Clearing Space for What Matters Most

Every spring, I get the urge to clean. Like to really clear out the clutter. I do it in the fall as well, but nothing beats opening the windows and letting the sun-warmed air in after a long and difficult winter. There’s something sacred about clearing out a space, especially one that’s been long overdue for attention.

This past week, I found myself knee-deep in the garage. Not in a metaphorical way (though the metaphors come easily), but in the very literal sense: lifting and moving dusty boxes, sweeping away cob webs, and wondering when exactly we acquired so much camping gear and a pile of old IKEA parts that didn’t seem to belong to any surviving furniture.

This was not just a spring cleaning job. It was the first step in preparing for a renovation that will completely transform our main floor, and with it, the way we live and gather. With the kitchen soon to be gutted, we’re setting up a temporary kitchen in the garage. It’s not glamorous. The floor is cold, but has received a new coat of paint. The walls are clean and painted, but they do not inspire creativity. The light is harsh. And yet, as we sweep out the corners and move in the shelving, something in me stirs. It’s not just dust we’re clearing. It’s something older, deeper. Something I hadn’t realized was weighing me down.

Clearing out the garage has felt strangely emotional. It’s a space that’s been used as a dumping ground for years – overflow from projects unfinished, dreams deferred, and “I’ll get to it someday” bins that held everything from paint cans to half-used craft supplies. It’s been a place for my kids to store bikes and balls and sleds and backpacks. We have created and built here. Making space for the temporary kitchen meant letting go of things we thought we might one day use, but probably never will. It also has meant letting go of things that used to be important, but letting them go is allowing room for different dreams to flourish.

There’s an invitation here, I think. Not just to make room for appliances and countertops, but to make room for life. For slow meals. For connection. For gathering.

Starting this renovation is a little daunting. There have been some delays, which is somewhat frustrating, but I know this is a normal part of the process. The excitement we felt as we were planning and approving layouts is giving way a little to anxiety over not being able to be in control of the process. But even while I have felt that stress, my wife has helped me to stay in check – reminding me to embrace this part of the process as an adventure. We don’t know what is going to happen, but that is part of the journey.

Letting go of the “stuff” in the garage is one way of feeling like I have some control. And it also gives us reason to lighten our load. We have worked side-by-side, letting go of accumulated clutter, refreshing the space and bringing in some new pieces to make our time out in the garage kitchen a little easier. It has been wonderful to work together to take care of this big job and to remember how far we have come in our lives as a couple and as a family.

I’m learning that the process of renovation doesn’t begin with the hammer swing. It starts in the clearing. In the choosing. In the slow and mindful work of asking: Do I still need this? Does this still serve the life I want to build?

And maybe that’s the first step in any transformation—making space for what matters most.

So, as I sit with my sore back and dusty clothes, with specks of paint on my glasses, there’s a strange sense of satisfaction. Not because the garage looks perfect (it doesn’t), but because something inside me has shifted.

This temporary kitchen will be a little chaotic. There will be a coffee maker on a workbench, toasters on folding tables, a barbecue used for cooking all sorts of things. There will be an oven where the kids’ bikes once lived and meal prep done with the garage door open, inviting neighbours to come and ask what we are doing. But there will also be laughter, the smell of garlic sizzling, and the slow return to a life built around the table—even if that table is currently wedged between the recycling bins and a stack of lumber.

And that, to me, feels like a beautiful beginning.