Whether litter lines our streets as though waiting for a parade or piles up in our brains like sawdust, there is nothing good to be said about it. I am so anti-litter I sometimes stoop to pick-up other people's trash, using only the tips of my fingers.  I even try to keep my mind unlittered—free from crumpled feelings and scraps of throw-away thoughts.

I do not feel this way about clutter. Clutter is necessary. It perks us up like a dose of iron in our blood or calcium in our bones. Without clutter, somewhere or another, our lives would be as boring as a comic strip with no pictures and as empty as the platter after the Spratts have licked it clean.

Neatniks need not panic; odds and ends do not have to be out and about where they show. I, for instance, am a closet clutterer—figuratively speaking. I keep my surroundings tidy enough that my most orderly guests feel at home, but my brain is a mess. The left side hasn't a clue what the right side is doing and I can feel my thoughts swirling around in there like leaves in a windstorm.

Some people are quite the opposite.  It seems as though everything inside their heads hangs in file folders, nicely labeled and not over-stuffed; it is their homes which are the mess. It's a challenge to open the door far enough to get a foot in, and when I do I have to stand—clutter has taken over the chairs.

My friend Julia is like this. Her house is clutter supported by plasterboard. By her admission, she will most likely fill the place up eventually, room by room. When one room becomes so full it bulges, she says she will chain saw it off before it explodes. And when the house is nothing but a foundation? Rebuild.

This comes from a woman who is as meticulous as a brain surgeon. She creates wedding gowns with hand sewn pearls and cut work. She knits patterns into sweaters with the precision of Seurat. She plays fastidious bridge and her checkbook is balanced to the penny, in ink. I can't imagine how so much perfection can rise from such chaos.

Julia's mind does not work at all like mine. I can almost hear her synapses snap like peanut brittle, while my thoughts stretch around my brain like taffy in the middle of a pull. Julia doesn't ask a question unless she wants information; when I ask, I am usually "just wondering."

Julia is a great teller of stories. She tells the same anecdotes over and over, word for word, and every repetition is a pleasure. My stories also have a point and my jokes, a punch line, but sometimes when I stop speaking it is even hard for me to realize I'm finished.

There was a time when I had to narrow all my clutter down to a minimum. When I was mothering four small sons I had to keep my mind in order as well as my house. I felt more like a robot than a real person, but I managed to sink to the occasion. One junk drawer was the only connection to clutter I permitted myself; I couldn't have survived without it. When something was missing just the thought that it probably was in the junk drawer was reassuring. An extra shoe lace just before the little league playoff. The Christmas tree disc from the cookie press. A cherished Matchbox tow truck. A pencil. A stamp. I put away most of my thoughts in the junk drawer, as well. But every now and then one would jump out and nip at me, as if to say a cluttered mind needs some space.

Neatniks take pleasure trying to teach folks like Julia to be more like them. It is as though they find such security in order that they want to organize every kitchen, garage, playroom and closet in America. In an essay on neatness, Lois King suggests leaving a box by the front door. She calls it "The Leaving Box." She also points out that all the paperwork we pile up has to be stored somewhere, and that this is called "Filing."

Another declutterer suggests you start on the must cluttered room in the house, take away a third of the stuff, and—if  you don't miss it—sell it. Not only will you make some extra money, she says, but your room will look nicer as well.¹  Of course, that's just a fiscally-correct version of what Julia plans to do with her chain saw.

If I were to write a book on neatness, I would treat clutter like chocolate: a little is a treat; too much is sickening. My home is in order but my head is not, and I like it this way. Julia's thinking is as orderly and sequential as a library, but her house is a mess, and it is clear to me she finds some inscrutable comfort in this. My book would teach balance: life is so complex we need to keep a few corners as spare and sanitized as a bed sheet in a hospital room, but this does not mean we should draw every move with a T-square.

Minimalists advocate avoiding clutter in the first place by having less stuff. Before you go shopping ask yourself, "Can I do without it?" If not, "Can I borrow it?'" They forget that in order to "borrow it" somebody has to buy it. I figure it might as well be me.

Before we teeter on the cusp of austerity, it might be prudent to compare the insights of psychologists to the words of the neatniks. I.Q. test-givers note that the most significant quality separating intelligent people from the rest of the pack is flexibility. Smart people have lots and lots of flexibility. Clutter, of course, is flexibility to the max as Julia and I, each in our own way, are aware.

Our world began with no clutter; astrophysicists claim there was no room for clutter. They say our whole universe was once so dense we could have packed it into a thimble. Think how tidy that would have been—but where would we be?

Which reminds me of Julia. For years I have noticed a shiny silver thimble in the corner of her bathroom, although her bathroom does not exactly have corners. Do you suppose all the stuff in her house could have come out of that thimble? I was just wondering.

1. Schenone, Janine.  "Don't Be Consumed By Your Possessions," Simplifying Your Financial Life, www.thirdage.com/news/archive/ALT04010530-01.html

Gloria MacKay lives on Camano Island, a spot in Puget Sound not far from Seattle. She digs clams, drops crab pots, garden, weaves, and almost every day--rain or shine--she writes. The focus of her writing is a weekly radio program where she is free to express whatever she feels. Gloria's work has appeared in The Seattle Times, The Philadelphia Inquirer, and various print and on-line magazines as well as in her book, The Bubbles Go Up.