Simplicity by Sunny

Back in the days when I owned fancy things, I worried a lot more.  Take my former obsession with expensive stilettos, for example.  After breaking out a new pair, I’d sashay proudly through my day.  But when the afternoon rain came pouring down, as is common in my previous location in Florida, I’d brush a tear from my eye and look to my feet.

“Oh, sweet babies,” I’d coo.  “What will we do?”

More times than I’d care to remember, you’d catch me running through my office parking lot to my car, barefoot and desperately clutching my leather sweethearts under my umbrella.  I’d spent two week’s salary on those pups and their safety was my utmost concern.  I couldn’t really afford them – they were purchased by MasterCard – so they were to be worried over.  Attached to.  And taken off immediately upon the arrival of one raindrop.

It’s easy to practice non-attachment when you can replace any object you own.  Totaled Ferrari?  I was thinking of new rims anyway.  Home – and all its belongings – destroyed by fire?  Sure makes the upcoming move to Brazil easier, and the Danish modern furniture wouldn’t fit the tropics, dahlin’.  Blessings in disguise!

Recently I had an interesting conversation about whether it’s possible to practice non-attachment when you’re broke.  When you aren’t sporting the Ferrari lifestyle.  I’ve certainly known broke.  I know that it’s not easy to lose something precious when you can’t replace it.

Here are my thoughts regarding non-attachment and the broke lifestyle:

1.  Things are simply tools.  We each need different things to live our lives joyfully.  For me that includes a digital camera and hiking gear.  For you that may include fancy cooking appliances or skis.  When I purchase something, rather than choosing a hydration pack or camera based on status, I choose these things only as tools.  I consider function, practicality, my current needs, and my budget and purchase accordingly. 

2.  Tools must be prioritized.  I’m currently learning how to salsa dance (woo-hoo!).  I drool over the dance shoes everyone wears to class, but continue to cut the dance floor wearing my Keds (like Baby in Dirty Dancing).  I’ve resisted the urge for dance shoes because my state park sticker is almost expired and I need new hiking pants this winter.  Hiking takes precedence.  I can salsa and hike, sure, but can only afford to go overboard with one.

You can’t have everything (especially when you’re broke!).  Decide where you want to invest your discretionary spending, no matter how small that amount may be.  Choose your tools carefully so they align perfectly with who you are and what you do.  When you have only what you really use (and abuse!), it’s easier to see these things as a necessary part of your life, not your ENTIRE life.  And when you prioritize, spending only what you can afford, your things are less likely to control you (taking residence on your credit card, for example).

3.  When purchasing anything, ask how willing you’d be to replace it.  If you aren’t willing to eat peanut butter from a jar for a month (not a sacrifice, in my opinion) to afford replacing an item you’re thinking of buying, you probably don’t want/need it that badly.  Try finding an alternative to ownership, like renting skis rather than buying them.

4.  When contemplating a purchase, ask yourself whether you’ll worry over this thing.  Will the idea of it being stolen outweigh the joy it will provide?  Would losing it cause you pain, knowing you spent more than you can realistically afford?  Consider all of the terrible things that could happen to this object – getting burned, torn, stained.  Are you willing to accept these possibilities?  If you aren’t, then walk away.  How could such a burden - this worry over an object – ever fulfill you? And if these disasters wouldn’t overshadow the happiness you’d derive from this thing, it’s worth your money.

Just because you aren’t attached to your things doesn’t mean you shouldn’t own nice things.  I love my REI hiking pack, a piece I spent a chunk of change on last year, but if a bear suddenly ate it, I wouldn’t cry.  If the bear decided to eat me, however, then I would .  My pack is replaceable, though it would take a while before I could afford another one.  But I purchased it because its a quality piece that will (hopefully) last a long time and it makes hiking more enjoyable.  If I lost it, however, it wouldn’t kill my outdoorsy spirit. 

5.  Spend less money on stuff in general so that you can replace your favorite tools as needed.  It’s easy to overspend on, well, just about everything.  Be careful to set aside savings for a rainy day – or the rainy day that ruins your backyard hammock, stilettos shoes, or new sweater.

6.  Remember that nothing lasts forever!!  Well, perhaps true love does, but textiles don’t.  No matter how well you care for an item, it will fade/disintegrate/fall apart/expire. 

It’s easier to embrace the freedom of non-attachment – and minimalism, generally speaking – when there’s a safety net (a.k.a. money) stashed away.  But non-attachment isn’t only for the affluent.  It’s available to everyone.  When you worry about not being able to replace something, or losing something - attaching yourself to any thing - you’re really attaching yourself to fear.  No one can live happily under the shadow of fear.

But what is there to fear, really?  The loss of something that can’t be replaced?  Everything is replaceable (except that true love thing mentioned above), even if it can’t be replaced immediately.  I trust that even if all my hiking gear suddenly combusted, I’d have the fortitude to learn a new way to spend my time, thereby expanding myself and discovering more fulfillment and appreciation for life.  While you may think this is easier said than done, that I’m being overly idealistic, let me share some personal examples of when I’ve had to do this.

*  When my car (the one I owned before Eddie and I came to be) lost its breaks, I couldn’t afford the repair bill.  For almost an entire summer (the first summer I spent in Colorado), I could only get to work, the grocery store, and the bookstore.  I felt trapped and bitter that I couldn’t explore the state I loved so much.  After basking in self-pity for a couple of weekends, I decided to take advantage of Barnes & Noble’s hospitality.  I treated myself to the only thing I could afford at the time – a cup of coffee.  I camped out in a cushioned chair and read Colorado guide books, planning my future trips when I was mobile again.  I also snuck in PEOPLE magazine…

*  When I wound up with an abscessed tooth and suddenly owed my dentist three grand, I cried so hard snot came out of my nose.  So I sold all of my furniture, which was one of the hardest (and humiliating) things I’ve ever had to do.  But I made it a fun challenge, discovering a minimalist lifestyle in the process.  A lifestyle I’ll never give up!

