under hypnosis, seemed to kill several beloved characters. The long-running show’s storylines have become legendary, and in March, while promoting “Hail Mary,” actor Ryan Gosling even gave Hall a shout-out, admitting he was a fan, praising the hard work of soap opera actors and calling her an “OG acting inspiration.”
But Hall’s real life in Santa Monica is much quieter than her character’s, and she likes it that way.
“When I bought my house in Santa Monica, I didn’t realize how great it would be to live near Montana Avenue,” says Hall, 78, about the popular shopping spot. Every day, she walks to the main street with her golden retriever, Riley, and enjoys Pilates, art and good food along the way. “The owners of the Farms Market even keep dog biscuits, so guess where the dog wants to go every time we walk — the Farms, of course,” she says, laughing.
When she isn’t filming the daily soap opera, which airs on Peacock, Hall enjoys raising monarch butterflies, exploring the shops and restaurants on Montana, and hosting movie nights at home with her two sons.
Here’s what a perfect day in L.A. looks like for her.
This interview has been lightly edited and condensed for length and clarity.
7 a.m.: Breakfast and dog walk
I usually kick off my day with a protein shake, feed our golden retriever and take her out for a walk. She’s a phenomenal girl. When we adopted her, her name was Riley, but I did think about naming her after Mrs. Hughes from “Downton Abbey.”
10 a.m.: Church and garden time
After I walk the dog and go to church, I like to spend some time in my yard. I’m not a natural gardener, but I really enjoy it. I started raising monarch butterflies because my identical twin sister, who played my twin on the show, planted a butterfly garden. Monarchs are amazing because they are transitional. Every year, they travel from Mexico to southern New England, but it’s getting harder for them. Their numbers have dropped by about 80%. To help, I plant milkweed, which is what they need to survive. I buy my milkweed from the Staghorn Garden on Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica. Julie, who owns the nursery, is delightful and has a wide variety of milkweed. The monarchs always seem to find my garden. Julie was raising some caterpillars too, and she cared a lot about them. We talked about how important it is to help the butterflies. That’s why I do this. Sometimes I get milkweed with eggs already on it, and Julie knows her butterflies are going to a good home.
1 p.m.: Walk to Montana Avenue for some lunch
I live near Montana and love taking long walks, going to Pilates and trying out the great restaurants nearby, like R+D Kitchen and La La Land. I’m a big fan of the waffles at the Courtyard Kitchen. Just a few days ago, I had a chicken salad on raisin bread with an Arnold Palmer, and it was delicious. It is right on Montana and has a nice outdoor seating area. It’s one of my favorite spots. La La Land always has a long line in the morning, which is perfect if you want coffee. They serve coffee, doughnuts, croissants and avocado toast. There’s plenty of outdoor seating, and you can even bring your dog.
2 p.m.: Peek inside a clock shop
There’s a small clock shop on Montana Avenue that’s closed on Sundays, but if you walk by, you’ll see all kinds of clocks — standing, table and wall clocks. The owner is great at fixing them. Once, I bought a wall clock from MacKenzie-Childs, but it didn’t work. And I was really upset because it matched everything else on my countertop. I brought it to the owner and said, “I love this, but I can’t make it work.” He fixed it right away. His name is John, but I call him Geppetto. And we all know why. He really does have a magic touch.
2:30 p.m.: Visit a neighborhood art gallery
Ten Women Gallery is run by 10 artists, all of whom show their work there. I was drawn to some watercolors there, bought a few cards and spoke with one of the artists. She told me, “You seem to love watercolors,” and mentioned that the artist who painted them, Pamela Harnois, lives in Los Angeles and teaches nearby. I got Pamela’s name and found out she taught at the Brentwood Art School. I was so inspired by her gift that I started taking private lessons with her on Saturdays. That gallery is where I discovered my love for watercolor painting.
3 p.m.: Grab some ice cream at Rori’s
The other day, my longtime girlfriend wanted to get ice cream and told me, “We are walking to Rori’s Artisanal Creamery.” It’s a small shop on Montana near Lincoln. They make everything themselves, using local ingredients from grass-fed cows with no added hormones. The place is family-owned and probably has the healthiest ice cream you’ll find. They switch up their flavors often, but my favorite is the salted caramel.
6 p.m.: Family dinner and movie night at home
R+D Kitchen is always packed, so my sons, who are 31 and 33, do the cooking. They come over, and together we make salads and cook dinner. There’s a neighborhood grocery store called the Farms, off Montana, a small family-run place that has everything we need. Everyone knows each other there, and people bring their dogs. We try to have movie night every Sunday. Sometimes the day changes, but we always make sure to have one night a week where we cook a meal and sit down as a family. Keeping that tradition has become really important to us. My sons are great cooks, which is funny because they definitely didn’t get that from me. [Laughs]
9 p.m.: Take Riley for one last walk and visit neighbors
After dinner, I take my dog for a walk. It’s a great way to meet neighbors. We always go around the same block. We’ve met so many people, and since she’s a golden retriever, she loves meeting everyone.
10 p.m.: News, knitting and bedtime
I am a news junkie, so I usually watch whatever is on the news before I go to bed. I have a long-standing passion for knitting. Lately, though, the news would make me drop a stitch.
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