Like a geological formation, there are layers and layers of sentimental strata among my clutter

The leaves are magenta and gold, and the last extra kugel or pan of stuffed cabbage I forgot to serve on Simchas Torah and stuffed into the freezer has been consumed. Now lying in wait for me is that overwhelming “To Do After Yom Tov” list, or what the non-Jewish world calls “winter activities.”

I think I’ll bypass the ever-present “lose ten pounds, join a local exercise class, walk 10,000 steps a day,” and other ubiquitous annual goals.

Of course, I won’t ignore the spiritual growth items: Listen to a Shabbos halachah shiur online, review the weekly parshah, and maybe consider davening Maariv?

Moving on to the less esoteric items, I must change the summer clothes in the closet for winter clothes, get quotes to repaint the living room, and price new mattresses with pillow tops.

And of course, I must declutter. What’s with this continuous need to discard unused, dented, scratched, and possibly toxic pots and pans, and small appliances and gadgets like my make-your-own-yogurt machine or my super multi blade food chopper so simple to use that salads make themselves?

I have boxes and boxes of papers, pictures, art projects, report cards, scrapbooks, decorated jewelry boxes, Yom Tov projects — the time capsules of years gone by — to deal with. I always planned to implement an idea I read in a magazine and designate a box for each child’s mementos. Still, somehow the wooden jewelry box from my daughter’s first class trip to our national capital never really moved off my dresser. It sits next to the olive wood jewelry box my mother had on her dresser, made by the prisoners in Michigan’s Jackson State Penitentiary and gifted to her by my father, who was the first Jewish chaplain there. Needless to say, those items aren’t going anywhere.

Like a geological formation, there are layers and layers of sentimental strata among my clutter.