*  When my laptop died recently, I was without any way to watch TV or use the Internet.  It was several weeks before I could replace it.  I used the library’s computers, instead, and chatted with the wonderful people using the computers next to me.  I spent more time journaling and reading books.  I splurged on some bottles of red wine and sat on my balcony, watching the sun set while getting a little drunk (ah, I love my life!).  I relaxed in my bathtub.  I enjoyed this experience …. though I was very happy to get Netflix back, since I’d been without Arrested Development waaay too long!

*  Two weeks after I moved to Denver, my digital camera was stolen from my car.  Photography, especially after just moving to my dream city (minus the thieves!), is super important to me.  Because of its importance, I did replace it right away, but had to subsist on spaghetti for the next three weeks.  For me, the pleasure I received from taking pictures outweighed the risk of having it stolen again.  And it certainly outweighed the sacrifice of a varied diet. 

I’m not saying that a reliable car, digital camera, and a working laptop aren’t preferred because they most certainly are.  They make my life easy and simple.  But these things – and anything else with a price tag – are absolutely unnecessary for happiness.  With each struggle and material loss, I have gained more of myself.  And, after much loss and many struggles, I’ve learned that all I need for deep-to-the-bone happiness is just being me.

Non-attachment isn’t about not relying on things.  It’s about relying on yourself.  Knowing that even if the clothes are stripped from your back, your house is set on fire, and you’ve lost absolutely everything, that your heart will remain intact.  It’s knowing that you need only yourself – and a darn good sense of humor – to build your life - and tool box - back up.

Thankfully, your heart, spirit, courage, and creativity don’t cost a dime.

Last night I experienced my first salsa dancing lesson.  Grasping the hands of my spicy Latin instructor whose sultry gaze and loose limbs made me breathless, I felt sweat trickle between my shoulder blades… and  realized I was born to dance.  I was also born to drink wine, get as dirty as possible on a hiking trail, nap regularly, and eat peanut butter from the jar.  My life overflows with callings . 

I’ve always been drawn to salsa dancing.  The energetic music, enthusiastic hip shaking, and the really cute heeled shoes.  Add Mr. Latin – gaze extra sultry, please – atop a hardwood floor and I consider this heaven.  Even the studio itself lends its own charm.  Its spacious floor and large windows remind me of why I love minimalist design.  Open space.  Lofty ceilings.  

Despite a yearning for salsa, I always had an excuse as to why I wasn’t pursuing lessons.  ”I’m too busy right now,” I’d say.  Too busy, too tired, too broke, too worried that everyone will laugh at me because of my two left feet.  Then an amazing thing occurred…  I became a minimalist.  As I settle more firmly into my minimalist life, I enjoy the following things in abundance:

• time
• energy
• money (well, “abundance” isn’t the most accurate word here, but working on it)
• contentedness
• spunk

I’ve stripped away many superfluous things  - like dusting furniture, shopping, maintaining a closet full of fancy clothes, club-hopping, dating men who drive BMWs - things that gobbled up the abovementioned items.  After thoroughly scrubbing away complication, however, I had too much time left.  “I need a new hobby,” I told myself recently.  And after an evening of shaking my hips with Mr. Latin, I’m VERY happy with my choice.  I was filled with such happiness last night that it’s overflowing into this morning.  How fantastic is that?

Minimalism provides freedom.  But freedom can be burdensome without direction or meaning.  I’ve discovered that minimalism is…having hobbies that set you on fire.  Pursuits that make life sparkle.  Something to look forward to. 

Step One to a minimalist existence is decluttering, opening space, and emptying an overloaded schedule.  Step Two is equally important.  It’s following-up with your newfound simplicity by discovering a hobby that you’re passionate about.  What’s the point of having a life – minimalist or otherwise – without that life being filled with wonder and joy? 

If you don’t already have a hobby, go out and try some.  Take a pottery class, join a writer’s group, go rock climbing, rent a sailboat, jump out of an airplane, volunteer at a museum, run a marathon for charity, master the art of making banana fosters.  Keep going until you’ve found something that you can’t get enough of.  Something that becomes your catalyst for minimizing further.  Don’t stop until you find that wonderful thing that makes you say, “This is what I was made for!”

Life with only one fork is kinda complicated.  Not having enough of what you need, whether that’s books or knitting needles, makes for a frustrating day-to-day experience. 

Recently I woke up for work, still tired and anxious to wrap my arms around the love of my life - which, called by its proper name, is a box of Lucky Charms.  I opened the kitchen cupboard, confused.  ”No bowls?” I asked. During my heady embrace with die-hard minimalism, I’d decided to shun all dishes, except one bowl.  Which was in my dishwasher.  Dirty.  ”Bummer,” I said, lip protruding in a disappointed pout.

Eating my Lucky Charms from a coffee cup, I wondered if I’d gone too far.  Was the extreme I’d taken worth it?  I’d chucked my coffee maker, silverware, towels.  Even after posting my 74 Things, I went further until I got somewhere in the neighborhood of 50 Things.  I would’ve sold the wall-to-wall carpeting in my apartment, but it’s nailed down exceptionally well .  

“Sunny,” my mom once said.  “You need to learn how to balance your life or you’re going to have a premature heart-attack.”  She emphasized her words with a shake of a finger in front of my nose.  ”And I do not like sitting in the ER when I could be drinking pinot grigio on the patio.”

“But, Mom,” I protested.  “Balance is boring!”

