Hi there:
I hope this message finds you and loved ones in sound physical and mental health. A special shout-out to readers trapped in lockdown in China, especially those in Jilin and Shanghai. Hang in there.
In this issue we cast the spotlight on the growing industry of professional organizing—as in Marie Kondo, not community activism.
We meet Mumian, a former business executive who first stumbled upon sorting as a way of salvaging her crumbling marriage and family life. She was so inspired by the experience she decided to go into organizing full-time, learning over time that the job was in fact equal parts psychotherapy and household management.
The source material is a podcast aired by Story FM on Feb. 11.
Take care and see you soon.
—ML
The Sorter-Healer: Reflections of a Professional Organizer
Narrator: Mumian
Transcribed by Wang Jieyi
1.
My name is Mumian, I'm 39 years old and I live in Xiamen. I am a professional organizer.
Since 2016, I have served more than 150 families, logging more than 5,000 hours in the process.
Before becoming a professional organizer, I worked in the real-estate industry for 13 years, rising from low-level employee to senior management.
The pace of work in property development is extremely intense. Back then my job was all-consuming. I had no life.
When I was pregnant, I was still in command on the scene of a project a week before delivery. I only stopped when the baby was imminent.
I returned to work immediately after maternity leave. My in-laws raised my child.
In those days, I left our apartment before the baby woke up and everyone else would be asleep by the time I got back. I rarely ate with my family.
But it was precisely my devotion to work that led to increasing tensions with my family, especially my husband. He felt that I didn't contribute to family life.
We had many nasty arguments, but at the end of each dispute I went back to my usual routine. And thus we got through our days.
Eventually, my husband suggested divorce. He said he couldn't cope any more.
He said he was fed up, that "it feels like our child doesn't have a mom and I don't have a wife. Our home is a motel to you. You drop by to sleep and disappear the next day."
The development dealt me a huge blow. I was used to having my way at work and in life in general. It baffled me why I was threatened with divorce when I worked day and night to improve our family's quality of life.
When I calmed down, the magnitude of the problem dawned on me. The demands of work left me little energy and time to attend to my family. So I resigned and became a stay-at-home mom.
The apartment we owned was an old flat located in a good school district. The interior design was a bit rundown.
One night I woke up to the sensation of something falling onto me. Initially I thought it was a rat. When I turned on the lights I saw it was a piece of ceiling.
I thought to myself: "My lord! What happened to our apartment? How did it deteriorate to a point where pieces of the ceiling can fall off? Why am I living in a home in this condition?" It struck me then that my life was such a mess and so grotesque.
I broke into tears. All my recent grievances, the toll the arguments with my husband had taken—everything came to a head.
After the breakdown, I realized I couldn't live life the same way anymore. I had to change.
Change started with turning our home upside down.
Our living room was taken up by a three-piece set of sofa, tea table and TV set. The sofa was made of rosewood, which was common in Fujian province back in the day.
The most common sight I came home to was my mother-in-law tending to her grandchild while watching TV and my husband sitting on the sofa fixated on his phone. There was no communication.
I assembled all the junk and old furniture we had accumulated over the years, tossed out the crap and bought new furniture. I got rid of some 2,000 or 3,000 items. The whole family helped repaint all the walls and ceiling.
I put a huge table in the living room and surrounded it with chairs. That way our family could sit together. Bookshelves lined the walls.
Nowadays I return to the scene of everyone either reading at the table or playing chess or games or making handicrafts with our child. We eat together regularly, even making dumplings together on occasion.
When my husband witnessed the things I did at home during that period, his attitude began to shift. He thought I was a different person.
He was willing to help out with the sorting process, sometimes even cooking meals for me. He also stopped making derogatory comments about me in front if our child.
2.
I never imagined that a single cleanup operation would bring about such a deep-seated change in family dynamics. I myself felt a huge weight lifted from my shoulders. During that period, I tried to appreciate the small moments of joy in family life again and reconnect with my family.
During the same period I also read Goodbye, Things: The New Japanese Minimalism. I couldn't agree more with author Fumio Sasaki's philosphy. I also learned about the occupation of professional organizer.
That struck me as the perfect job for me at the time.
Because I was a beneficiary. The fact that I gained from sorting and letting go of unnecessary things and improved family relations made me believe that others could too.
After deciding to become a professional organizer, I set up WeChat groups with other organizers and learned from senior practitioners, mastering the basic theories and methods of the profession.
