Kitty Kondo

Blog

  • Seasonal Reset: Autumn Is The Shedding Of Objects

    The trees let go of their leaves. The cat lets go of her fur. The Releaser lets go of everything else. Autumn is the most natural time to simplify, for the world itself shows us the way.

    We offer a Seasonal Reset package, running from September through November, in which a Releaser visits weekly and removes one category of clutter. Week one: the mantel. Week two: the coffee table. Week three: the remote controls, which cannot be found anyway. Week four: whatever has appeared since week one.

    The package costs $180 for the season and includes tea, a small sweeping, and a certificate of lightness suitable for framing, on a wall, from which it may fall.

  • Refund Policy: Everything Returns To The Floor

    Our refund policy is simple, though it tends to confuse people. If you are unhappy with your session, we will return everything to where it began. That is to say, the floor.

    Items cannot be put back on the shelf. This is because the shelf has been released as well. We can offer a partial refund of $12 for emotional distress, provided the distress is sincere and not merely about the vase.

    Complaints are heard on Tuesdays by Master Oolong, who listens for a long and unsettling time, and then yawns. We have found that most clients feel better afterward. Some feel worse. All feel heard, at least by the room.

  • Letter From A Satisfied Client

    We receive many letters, but this one from a woman named Delphine stayed with us. She wrote: ‘Before your visit I had a table covered in forty small things. After your visit I had a table. I did not know a table could look like that. I wept. I swept. I wept again.’

    She continued: ‘You removed a candle, a tin of buttons, a figurine of a frog, a bowl of keys and my husband’s reading glasses. He has not forgiven you. I have never been happier.’

    We keep the letter in a drawer. We have not yet knocked it out. We are not ready.

  • The Silence Rating Of Our Studios

    Every Kitty Kondo studio is graded on the Silence Scale, an internal measure developed by Master Oolong after years of listening. The scale runs from zero, which is a busy kitchen, to ten, which is the moment just after a glass falls and before anyone speaks.

    Our Mantel Studio scores an 8.4, thanks to its thick rugs and absence of clocks. The Closet Sanctuary scores a 9.1, owing to the fur lined walls and a resident moth who has taken a vow of silence.

    The front desk scores a 3, because Bao hums. We have asked him to stop. He says he cannot. We are working on it, gently, with treats.

  • The Fridge Magnet Question

    The refrigerator door is a sacred surface, and it demands careful thought. Most are covered in magnets, photographs and notes, a collage of other people’s expectations. Where do we begin?

    We begin with the lowest magnet. It is usually a pizza shop number, or a small plastic banana. We study it. We tap it once. It clings. This is the magnet’s lesson: attachment is stubborn. But with a firmer touch, the magnet comes loose, and with it comes everything it was holding, a dentist reminder, a child’s drawing, a coupon expired in 2023.

    The door, now bare, hums with possibility. The floor, now full, hums with cardboard. All is as it should be.

  • What To Wear To A Decluttering Session

    We are asked this often. The answer is: wear nothing that might be knocked off. This includes jewelry, scarves with dangling ends, and glasses perched on the nose, which we regard as a shelf like any other.

    Choose soft colors. Gray, oatmeal, pale blue. Avoid red, which excites the apprentices. Avoid stripes, which they follow. Avoid anything with a tassel, because Bao will wait for you to look away.

    Please remove your shoes at the door. The floor is the place of arrival, and we respect it. Bring only yourself, a clear intention, and perhaps a small cloth for your tears. Tea will be provided. Tea may also be released.

  • On Cables, And The Great Untangling That Was Not

    People ask if we untangle cables. We do not. A tangled cable is a living thing, a nest of intentions, and one does not simply separate its parts. One sits next to it. One honors it.

    Sometimes our clients insist, and we gently place a paw on the knot. The knot tightens. This is not failure. This is the cable telling us that it is already complete.

    Last month a client had a tangle of 23 chargers, none of which fit any device he owned. We pulled them all off the desk in one slow movement, and the pile settled on the floor like a sleeping octopus. He thanked us. He said he felt lighter. He was now missing three feet of cable.

  • Apprentice Bao And The Candle

    Bao is our youngest apprentice, a small orange cat of eleven months, eager and gentle. Last week he was given his first candle. It stood on a shelf, white and thin, flickering a little in the breeze from the window.

    Bao sat before it for two hours. He studied it. He understood it. He lifted a paw, and then he lowered it. Then he did it again. Master Oolong watched from the doorway and said nothing. Finally, as the sun set, Bao tapped the candle, which rolled gently across the shelf and landed on a rug.

    No fire occurred. The rug was lightly singed. Bao has been promoted to Apprentice Second Class, with cautionary notes.

  • The Three Stages Of Release

    • Acknowledgment: the object is seen for what it is
    • Approach: the paw moves, the whiskers listen
    • Descent: the object finds the floor

    These three stages govern every session at Kitty Kondo. They cannot be rushed. A Releaser who skips Acknowledgment is merely a vandal. A Releaser who skips Approach is a clumsy visitor. A Releaser who skips Descent has failed to commit, which is the greatest sin of all.

    New apprentices spend their first year learning only Acknowledgment. They sit in front of a stapler for ten weeks. Several have reported that the stapler has begun to speak to them. We consider this a success.

  • Breathing Room Is Measured In Centimeters

    A room that is full cannot breathe. A room that is empty can. The difference between them is often only a few centimeters. We measure everything.

    Before each session, Bao walks the room with a small cloth tape. He records the shelf length, the clutter depth, and the average distance between objects. After our work, he measures again. The numbers tell the story. On average, we gain 19 centimeters of breathing room per shelf and lose 2.3 vases.

    This is, we believe, a fair exchange. The vases are not lost. They are transformed. They live now on the floor as many small, honest pieces, each with a clear sense of purpose.