To tell the truth, I still think balance is boring.  When I remember the best moments of my life, there was no balance involved.  No reason or practicality.  Oh, no, my best memories are those spent diving into my senses, going overboard, running after the things that make my heart beat fast.  They’re moments when I’ve laughed too hard, sang too loud, kissed too long, loved too much.  They’re the moments I’ve risked everything, except the satisfaction of knowing I’m doing what’s right.  They’re the summer days I’ve called in “sick”, then drove into the mountains with the windows down.  They’re the nights when I’ve gone out dancing, arriving home with the sunrise. 

In terms of kitchen supplies, however, I’ve realized that balance isn’t so bad. 

In the past month, I decided to add some comfort to my life.  Because when I’m worried about how to eat my sugary breakfast cereal, I can’t focus on being delightfully unbalanced, creating memories, skipping work , getting dirty in the mountains, reading books, and living a fulfilling/eccentric/fun life.

I added a handful of things that make daily routines easier.  Like spoons.  I’m glad I did. 

Minimalism, like anything else in the world, isn’t static.  It’s a constant journey.  A constant question-and-answer experience.  An ever-consuming pursuit that demands a consciousness of the things I choose to own and pursuits I choose to follow.  It’s knowing, each day, who I am.  Knowing who I am gives me the knowledge of what I need (the material and the non-material). 

Minimalism is not, however, defined by the number of items in my home. It’s not figuring out how austere I can make my life.  It’s not a hobby, though sometimes it feels like it because it’s fun to strip away material goods.  It’s not an identity, though I can say (proudly!), “I’m a minimalist”.  But, first and foremost, there must be a reason that I’m a minimalist.  

In the beginning, I became a minimalist because I wanted to move across the country.  Then I filled every nook of my life back up, because how else do you “settle down”?  I became a minimalist, for the second time, because I needed money.  Then I chose to be a minimalist because it gave me what no thing ever could.  Peace.  Contentment.  Joy.  Time.

Like most everyone, I have to go to work to pay my bills, but I’m no longer overworked as I was three years ago.  My mornings are spent watching the sun rise above the mountains, and I’m grateful to live somewhere so beautiful.  My evenings are spent devouring long dinners, watching movies, playing board games with Mr. Blue, and reading at my favorite coffee shops.  Weekends are spent hiking at state parks, strolling through city parks, browsing bookstores, dancing, taking pictures at the Botanic Gardens, walking through the city without an agenda, touring museums, eating chocolate cookies for lunch (just because), spending time with friends, and falling into an afternoon nap.  Everything in my life reflects me.  My relationships are genuine.  I speak the truth.  Life’s good. 

Once everything is stripped away, what do you hope to find?  Because, static or not, there’s a point when everything will be swept away.  There won’t be anything left to haul to Goodwill.  You’ll be left with less distraction.  You’ll be faced with yourself, bare and vulnerable.  Immediate answers to how you’ll fill your emptied space - and time – is unnecessary.  But, at some point, you’ll be forced to answer one of the most difficult questions of all time: “What do I want my life to be about?” 

I wasn’t prepared for life after minimalism.  I wasn’t prepared for the unending possibility that a life of, well, nothing provides.  It’s scary.  It took steps and phases to get where I’m at.

I almost fell off the minimalist wagon, when I felt judged for having so little.  I stood in the middle of Bed, Bath & Beyond, cart filled with household goods, on the cusp of going back to my old life complete with stacks of towels…but me, less complete.  (Don’t worry, I abandoned everything in the check-out aisle ).  Minimalism isn’t easy.  It’s not for everyone.  It’s definitely not one-size-fits-all.  And it doesn’t just happen.  It doesn’t just remain.  You gotta work it, baby.  Every day.

One of the things I love most about blogging is reading comments from you, my readers.  Your own experiences uplift me.  Encourage me.  I’m grateful to all of you.  I understand the hesitancy some of you have - “I’m not a minimalist yet, but hopefully one day…” you say.  What are you waiting for?  What are you afraid of?  What will you have to lose?  With the exception of those sentimental things – like my mother’s sapphire ring I mentioned in Phase III - what can’t be replaced, if you realize you’ve made a mistake?

There’s no ending to my story.  I move through each day as a minimalist, yes, but also an imperfect person.  I make mistakes, learn, grow, and always (okay, mostly) try to do what’s right.  And I hope that you stick with me as I continue moving forward .

“I’m gonna be the best darn minimalist that ever lived!” I exclaimed. 

When I make a decision, you’d better get outta the way, because I’m a force of stubborn craziness. 

From my (unscientific) research, it seems the typical minimalist starts small – getting rid of books, knick-knacks, broken objects – before making drastic changes.  But when you decide to become a minimalist Sunny-style, you immediately call Goodwill to warn them of your massive drop-off later that afternoon.  You’re ready to paint everything white and shun furniture.  There’s no patience in Sunny-Land.  No half-way mark or middle-ground.  It’s all or nothin’.  In the case of minimalism, it’s more “nothin’” . 

As I mentioned in Phase II, I’d already sold the following items to pay my dentist’s bill:

• Mattress
• Dining table and chairs
• 2 living room chairs
• Stereo
• Art work
• Wine rack
• Photo frames
• Dining room centerpiece

I looked at what was left, decided I still had too much to qualify as ”Minimalist Extraordinaire” and plunged into the purging process.  Box after box – bag after bag – was filled.  Despite my enthusiasm, though, I went through the purging process in stages.  The first part was Phase III, Stage I, when I sold/gave away/fed to Mr. Dumpster the following things:

• Clothing that no longer fit.  Any pieces that were too fancy or weren’t worn often.  
• My shoe collection, except for the 4 pairs I wore regularly. 
• All of my handbags, except for 2 that I used most often. 
• Every piece of art work on my walls
• Extra towels from the bathroom
• Extra towels from the kitchen
• Jewelry, except for 3 pieces that are sentimental (yes, even I’m sentimental about some things!) and worn regularly
• Every dish, except for 1 full and matching set
• Bed linens (since I didn’t have a bed, after all)
• End table

I used eBay for selling my clothing and handbags.  Craiglist allowed me to get rid of my art work exceptionally fast.  I donated the dishes to Goodwill.  The jewelry I sent off to Cash4Gold, and though I was only given a paltry amount, it was the best way to unload old charms and broken necklace chains. 