In 2016, I started working on a pro bono basis, setting foot for the first time in the homes of strangers with the aim of helping them resolve the chaos in their lives.
My clients were primarily women—mostly medium- and high-income individuals in their 20s to 40s.
These were people who weren't satisfied with material possessions and instead yearned for a better quality of life and a comfortable state of mind.
3.
This particular female client was a referral from a previous client.
After we added each other on WeChat, the first message she sent was: "Teacher Mumian, save me! My home looks like a tornado blew by!"
I thought she might be prone to hyperbole. Could it be that bad?
The client lived in Fuzhou, not Xiamen, so I asked her to send me pictures first.
Indeed, the apartment was quite a mess.
Her flat was rather large, about 160 square meters. There were four rooms, two of which were dedicated to storage. One was literally filled with clothes bunched in piles that reached the ceiling. The other housed random items including health supplements, oil and rice.
I asked the client who the clothes belonged to. She said mostly her mother-in-law.
"She loves to shop. She buys something almost everyday," the client said.
That sounded like hoarding.
The odd thing was while the rooms were stuffed, the living room was quite empty. The only item was a big sofa. That didn't make sense to me.
The client had two kids, but there was no sign of toys in the living room. A garbage bin sat on the tea table. It was a very strange scene.
After getting the basic lodown from the client on a video call, I made the trip to Fuzhou. I felt a site visit was in order.
They were a family of five who slept in two bedrooms. The client and her husband lived in one room with their son, who was barely 2. Their daughter, who was in first grade, lived in the other room with her paternal grandmother.
The client worked at a hospital. She and her husband both had busy jobs and rarely got time off. Grandma took care of the two children and did the housework.
Grandma happened to be home the day I visited, so I chatted her up.
I asked her where the family spent the most time.
"In our own rooms. The kids don't play in the living room," she said.
"Why not? The living room is quite big and the other rooms are so cramped."
"The lights in the living room don't work."
"So you come home to darkness?"
"Yes. My son and daughter-in-law are very busy. They get home quite late and head straight to their room. I also keep an eye on the kids in my bedroom. There's no need to spend time in the living room."
"How long have the lights been out for?"
"Five or six years."
Meaning their living room had been pitch dark come nightfall for the past five or six years.
My prelimenary diagnosis at the time was the family lacked communication. Very rarely did everyone come together as a unit.
4.
I asked Grandma if I could check out their dining room and kitchen. She said she was in the middle of preparing a meal and felt embarrassed by the clutter on the kitchen counter.
"Auntie, what type of mood do you typically find yourself in when you're cooking in the kitchen?" I asked.
The question threw her off. Tears came streaming down her face.
"What kind of mood do you think I'm in?" Grandma responded in a trembling voice. Pandora's Box had been opened, and a torrent of words poured out.
"You have no idea how busy I am these days. I don't have time to ponder my mood. I want to keep this home in proper order too. But look how crammed my schedule is—I get up in the morning to make breakfast in the morning, then take my granddaughter to school, my grandson in tow. Then I bring my grandson back and start getting ready for dinner. When I cook I have to keep tight watch on my grandson. He's only just over 1 year old and loves to run all over the place. I'm terrified he'll bump into something and hurt himself. My son and daughter-in-law don't do anything. They're busy with work round-the-clock. I know they don't have it easy either. I've met with a clinical psychologist before, but all I do is cry non-stop. It doesn't solve the problem. You asked me what the source of my misery is—I can't pinpoint either."
She went on and on, tracing almost her entire life history.
She said her parents died when she was a child and that she was raised by her elder brother and sister. After trudging into adulthood and getting married, her husband decided to take his chances in the U.S. He barely made it back to China once a year.
She raised her two sons single-handedly. When they came of age, they started to find her constant nagging annoying.
She felt that she was never in control of her life.
That was the only time I cried on the job with a client.
After listening to her spiel, it was instantly clear to me why Grandma was constantly buying things.
She never experienced parental love and she lacked affection from her husband after getting married. She had been heavily deprived. The only satisfaction she derived came from shopping. That was the one area where she could decide for herself.
That was the fundamental reason why their apartment was a mess.
5.
Then we started brainstorming on how to reorder the apartment and came up with a plan. The key priority was to help the entire family reconnect with each other.
The Chinese are known to be reserved. It was a big ask to restore intimacy after an extended period of estrangement.
