The Joy of Less, a Minimalist Living Guide (3 page)

Think of the life energy expended in the ownership of a single possession: planning for it, reading reviews about it, looking for the best deal on it, earning (or borrowing) the money to buy it, going to the store to purchase it, transporting it home, finding a place to put it, learning how to use it, cleaning it (or cleaning around it), maintaining it, buying extra parts for it, insuring it, protecting it, trying not to break it, fixing it when you do, and sometimes making payments on it even after you’ve disposed of it. Now multiply this by the number of items in your home. Whoa! That’s positively exhausting!

Being the caretaker of all our things can be a full-time job. In fact, entire industries have sprung up to help us service our stuff. Companies make fortunes selling us specialty cleaning products for every item—detergents for our clothes, polishes for our silver, waxes for our furniture, spray dusters for our electronics, and conditioners for our leather. The insurance business flourishes on the chance that our cars, jewelry, or art might be damaged or stolen. Locksmiths, alarm companies, and safe manufacturers promise to protect our things from theft. Repairmen are standing by to fix our stuff when it breaks, and movers are ready to gather it all up and schlep it someplace else.

With all the time, money, and energy it demands, we may start to feel like our stuff owns us—instead of the other way around.

Let’s take a closer look at how much of our stress can be attributed to stuff. First of all, we stress about
not having
stuff. Maybe we saw something in the store, or in an ad, and suddenly we can’t imagine how we’ve lived until now without it. Our neighbor has one, our sister received one as a gift, and our coworker bought one last week; oh my goodness, are we the only ones in the world without one? A sense of deprivation starts to kick in…

So next we stress about how to acquire this thing. Unfortunately, we don’t know anyone who will give us one, so we’re going to have to buy it for ourselves. We drive from store to store (or surf from website to website) to check out prices, and wish that it would go on sale. We know we really can’t afford it at the moment, but we want it
now
. So we scrape up some cash, put in extra hours at work, or charge it to a credit card and hope we can make the payments later.

The glorious day comes that we finally buy it. At long last, it is ours! The sun is shining, birds are singing, and all the stress melts away. Right? Think again. Now that we’ve spent good money on it, we’re going to have to take good care of it. We’ve acquired not only a new possession, but also a load of responsibility.

We have to make sure we clean it regularly, as dust and dirt may inhibit its function and its lifespan. We have to keep it out of reach of the kids and pets. We have to use extra caution when we use it ourselves, so that we don’t break or ruin or stain it. Sound crazy? How many times have you parked a new car at the far end of a parking lot, or had your day ruined when you discovered a scratch or dent? How did you feel when you splashed tomato sauce on that expensive silk blouse?

Then when something goes wrong with it—as it inevitably will—we stress over how to fix it. We pore over manuals or search the Web for advice. We go out and buy the appropriate tools, or replacement parts, for the repair. When we fail, we drag it into a repair shop. Or maybe we procrastinate because we can’t figure out how (or don’t particularly want) to deal with it. It sits there in the corner, or in a closet, or in the basement, weighing on our minds. Maybe we didn’t break it, but simply got bored of it. Whatever the case, we feel a little guilty and uneasy for spending so much time and money on it.

Then we see another ad, and are captivated by an entirely different thing; this one’s even more exciting than the last. Oh no, here we go again…

We never seem to have enough time in our days—perhaps our stuff is what’s to blame. How many precious hours have we wasted running to the dry cleaners, how many Saturdays have been sacrificed to oil changes or car repairs, how many days off have been spent fixing or maintaining our things (or waiting for a technician to make a service call)? How often have we agonized (or scolded our children) over a broken vase, chipped plate, or mud stains on our area rugs? How much time have we spent shopping for cleaners, parts, and accessories for the stuff we already have?

Let’s take a breather, and reminisce about how carefree and happy we were in college. Not coincidentally, that period was likely when we had the least amount of stuff. Life was so much simpler then: no mortgage, no car payments, no motorboat to insure. Learning, living, and having fun were far more important than the things we owned. The world was our oyster, and anything was possible! Now
that’s
the joy we can recapture as minimalists. We simply need to put our stuff in its place, so it doesn’t command the lion’s share of our attention.

That doesn’t mean we have to rent studio apartments, or furnish them with milk crates and secondhand couches. Instead, for now, let’s imagine that we have only
half
of our current amount of stuff. Wow—that’s a huge relief in itself! That’s fifty percent less work and worry! Fifty percent less cleaning, maintenance, and repair! Fifty percent less credit card debt! What are we going to do with all this extra time and money? Ah, the light bulb’s gone on… We’re beginning to see the beauty of becoming minimalists.

What if you were presented with a fabulous, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—but you had to move across the country in three days in order to take it? Would you be filled with excitement and start making plans? Or would you look around your house and worry about how to get everything packed up in time? Would you despair at the thought of transporting your stuff across thousands of miles (or worse yet, find it completely ridiculous)? How likely would you be to decide it’s just not worth the hassle, you’re “settled” here, and maybe something else will come along some other time?

It seems crazy to consider—but would your stuff have the power to hold you in place? For many of us, the answer may very well be “yes.”

Things can be anchors. They can tie us down, and keep us from exploring new interests and developing new talents. They can get in the way of relationships, career success, and family time. They can drain our energy and sense of adventure. Have you ever sidestepped a social visit because your house was too cluttered for company? Have you missed a child’s soccer game because you were working overtime to keep up with credit card payments? Have you passed up an exotic vacation because there was nobody to “watch the house?”