Within a week, I’d accomplished the selling, donating, and tossing mentioned above.  (Remember, though, I’m not married and I don’t have children, so there was nothing preventing me from staying up VERY late to obsess over – *cough*- I mean complete this process.)  ”That was fun and waaay too easy,” I said, grinning with accomplishment.  

Even easier was falling in love with the emptiness.  I unfurled within my apartment.  My space was for relaxing, rather than cleaning.  My home supported contemplation, instead of worry.  The freed space also freed my mind.  Thoughts I’d suppressed for years came back to me.  Dreams I’d pushed away crawled to me on their knees, begging to be heard.  It was amazing.

“This minimalist stuff kicks [bleep]!” I proclaimed. 

Therefore, after a month of settling into a life without a dining table or extra towels, I moved onto Phase III, Stage 2.  Which was more difficult because, as there’s less to choose from, the choosing gets harder.  During this stage I began looking at the things that weren’t, at first, obvious to me.  Things that I thought were practical, but weren’t actually used.  I’d also stumbled on the famous 100 Things Challenge, which REALLY encouraged me. 

Here’s what I got rid of during Stage II:

• Fruit basket (with the exception of bananas, most of my fruit goes in the fridge)
• Plants (they were pretty much dead, I just mercifully put them out of their droopy misery)
• Pots that the plants had occupied before their death
• Hammer, nails, screwdriver
• Toothbrush holder
• Cloth napkins and napkin holders (what’s a shirtsleeve for, after all? )
• Muffin pan
• Candles
• Books – each and every one went to the library
• All of my storage containers

Each day, I’d find something else to get rid of.  I’d bring extra envelopes into work, since I didn’t need them at home.  I decided to recycle the 100+ shopping bags I’d saved and switched exclusively to a reusable bag.  I can’t list everything that I got rid of because I can’t remember everything.  Paper clips, hair ties, kitchen spices, keys (to where, not sure), my yellow wallet, tubes of mascara, etc.  Hundreds of things that provided no value, but together, took up significant space. 

After Stage 2 I was on my Minimalist Honeymoon.  You know, that time when you’ve got stars in your eyes.  You can’t take your hands off each other.  Their name is mentioned and you sigh happily.  Well, during my honeymoon, I couldn’t keep my hands to myself.  That’s right, I was a hussy for Minimalism . 

Thus, it only made sense to inject minimalism into every area of my life.  It wasn’t good enough to be a minimalist ONLY in my apartment.  I wanted it all the time and everywhere.  Welcome to Phase III, Stage 3. 

Here are the ways that I extended minimalism:

• I cleaned up my laptop’s hard drive.  I deleted unused programs, unloved music, and unneeded documents.  There was barely anything left on it by the time I finished….just the way I like it.
• I took my stuffed file folders and went through each piece of paper.  I shredded the unnecessary, then scanned the important to my computer.  (This was very liberating, since I had a LOT of papers!)
• I had birthday cards – and other greeting cards – that I adored.  I realized my adoration came from the words written inside of them.  Using my digital camera, I took pictures of each one.  Now I’ve got the words, but no dastardly clutter.
• I converted all of my photographs to digital – and only kept the ones I cherished.  The year before I moved to Colorado, my step-mother had given me a scrapbook.  I was touched by her thoughtfulness, but she didn’t realize how much I hated my childhood photographs.  I was too tall for my age, stuttered until the age of 14, had no friends, and never fit in.  Having those pictures - even while hidden between the pages of a scrapbook – brought me down.  I digitized the photos I loved – me in pigtails while swinging on the monkey bars, my mom making a funny face as my dad snapped her picture, our puppy Max as he ate my mom’s pecan pie – and the rest I shipped back to Florida.  My step-mom eventually understood.  I told her how much I loved her gift, but explained how the pictures made me feel (she had no idea).  “Let’s focus on taking new pictures, instead,” I told her.  She quickly agreed.  After explaining how I felt, she was able to understand me in a completely different way.  A way that made our relationship more authentic. 
• I took a stand against useless mementos.  If I were to keep them, they had to be practical.  A magnet for Christmas (thanks, A.W.!) with inspirational words holds my grocery list.  Theater tickets became a bookmark.  Despite the hundreds of things I could’ve kept to remind me of my mom, who died when I was 14, I decided on one piece.  Her favorite ring, a star sapphire that my dad gave to her in 1979.  I wear it every day.  I remember her every day.  That’s all I need.  I played several instruments while growing up and owned stacks of sheet music.  I kept my favorite sonata - which I played on the flute, my heart in each note - and gave everything else to an elementary school.

As I mentioned previously, during Phase II, I’d become exhausted.  To compensate for my loneliness in Florida, I’d joined social clubs galore and could barely keep up with my 1,000+ (or thereabouts) acquaintances.  As I stripped away the invaluable things in my material life, I began to realize I needed to strip the invaluable from my non-material life, too.  To continue my Phase III, Stage 3 experience, I also did this:

• I broke ties with people who weren’t good for me.  People who drained my energy and had only their own interests in mind.  I unfriended dozens of people on Facebook.  I changed me email address.  I even changed my phone number. 
• I backed out of several social obligations.  I only wanted to commit myself to what I found truly meaningful.  Now that I’m involved in less, I’m able to give of myself more.
• I shifted my focus away from the outside world, along with pressures and expectations, and focused on me.  What I wanted.  What I needed.  I embraced contentment.  I sought joy.