I could detect how helpless our client felt. She struggled to implement change, which is why she turned to outside help.
We were that external force.
It was our job to fashion an environment that facilitated intra-family communication. The living room was the conduit.
That's why we got rid of the old sofa and TV set, replacing them with a huge table in the center and surrrounding it with chairs and benches.
"From now on, spend all your time in the living room. If you need to work, please work in the living room. When you eat, please eat in the living room. Kids: When you play with your toys, do so in the living room," I told the family.
Our reorganization plan meant Grandma and her granddaughter got their own rooms.
The storage room that housed Grandma's clothing purchases became her bedroom instead.
The client's daughter got the room next to her parents'. That way she wouldn't be completely disconnected from mom and dad. She needed attention, too.
I took the time to have a proper chat with the whole family before starting the sorting process in earnest. I needed to make sure they would go along when the time came to choose between their personal belongings. Our level of execution depended on their mindset.
After a thorough dialogue and advance work that lasted about a month, after the new furniture arrived, we were finally set to go.
The size of the apartment, the hoarding tendencies and the fact the client was located in a different city—this case posed a major challenge for my team and I on all fronts.
I assembled a team of 10 organizers for the job. It took us two full days—from 9 a.m. to about 10 p.m. each day—to complete this gigantic sorting operation. The client's entire family took part every step of the way.
There's a method to sorting. Regardless of what items are involved, I always follow these five steps.
The first step is emptying, i.e. removing all items from their storage spots and gathering them into a single cluster.
The client has to handle his or her belongings in person and maintain a tally. He or she has to witness the poor shape of his or her objects because of lack of use. Only by bearing witness is the client sufficiently shocked to want change.
The second step is sorting by category and the third selection, also known as the "letting go" process we often hear about, leaving behind the objects we genuinely need.
The fourth step is firming up the reallocation of space. And finally the fifth, stowing away items.
We prepped the family quite thoroughly at the outset, so the "letting go" process went relatively smoothly.
With the sorting completed, it was time to leave the apartment. Before I left, I walked the family through the new setup again, reminding them where each item was now placed and how they were labeled.
Before my team and I left, everyone congregated in the living room.
Grandma told me that prior to our visit, no one had ever asked about her mood. Then I showed up and reduced her to tears for an entire day, allowing her to vent all her ups and downs.
Even her son and daughter-in-law had never heard her confide so much.
Her son expressed his affection with a hug. It seems that all men operate that way—the more emotional the moment, the more reticent they become.
But it was clear to me that the couple and Grandma reached a new level of understanding about each other.
There used to be a large, withering potted plant on the balcony. I moved it to the living room.
I told the family the plant was a symbol for their home. It needed nurturing from everyone—not just Grandma or another lone person.
I monitored my client's status updates on WeChat for some time after the job had concluded. She posted videos quite regularly. One documented the entire family celebrating one of the kids' birthdays in the living room and singing Happy Birthday together. That brought tears to my eyes. I was deeply moved.
I was supposed to pay the family a follow-up visit on a second business trip to Fuzhou, but they happened to be out. Still, the daughter-in-law sent me a message saying: "Rest assured, Mumian. We are doing great. Our family is indebted to you forever."
Among all the feedback I have received from clients, this comment hit home the most.
6.
Most of my cases involve dealing with personal items that my clients use in daily life. As long as I can help the client identify his or her core demands and sorting principles, most of them can handle the selection and "letting go" process on their own. It's not a particularly challenging routine.
There are also jobs that fall into a special category—sorting the personal items of the deceased.
Such assignments are rare in the industry, accounting for less than 10 percent of our business. That's because professional organizing is a relatively new sector in China and sorting the belongings of the deceased is a niche specialty within the industry.
Another main reason is that death remains a taboo subject for the Chinese. Matters of life and death aren't casually delegated to outsiders.
Different parts of the country also have different approaches to dealing with the personal affects of someone who has passed. In many places, the custom is to simply burn them. Locals believe that the objects are tainted and that it's bad luck to handle them.
As a young child, my parents never educated me on how to respond to death. Like most Chinese, they considered the topic taboo.
I still remember what happened after my maternal grandfather died. People from his generation loved collecting all sorts of bottles and cans. These were considered precious items.
But when Grandpa passed, my uncle ordered a truck and had Grandpa's bottle and can collection towed to a trash depot and burned. My uncle even made derogatory comments as he was loading the truck, saying. “Look at all the junk he left behind.”