Look around at all the things in the room where you’re sitting. Imagine that each of these objects—every individual possession—is tied to you with a length of rope. Some are tied to your arms, some to your waist, some to your legs. (For extra drama, visualize chains instead.) Now try to get up and move around, with all this stuff dragging and clinging and clanging behind you. Not too easy, huh? You probably won’t be able to get very far, or do very much. It won’t be long before you give up, sit back down, and realize it takes much less effort to stay where you are.

In a similar way, too much clutter can weigh on our spirits. It’s like all those items have their own gravitational field, and are constantly pulling us down and holding us back. We can literally feel heavy and lethargic in a cluttered room, too tired and lazy to get up and accomplish anything. Contrast this with a clean, bright, sparsely furnished room—in such a space, we feel light and liberated and full of possibility. Without the burden of all those belongings, we feel energetic and ready for anything.

With this in mind, we may be tempted to enact a quick fix and create the
illusion
of uncluttered space. We’ll just nip on down to the superstore, nab some pretty containers, and make a minimalist room
tout de suite
. Unfortunately, simply stuffing everything into drawers, baskets, and bins won’t do the trick: out of sight, out of mind doesn’t work here. Even stuff that’s hidden away (be it in the hall closet, down the basement, or across town in a storage unit) stays in the back of our minds. In order to free ourselves mentally, we must shake off the stuff entirely.

Here’s something else to consider: in addition to crowding us physically, and stifling us psychologically, things also enslave us financially, via the debt used to pay for them. The more money we owe, the more sleepless our nights, and the more limited our opportunities. It’s no picnic to get up every morning and drag ourselves to jobs we don’t like, to pay for stuff we may no longer have, use, or even want. We can think of so many other things we’d rather be doing! Furthermore, if we’ve exhausted our paychecks (and then some) on consumer products, we’ve dried up our resources for other, more fulfilling pursuits: like taking an art class or investing in an up-and-coming business.

Travel is a wonderful analogy to the freedom of minimalist living. Think about what a pain it is to drag around two or three heavy suitcases when you’re on vacation. You’ve anticipated the trip for ages, and when you disembark from your plane you can’t wait to explore the sights. Not so fast—first you have to wait (and wait and wait) for your bags to appear on the luggage carousel. Next, you need to haul them through the airport. You might as well head to the taxi stand, as maneuvering them on the subway would be nearly impossible. And forget about getting a jump on sightseeing—you
must
head directly to your hotel, to rid yourself of this enormous burden. When you finally reach it, you collapse in exhaustion.

Minimalism, on the other hand, makes you nimble. Imagine traveling with only a light backpack instead—the experience is positively exhilarating. You arrive at your destination, leap off the plane, and zip by the crowds awaiting their luggage. You then jump on the subway, catch a bus, or start walking in the direction of your hotel. Along the way, you experience all the sights, sounds, and smells of a foreign city, with the time and energy to savor it all. You’re mobile, flexible, and free as a bird—able to tote your bag to museums and tourist sites, and stash it in a locker when need be.

In contrast to the first scenario, you hit the ground running, and spent the afternoon seeing the sights instead of lugging around your stuff. You arrive at your hotel energized by your experience, and ready for more.

It’s much the same with life. When we surround ourselves with things, we’re like a tourist in a taxi—cut off from other people and all the interesting things that are happening
out there
. Our stuff builds up to form a prison around us. In becoming minimalists, we dismantle these dungeons, item by item, and regain our freedom.

When we’re no longer chained to our stuff, we can savor life, connect with others, and participate in our communities. We’re more open to experiences, and better able to recognize and take advantage of opportunities. The less baggage we’re dragging around (both physically and mentally), the more living we can do!

Basho, the famous haiku poet, wrote:

“Since my house burnt down,
I now own a better view
Of the rising moon.”

Now that’s someone who’s detached from his stuff!

While we don’t have to go to such extremes, we’d do well to cultivate a similar sense of non-attachment. Developing such an attitude will make it significantly easier to declutter our homes—not to mention ease the pain when things are taken from us by other means (such as theft, flood, fire, or a collection agency).

Therefore, we’ll spend this chapter doing mental exercises to loosen the grip our stuff has on us. To achieve our goals, we’ll need to stretch, limber up, and get into shape for the task ahead. In the next few pages, we’ll build up our minimalist muscles—and gain the psychological strength and flexibility we’ll need for a showdown with our stuff.

We’ll start out with something easy to get ourselves warmed up: let’s imagine life without our stuff. This is a cinch—we don’t even really have to imagine it, we can
remember
it.

Many of us look back on our young adult days as one of the happiest, most carefree times of our lives. No matter that we were living in a shoebox (sometimes with two or three other people), and had little disposable income. No matter that we couldn’t afford designer clothes, fancy watches, or electronic gadgets. All of our possessions fit in a few crates, and we didn’t have to worry about car repairs, home maintenance, or even going to the dry cleaners. What little stuff we had took a backseat to our social lives. We were footloose and fancy-free!

Think such liberty is a thing of the past? Not necessarily. Many of us get the chance to relive our “stuff-free” lives once or twice a year—when we go on vacation. The word vacation, in fact, comes from the Latin
vacare
, meaning “to be empty.” No wonder we love to get away from it all!

Think about the last time you went camping, for instance. You carried everything you needed, for both comfort and survival, in your pack. You fussed little over appearance, and functioned perfectly well with the clothes on your back. You cooked your supper in a portable pan, over an open fire, and dined with nothing fancier than a plate, cup, and fork. Your tent, the simplest of shelters, kept you warm and dry. Your minimal possessions were in synch with your needs, leaving you plenty of time to relax and commune with nature.

So why do we need so much
more
when we get back to our “real” lives? Well, we don’t, actually—and that’s the point of these exercises. We’ll come to recognize that much of the stuff that surrounds us is hardly necessary to our health and happiness.