“Life kicks as much [bleep] as minimalism!”  Life really IS wonderful.  I never realized how wonderful it was until I took everything away.  Everything that blocked the “wonderful” part.  I became an early riser, an avid hiker, and a (bad yet passionate) photographer.  I spent lazy afternoons – not running around like crazy, not spending time with exhausting people, not cleaning my closets – reading books and drinking shiraz. 

“If a little is good, a LOT is better!”  So I decided to go super-crazy by embracing Phase III, Stage 4. 

When I …..

• Simply got rid of everything.  Except My 74 Things.

As is typical for one who goes overboard, like I do, I might have taken minimalism a bit too far.  Oopsie. 

Enter Phase IV.  The best Phase.

I’d had enough.

My life was filled with misery.  On my 26th birthday, after I had myself a cathartic cry, I realized that there wasn’t any aspect of my life that I’d chosen for myself.  I’d allowed everyone else’s agenda to dictate the direction of my life.

I’d moved to Florida because my parents had nagged me.  I’d chosen men to date who weren’t right for me, but were convenient.  I’d spent money I couldn’t afford, but was compelled to keep up with my peers.  I worked in real estate because I’d fallen into it. 

I tried to figure out what I did want.  What choices did I want to make?  For days I floated around in my mind, trying to find the answers.  I found an answer in the most unexpected place.  It was a memory.  It was of me, still in grade school, redesigning envelopes for scrap paper, while reading about the wildflowers of Colorado.

“Sunny,” my mom told me, running a hand over my pile of scraps.  ”You’re going to wind up with the other Crunchies in Boulder.”

I remembered how she laughed when she said that.  I’d always mooned over pictures of the Rocky Mountains, wondering what they looked like in Real Life.  It was true, too, that I was Crunchy.  I wore Birkenstocks.  I recycled before it was popular.  For this, any many other reasons, I was…strange .  

During one of my one-hour commutes in Florida, I asked myself, “Colorado?”

My gut answered with surprising speed.  ”Yes.” 

“Colorado,” I said again, but it was no longer a question.

My gut answered, much louder.  “YES!”

My first decision, then, was to run to the Rockies.  As quickly as possible, before I lost my nerve.  To do so, I had to fit everything I owned into the back of my car.  This meant that the bubble bath, throw pillows, red patent stilettos, and silk dresses (that I mentioned in Phase I) had to go.

Goodwill was very happy.

Thankfully, I’d been renting a furnished house, so getting rid of furniture wasn’t an issue.  I still had many household goods that were given away - bed linens, pillows, clothes, and shoes.  Getting rid of everything, except that which fit into my small hatchback, was pretty thrilling. 

Here were the contents of my car on moving day:

• 9″ TV
• Stereo
• Clothes
• Shoes (no stilettos)
• Laptop
• Digital camera (bought specifically for my cross-country road trip)
• Quilt
• Jewelry box (and, of course, jewelry)
• Scrap book
• Box of photographs
• Folder of important documents
• Box of miscellaneous “stuff”

I quit both of my jobs, hugged my parents (they thought I was crazy), and headed to Denver.  With excitement, I drove like a demon the entire 2,000+ miles. 

I’m not writing this post to describe my dream of living in Colorado – or the intense happiness that I first experienced when seeing the mountains for the first time.  Allow me to say, though, that arriving here was the most amazing experience I’ve ever had.  There isn’t enough emphasis – in any book or article that I’ve ever read – describing the importance of living in a place you absolutely love.  A place you FIT.  Not like a glove, but like your very own skin.

Quickly after my arrival, I chose my first apartment.  It was evident that my trunk’s contents weren’t going to cut it for day-to-day living.  So, I purchased the following items:

• Sofa
• End table
• Chair
• Mattress
• Bed linens
• Bathroom towels
• Shower curtain
• Ironing board
• Iron
• 2 bowls & 2 plates
• 2 wine glasses (I have my priorities, after all.)
• 2 water glasses
• Set of silverware
• Kitchen towels
• Garbage bin
• Can opener
• Coffee maker
• Lots of Lean Cuisines
• Several bottles of wine (again, priorities!)
• Basic set of cleaning supplies
• Winter clothing (necessary after living in Florida)

Then, it was time to hunt for a job.  I found one working only 4 days a week (10 hour days, but worth it).  For the first time, I could breathe deeply.  I had time and energy.  I then went overboard, compensating for those lonely and unhappy years in Florida, by joining way too many clubs and making too many friends (yes, there is such a thing!).  I was VERY busy.  Without meaning to, I’d exhausted myself, this time with “fun” things.

But the smaller size of my material life was great.  I didn’t have to maintain a houseful of things.  Cleaning was a breeze.  Messiness still existed, of course, because I was constantly on the move, but I worried less about my stuff.  Instead of following the next purchase to lift my spirits, I was being lifted by the experiences of a beautiful life.  A life that was new and still being molded.  A life I’d consciously chosen.

After six months, my apartment’s location became a headache.  I’d chosen the wrong neighborhood.  It was noisy, full of riff-raff, and I wasn’t comfortable there.  (Oh, and I sorta dated my neighbor… big mistake.)  I decided to move.   

“Wow,” I said, taking in my new apartment.  “This is sooo fabulous!”

