If I put all of my clutter into one basket, will that help clear my anxious mind?
In her first column, Amna Saleem writes about a small solution to life’s problems: a basket in which she’d optimistically dump all of her hope and good intentions
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It wasn’t always a basket of shame. In fact, my basket was once the very thing I believed was going to finally fix my life. A lot to expect from a big brown rope basket, but I was convinced it was the key to solving my ongoing domestic debacle, thus, all of my problems.
Working solely from my dining room table meant I was constantly leaving notepads, highlighters and newspapers strewn around the house. Instead, I put them in the basket so I could focus on prepping dinner. The doll shoes and Lego pieces left over from babysitting my adorable niece? Basket. Possibly important receipts found in pockets? Basket. The cute bag that needs its buckle replaced? Basket. Gifts and trinkets from well-meaning relatives that I’m sadly allergic to? Basket.
By better managing my day-to-day life — and directing these random objects into one space — I giddily imagined unlocking a secret surplus of time as a reward. There’d be extra minutes and mental stamina towards looming deadlines, mounting bills and the strange skittering noise in the attic I’m hoping is merely a ghost. (I’d rather be haunted than deal with another damn squirrel.)
I’m not by nature a neat or tidy person. Even after cleaning, everything in my house still looks slightly askew. I simply don’t have the hand or patience required to produce that house-proud veneer where the pillows are perfectly fluffed and acutely angled. My fantastic younger sister, on the other hand, can tidy a room in a flash. I didn’t get that gene, or her glossy hair. But over time, I’ve learned how to minimise the maelstrom I leave in my wake by creating routines and systems for almost everything.
The basket of shame (BoS) was one of those systems. During busy periods, keeping certain spaces tidy was never going to happen. As things piled up during a hectic week, the mess would gnaw at me. The sheer unsightliness of it filled me with dread, yet the thought of tidying up felt overwhelming — there was always something more important to do. After another night of self-flagellation, I came up with a solution that led to me bringing home the basket into which I optimistically dumped all of my hope and good intentions. This was it. I was finally going to be one of those women who had her life together.
From then on, whenever things got out of hand, the basket would hold everything I didn’t have time to sort properly, from tweezers to wrapping paper — a small act of grace offering leniency instead of endless chastisement. I’d drape a velvet green throw over the bulging top, gifting myself the illusion of a tidy room. On Sunday evenings, I’d put all deferred items back where they belonged and deal with those that required further attention, like a beloved cardigan missing a button, leaving the basket empty and ready for the week ahead. It became a nice wee ritual.
For seven glorious months, the system worked. But then, one Sunday, the basket wasn’t emptied owing to a flurry of unexpected commitments. After a few more knocks to my routine, it stopped altogether. The guilt of falling behind as high as the now teetering basket, abandoned in the corner.
Soon, the BoS became a pit of procrastination, a black hole for clutter, where things disappeared like socks in a dryer. This led to a dangerous game of “can’t see it, so I guess I don’t have it”, resulting in unnecessary purchases of books and batteries, which then all added to the mess. My room lingered in a state of organised chaos reflecting my increasingly anxious state, while the rest of the house remained tidy, presenting the version of me I needed the world to see: normal, organised, responsible, capable. As much as I tried to ignore the bloated monster I’d created, I was just further feeding my discomfort. My life wasn’t fixed at all.
So when my sister dropped by unannounced, asking to borrow curl cream 90 seconds before an important work call, I panicked. I had zero desire to explain the basket to anyone. Instead, I burst through my bedroom door as if in a Vin Diesel film, rummaging furiously, sweating and flustered. Running out of time, I flipped the basket upside down, spilling a kaleidoscope of clothes, books, scrunchies, tweezers, stationery and hair products across the floor.
Curl cream located, I crammed the clutter back inside, raced downstairs, hurled the bottle at my slightly baffled sister and sat down in front of my computer just in time to click-open Zoom. I was a little shiny and overheated, but bang on time. And most importantly, my basket of shame remained undiscovered.
As I finally cleared out my enemy that night, returning wayward items to new, neater homes like a reverse scavenger hunt, I realised I’d unwittingly created a mythos around the BoS. I’d subconsciously willed it to imbue me with a brand new personality. But really, a little contained clutter never hurt anyone.
Although it’s an imperfect solution, the basket had absorbed the weight of my mess, and there were moments when it had helped and lightened the load on my mind. So perhaps it was a success after all. These organisational hiccups are both normal and inevitable. Some weeks I’m on top of everything, and others… not so much. The key — fairly obvious but often difficult to enact — is how to get back on track. Feeling vindicated, I set off to buy a second basket. Because two baskets will fix everything, right?
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