Minimalism and Me

 

I did not grow up in a minimalist home. As a child of the eclectic 80’s whose parents were children of the booming 50’s whose parents had survived the Great Depression of the 30’s, I was instilled with the values of saving most everything. Random items could be repurposed into all kinds of treasures like door-stop commentaries and upside-down CD centerpieces, and you never knew when that 10-liter bag of powdered sugar on sale would come in handy. Truth be told, I didn’t mind the many knick-knacks that lined shadow boxes and reminded me of our family travels or the fact that our city apartment had every sports equipment a kid could want for the park or that we generally had the ingredients handy to whip up any midnight snack. Things were organized and cared for (mostly), and the clutter - if it can be called that - was comfort; it was home.

Still, like many Millenials, I have been at least partially drawn to the minimalist trend of the past few years. Credit Marie Kondo, if you wish, but I think the appeal was there before her spark of joy philosophy. My artistic friends wanted to create an aesthetic, clean, designed look in their homes. Stressed-out friends hoped to rid their living space of unneeded toys or clothes in an attempt to pare down the required upkeep. Conscientious friends desired to reduce their environmental impact by buying and owning less. And I wanted those things, too, having always valued experiences over possessions anyway. 

Yet at the same time, it felt impossible. I watched with envy while these friends swept through their homes, tossing items into garbage bins without regret. They would purchase the perfect contraption that could fulfill the function of three others and sell the superfluous ones on Facebook Marketplace. It was like a game. How small of a backpack could you carry onto the plane and still meet all your needs for that weekend trip? Every time I tucked a laundry basket under my arm and walked from shelf to shelf, I would talk myself out of tossing it. That tattered Chinese fan I never touch? Well that was given to me by sweet Rosemary whom I still try to pray for. That stand-alone Russian teacup? That belonged to my Aunt Barb and is dripping with sentimental value since her passing. That novel set I read in high school? It changed my view of Christ, so while I don’t intend to re-read it, I can’t toss it! You can see how poorly the process goes for me.

Thus it was with almost instant relief that I recently heard a podcaster speak about her slightly twisted philosophy on the minimalist trend: Love the things you have. “Yes!” I shouted in the car. In the decluttering process, I can’t help but wonder how many people have purged themselves of items they actually liked for the sake of living more simply. Personally, I can’t fathom living in a sterile home, so opposite of the one of my childhood. The idea that you get rid of something that has outlived its purpose or receives no love from you and keep the items you still love or - best yet - actively choose to love the things you keep strikes a chord. It feels much more true to who I am: someone attempting to be purposeful and intentional with her purchases and possessions yet filling her heart with gratitude and love. Jesus, help me.

The luggage for my trip to see Rachel last weekend.