I still live in this apartment – and still love it.  There’s a fireplace, built-in bookcases, and it’s exceptionally quiet.  When I first moved in, I decided my fabulous apartment needed more than my mattress-on-the-floor lifestyle.  Filling it up just seemed like the ”right” thing to do.  After all, there were built-in bookcases!  These had to be filled with books.  Therefore I added the following furnishings:

• Dining table & chairs
• Silverware tray
• More kitchen towels
• Kitchen rug
• Full set of dishes
• Place mats
• Cloth napkins & napkin holders
• Toaster
• Fruit basket
• Centerpiece for dining room table
• Muffin tin
• Frying pan
• Cooking pot
• Other miscellaneous cooking utensils
• Wine rack
• More bottles of wine (who can fault me, hm?)
• Candles
• Coffee table (given to me by friends)
• Floor lamps for living room and bedroom
• Throw pillows
• Hammer, nails, and screwdriver
• Art work for every room
• Extra batteries
• Toothbrush holder
• More bathroom towels
• A year’s worth of toilet paper
• Bathroom rug
• Bathroom garbage bin
• Bed frame
• Another chair
• Plants (and pretty pots to plant them in)
• Books
• Photo frames
• Storage containers for my socks
• Storage containers for my papers & documents
• Decorative box for my electronic gizmos
• A year’s worth of cleaning supplies
• Vacuum cleaner

*Poof!*  My life was properly furnished.  Then, as is fit for a person like me who goes overboard, I decided I needed even more.  Each month, I added to my collection of things.  Here’s what the “more” looked like:

• SmartPhone
• A new collection of handbags
• Shoes (not stilettos, but hiking boots, snow boots, sneakers, and more sneakers)
• Hiking gear (I found myself living within 5 miles of REI, you’d be tempted, too!)
• More clothing
• Accessories (scarves, socks)
• Fancy lunch box
• Ziploc containers galore (in various shapes and sizes)
• Printer for my laptop
• A collection of notebooks and pens
• Post-Its (in various shapes and sizes)
• Note cards and envelopes
• Books

There were hefty expenses, too, as I found myself living in paradise.  Gas money for trolling through the state, museum tickets, theater tickets, expensive dinners with my Dining in Denver group, Rocky Mountain National Park admission fees, nights spent bar hopping throughout the trendy LoDo neighborhood, parking tickets (oops, you mean this isn’t a parking spot?), and the ever-expensive adventures in dating.  I was a living version of Speedy Gonzales.

“Why am I so exhausted?” I wondered, crashing after a particularly wild weekend.  If I were a smarter girl, I would’ve put everything together a LOT faster. 

Then two things happened: (1) my bed frame broke, (2) I had a root canal.

As I mentioned in Phase I, my Type-A personality required the constant rearranging of my furniture.  After a particularly stressful day at work, I felt compelled to move things around.  (Controlling my physical environment allowed me a sense of control in every other area of my life.)  Unfortunately, my bed frame didn’t approve of my decision to move it from one wall to another.  Without warning, it snapped.

“You’ve got to be kidding?” I exclaimed, aghast at my newly lopsided bed.  “No wonder you were on clearance!”

I couldn’t very well allow a broken bed frame to take residence in my home.  It made sense, then, to haul the entire thing out to the dumpster…at 1 AM.  Hey, when I’m motivated, nothing stops me . 

My apartment was, suddenly, imperfect.  This imperfection really bothered me, but I didn’t have the cash to replace the frame, so I kept my mattress on the floor. 

Soon after this, I experienced a turn of misfortune.  I wound up needing a root canal and a crown.  The price of such a dental procedure is shocking – in the neighborhood of $3,000.  My dentist may have been a handsome man in his mid-thirties, but to me, after telling me the price of my visit, he looked exactly like the devil.

“You want how much?” I asked, craving a shot of tequila to settle my nerves.

Although I’d just gotten rid of my debt, I didn’t have any money saved.  I made a deal with the dentist’s office to make payments on my balance, but I was devastated at this setback.  Once home, in pain and discouraged, I looked around the apartment I’d taken such care to decorate.

“Hm, it’s already imperfect,” I reasoned, sneaking a glance at my mattress on the floor.  “Might as well be really imperfect and get something out of it.”

I refused to go back into debt because of my dentist.  I refused to let pride get in the way of doing what I needed to do.  So, I greeted the popular garage-sale website.  “Hello, craigslist, you’re going to be my new best friend.”

To help with my dental bill, these are the items I sold:

• Mattress (I already slept on the sofa 90% of the time)
• Dining table and chairs
• 2 living room chairs
• Stereo
• Art work
• Wine rack
• Photo frames
• Dining room centerpiece

It didn’t result in a lot of money, but it helped.  The empty space, though, was a delightful surprise.  It reminded me of the simplicity of my first Coloradoan apartment.  I had little to dust.  I wasn’t able to rearrange furniture to offset bad days, and while this resulted in more stress-induced Ben & Jerry dates, I was happier. 

“Am I crazier than I ever realized?” I asked myself.  Normal people, after all, don’t get excited tinglies as they unload their stuff on craigslist.

To answer my own question, I did what any reasonable person does in this technological age…I googled it .  On the Internet, I found out about this thing called “minimalism”.  I read about people shunning consumerism, living frugally, embracing simplicity in all its forms.  I learned from Leo over at Zen Habits, discovered miss minimalist, found people who’d sold their entire lives to become digital nomads, read about people living with only 100 Things, and drooled over minimalist architectural design.

“Hot digity dang,” I said.  “I’ve got a lotta work to do!”   Because I, too, wanted to be a minimalist.

…. to be continued.

A wonderful reader of mine, Rachel, recently made this comment:

Sunny, if you wouldn’t mind answering a question — During your minimization process, did anyone get angry with you because you got rid of a gift or gifts that they had given you? The actual process you went through is only briefly mentioned on this site, and I’d actually love to hear more about it in general.

