Recently a minor infirmity caused me night after night of sleeplessness. I tried every mental exercise I could, but lack of sleep merely acerbated my discomfort and increased my level of crankiness. One night I vaguely recalled a story I once read. Details are fuzzy but it concerned a lone woman stranded on an island. To retain her sanity she began to inventory her sewing basket back home.

Hour after hour for days, the woman counted the needles in her green felt needle case, the pins in the apple-shaped pincushion, the scissors and the spools of colored thread. I forgot the ending to the tale, but I do recall thinking what a great idea! Inventory your sewing basket, your painting studio, your computer room … and you’ll not only keep sane but put yourself to sleep.

Sleep did not come the next night so I began with the bedroom. I started with my eyes closed, figuring that if this procedure became tedious I would open my eyes, switch on the lights and prove that the portrait of my older daughter was hanging to the left of the window and the young one to the right. Too easy.

I placed every object in the room, down to the books and magazines on the nightstands. Contents of dresser drawers? By the time I got to the drawers, I was deep into dreamland. The cataloging worked better than a sleeping potion and left me with no buzz in the morning.

Several nights later sweet dreams eluded me again. I decided to recount the contents of our living room. I told myself if the objets d’art on various shelves stumped me, it was not fair play to turn on the light and slip down to check.

I became lost in details. Couch, two chairs, wing chairs by the fireplace. Small chests, side table. Loveseat…oh, my, does it need recovering? And if I recovered the loveseat, would everything else look shabby? The chest to the left of the fireplace—which lamp sits there? Dog-and-pup, a piece of Staffordshire I picked up in Yorkshire, where did that go? Did I give it to a grandchild? And where is the small Meissen head I watched being sculpted in the Meissen factory and then brought home in a damp Kleenex. Hanging in a place of honor by the door is Maxine’s portrait. As I thought about Maxine posing on the Persian rug with her chew toy, I smiled myself into never-never land.

The next morning I woke refreshed and eager to inspect my domain. Everything was as I had imagined and nothing needed recovering. I greeted all my treasures with renewed affection. Some few were antiques, more were genuine Goodwill relics and a handful were family treasures with a new look.

I recommend this mental inventory as a sort of housecleaning of the brain. If sleep continues to be evasive, the next object of my attention will be my desk. An inventory might shame me into really pitching out the clutter.