I felt sad at the time, but I didn't know why. Now I do.
We didn't keep a single one of Grandpa's belongings—and thus we don't have anything to remember him by when we miss him.
I've come to realize that there's a different approach to handling the personal items of the deceased. We can also choose to keep things that we want to preserve as part of our memory.
Typically there are two types of clients who ask for help in sorting the posessions of relatives who have passed. Most of these clients are young men and women.
The first category is people who are keen to tackle the task but aren't up to it by themselves and need outside help. These clients have better self-awareness.
The other type is more passive. In these cases, the items of the deceased has a big impact on the lives of the living. For example, the personal belongings may take up a room that the client wants to use. The client has no choice but to confront the issue.
A Juan fell into the first category.
7.
Among all my clients who lost loved ones, A Juan is the one that left the deepest impression on me. He has always taken a personal interest in our line of work. We met by chance in 2019 and added each other on WeChat but never followed up.
About a year later, I got a message from him out of the blue, saying: "Mumian, I need you for a job."
I asked about the nature of the job.
"My wife just passed away," he responded.
I was shocked. That wasn't the answer I expected. A Juan was a young man, probably about my age. He has children who were six months and 4 or 5 at the time.
We agreed to meet at a coffee shop near his home. That was the first time I saw a man break down in tears like that. At that point it had been just over three months after his wife died.
She died of cancer. The doctor had given her another year or so to live, but she ended up passing away just over two months after the diagnosis. The timing took the entire family by surprise.
After A Juan's wife died, his family wanted to burn her belongings in line with local custom in Fujian.
That spraked an argument between A Juan and his parents.
A Juan thought his wife's death was so sudden it caught him off guard. Once her personal items were destroyed, that meant severing the link between husband and wife and more importantly, between Mom and her children.
I stopped by A Juan's apartment after the meeting to get a sense of what his wife had left behind. Then we set an appointment for a formal sorting session.
The decision to not only keep A Juan's late wife's things but also organize them infuriated his parents.
A Juan was in no shape to argue with his parents, nor did he want to antagonize them. So he secretly moved his wife's belongings to another smaller flat he owned, then lied to his parents that he had changed his mind.
Another year went by. A Juan got in touch with me again last July.
I had previously suggested that he slowly sort through his wife's things himself, considering that my team and I couldn't visit his home without alerting his in laws.
A Juan said he tried but couldn't do it. He was constantly trapped in memory lane. He needed my help.
His in laws happened to be on a trip to their hometown at the time, their two grandchildren in tow. That meant A Juan could work alone, uninterrupted.
A Juan still found himself easily succumbing to memories of his wife during the sorting process.
When he saw a green cotton dress with thin shoulder straps, he broke into both a smile and tears. He said that was Miya's favorite dress and proceeded to search his phone for a picture of Miya in the dress.
There was also the pair of khaki worker's overalls. That prompted another photo search. "Look, that's what she wore when she was pregnant with our older child Mijuan. I took the picture by the beach," A Juan said as he showed me the picture.
A Juan said he lacked the criteria to decide which of Miya's things to keep before we began sorting. So I peppered him with questions to evoke his feelings about Miya's clothes.
The whole point of keeping Miya's things was to preserve a connection between A Juan and her, and also establish a "Mom's Museum" of sorts for their children, so that A Juan could tell Miya's story. He even wanted to put together a photo album of the items for the kids, as a way of celebrating Miya's life.
A Juan ended up keeping pieces of clothing that prompted memories and discarding those that didn't and items that Miya barely wore.
We ended up choosing just over 90 pieces of clothing. Adding shoes, the final tally came to 111 items. We placed them in two storage boxes.
My team and I wanted to stow the boxes in a dedicated storage place near the entrance to the apartment, but A Juan decided to keep them in his wardrobe, above the clothes rack.
I could sense that he wanted to keep Miya nearby. He said the proximity of the boxes would remind him to remove the clothes from time to time for exposure to sunshine and maintenance.
For about a week after completing the job and leaving A Juan's home, I found myself trapped in grief.
A Juan now leads a peaceful life taking care of his two children, doubling as both mother and father.
"Have you detected a change in mentality after sorting through Miya's things?" I asked A Juan.
"It feels like I reacquainted myself with Miya and then bid her a proper farewell," he said.