Your wish, dear reader, my command .

My journey toward simple living and minimalism didn’t occur overnight.  It wasn’t spontaneous.  It all began with Elaine St. James’ 100 Ways to Simplify Your Life.  I read the entire book in one night.  The idea of releasing clutter, ending bad relationships, pursuing satisfaction, and throwing away my unused kitchen appliances made me drool with excitement. 

“Wow,” I breathed, closing the book with reverence.  “Me want.”  And, just like that, I decided to pursue a simple and clutter-free life.

Immediately.

I skimmed every closet and drawer.  Out went every medicine bottle except Ibuprofen.  I said good-bye to a broken lamp, extra dishes, my collection of high-heeled shoes, several handbags, and dozens of books.  I was in my early twenties, so my apartment was small and my possessions were relatively few.  There was no garage filled with tools, no lifetime collection of….well, anything.  Still, this decluttering session felt productive and I happily tossed my unwanted things into old grocery bags for burial at Goodwill.

I did this all in one night, after reading the abovementioned Elaine St. James book.  

“Done!” I announced, hands victoriously planted on my hips.  ”And it’s only…” I glanced at the clock.  “Oh.  Crap.”

Since then I’ve learned not to read self-improvement books at night.  Way too dangerous .  

As that week progressed, I added to my Goodwill donations.  I sorted through clothes, old journals, photo negatives, and some items that were completely unidentifiable.  My apartment was becoming emptier each day and, for a while, it felt wonderful.  I’d created the illusion of an uncluttered, simple existence in my apartment.  But my mind was still very cluttered.  The breathing space was great, but the sudden thinking space was more difficult.

“Who am I without my stilettos?” I questioned, looking at my empty shoe rack.  When I couldn’t find an answer, I ran to the Macy’s shoe department, MasterCard clutched in my hand.  Skidding to a halt in front of a display of Franco Sartos, I grabbed the first available saleswoman, “The red patents, and HURRY!” 

Obviously, I’d missed the whole point of simple living.  But first attempts are often blundered, and that’s okay. 

Clearing our physical space also clears mental space.  The thoughts that consumed me after emptying my apartment weren’t pleasant.  My identity was too wrapped up in my things.  I was fashionable Sunny.  Fancy Sunny.  I’d grown up in a family where appearances are important.  I knew no other way to approach my identity than pulling on a facade created by dressing well and having nice things.  I was as disingenuous as I was miserable.  Just didn’t know it yet.

So, the night I read 100 Ways to Simplify Your Life, I’d been introduced to my eventual destiny, but wasn’t ready to commit.  Wasn’t ready to find what lay beneath my material possessions. 

One of the factors that worked against me at this time, too, was my youth.  I was independent.  I had income.  There was glamour in wearing impossibly high shoes.  Attending a martini party was exciting, and martini glasses are so cute.  Carrying a designer handbag meant I’d arrived.  I was grown-up, dammit, and I didn’t want to give up the trappings of adulthood.

My other disadvantage at the time was my Type-A personality.  On bad days, when the world crumbled, I could always rearrange my closets.  I could take control of my things.  If my cereal boxes and clothes were arranged perfectly, everything else would be perfect, too.  (Everyone knows this law of nature, right? )  Without the ability to control, categorize, and use my things, how could I function?

Shortly after I jumped into those red patent stilettos (admittedly, they were fabulous), I moved to Florida.  My family had relocated there after I’d graduated high school and I decided to give it a try.  I was eager, too, to silence my parent’s nagging to move.  Nothing is more convincing than the constant nagging of your parents, let me tell you.

Florida became a sea of complications.  I lived in a small beach town, which required an hour commute (one-way) to my job.  This job was competitive, required fancy clothes, and provided absolutely no joy.  The cost-of-living in this beach town was exorbitant, so I had to work a second job to make ends meet… and maintain my high-maintenance lifestyle.  

My only human contact was co-workers, who’d stab you in the back to move up The Ladder, and I learned this the hard way.  For a while, I dated a man who drove a Benz, wore a Rolex, had a massive ego, and treated me like an accessory.  For another while, I dated a man who rode a Harley, drank too much, and insisted I wear tight leather accessories.  My family didn’t help, either, as they made no effort to hide their criticism of everything I did and everything I didn’t do.  

I was overworked, overstressed, broke, and suffered several serious ailments that required hospitalization.  I can’t remember when I ever laughed during those years.  I bent over backwards to please my boyfriends, my parents, and my employers.   

And never once did I protest. 

On those rare moments when I had time to myself, I’d try filling my emptiness with things.  I’d drive back from a day of shopping, car filled with purchases.  Floral bubble bath, infused olive oil, a pair of earrings, throw pillows, a silk dress.  How comforting it was to unfurl these beautiful items from their tissue paper, smell their fragrance, run my fingers along their seductive fabrics. 

These things, too, would surely make my life better.  Bubble bath to relax, olive oil for cooking healthy meals, earrings to shift the focus from my tired eyes, pillows to “spruce up” my living room, a silk dress for a night of dancing.  But my things never did the job they were purchased for.  They served as representations of the person I wished to be.

On my 26th birthday, I couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed.  I should’ve been anticipating chocolate cake.  I should’ve been contemplating which birthday wish to make.  Instead, I shoved my face into the pillows and cried.  I cried until my body,  and everything within it – my heart, my lungs, my mind – ached.

“This is my life,” I realized.  I thought back to the girl I once was.  The girl in pigtails.  The girl who had big dreams, who had potential, who was going to make a difference.  The girl who was going to set the world on fire in her own unique, kooky way.   “This isn’t at all what I’d hoped for.”

At that moment, heart broken and cheeks wet, I remembered Elaine St. James.  I didn’t know if it were possible to simplify the mess I’d made of myself, but I was determined to try.  I was 26, for the love of goodness!  Life should be wonderful and full of possibility.  I decided that the current state of my life was completely unacceptable and, finally, I was willing to do whatever needed to change my life.

I re-read 100 Ways to Simplify Your Life.  I read every other book St. James had written.  I progressed to other excellent books pertaining to simple living:  Voluntary Simplicity by Duane Elgin, The Simple Living Guide by Janet Luhrs, The Circle of Simplicity by Cecile Andrews.  I couldn’t get enough! 

I began learning about the philosophy of simple living.  The need for values, truth, and self-respect.  My second attempt at simplifying had nothing to do with broken lamps or expired medicine.  It had everything to do, instead, with asking the question, “Who am I?” and “What do I want my life to be about?”  This was my catalyst.  This is what forced me to turn my life upside down, shake everything out, and start over.

And this, my friends, was Phase I.  This may not answer the question, “How did you get rid of memorabilia?”  or “How did you shed all of your things?”  Don’t worry, I’ll get to that.  First, though, I think it’s important to know the why, then discover the how. 

So, Phase II coming soon .

While reading at my favorite bookstore this past weekend, completely relaxed and utterly happy, I snuggled deeper into my seat and thought, “This, right here, is why I’m a minimalist!”  (I have this thought rather often.) But when I looked around, I wondered about the surrounding non-minimalist people.  They seemed to be enjoying themselves just as much.  

Do I think only minimalists have the must fun?  The highest feeling of joy?  Of course not.  I questioned, though, why I always think of minimalism when I’m in a state of euphoria.  I realized it’s because I’m thankful to minimalism.

Once upon a complicated time, I couldn’t relax.  I wasn’t able to pursue simple pleasures.  I didn’t have time to concentrate on what’s important to me.  Instead I dusted, organized, and purchased things.  When I wasn’t reorganizing my furniture, alphabetizing my soup cans, re-filing papers, or standing in Target hypothesizing which wood polish would produce the brightest shine, I’d be worrying about my things. 

Then there were the social engagements – cocktail clubs, brunch clubs, theatre dinners, fancy dates – that required more maintenance and worry.  There was so much to keep track of, it consumed me.  During this time, I couldn’t rest in a bookstore.  If I happened to be in one, I’d wind up sitting in the corner, book ignored, biting my nails.  “I should be doing something!”  

Some people are capable of separating the different parts of their lives.  They can enjoy their time at a bookstore, to-do lists temporarily forgotten.  I, however, was never able to do that.  I can’t compartmentalize.  But, I wonder, can anyone really separate themselves into pieces?  The work piece, the home piece, the family piece.  Can anyone really separate themselves from their to-do list? 

Now, when I’m at the bookstore, nose between the bindings of a book, I’m free.  When I’m home, surrounded by very little, I’m also free.  Wherever I go, I’m without encumbrance.  I don’t need a vacation (though I’d rather like one ) to escape my to-do list, since my list is composed of things I yearn to do (with a few exceptions, naturally). 

I’m always free.

• I don’t worry about things any longer.  Even though I name my electronics and adore my quilt, I’ve learned to detach. 
• Above detachment, I know that, even if my apartment were to spontaneously combust, there’d be very little to replace.  No lifetime collection of baseball cards, a mountain of shoeboxes filled with photographs, or 5,000+ china dishes.  There’s a comfort in this that I can’t explain.
• I’ve realized that, for true happiness, I don’t need much.  This is the most beautiful epiphany I’ve ever had!
• Instead of acquiring things, I acquire experiences.   
• Whether at home, at a bookstore, while on vacation, or dancing on the tables of a tequila bistro, I’m fully immersed in each moment.  No bad relationships to muddle my mind, no exhuastion to contend with after a week of back-to-back socializing.  There’s just me.  Pockets light.  Mind light.  Heart light.
• Opportunity is easily welcomed.  Move across town?  Sure!  Move across country?  Just give me a moment to pack my trunk.  Change isn’t as difficult, since moving through life – without the restriction of things – is fluid.  Anything is possible.

Mr. Blue and I had our first fight.  Well, considering our personalities, I’m unsure that we’re capable of a true “show down”.  (It’d be fun to try, but I think we’d fail miserably.)  A better description would be a ”difference of opinion”.  Did we disagree over politics?  Discuss his inability to ask for directions when lost?  Not even close.  Our argument – I mean, difference of opinion – involved a much more important matter:

Dishes.

Perhaps a mundane topic to some, but very important to a minimalist.  A minimalist can’t walk into any ol’ store and purchase any ol’ set of dishes.  A minimalist must carefully select his/her dishes.  After all, there’s only one set in the cupboard.  This set, then, must be lovingly selected.  Not necessarily expensive.  Personally, I love finding eclectic pieces from Goodwill that don’t match, but “go together”.  This lessens the pressure when I break one . 

Now that I have Mr. Blue, I need more dishes, since I’ve decided to feed him occasionally.  While browsing through Target, I perused their plate selection.

“Just get these,” Mr. Blue said, gesturing to a set of 4 plates.

“But I don’t like those.”

“They’re only $2.50 per plate,” he insisted.

“Since the plates at Goodwill are usually $0.79, that’s not much of an argument,” I told him.  “Besides, they’re black.”

“What’s wrong with black?  They’ll go with anything.”

I placed my hands on my hips, giving him my best frownie face.  “Black is not my color.”

And that was the end of that. 

Mr. Blue appreciates a simple life, though he’s not a minimalist.  I forgive him for this.  After all, someone has to keep me in line.  What he misunderstood, though, was that my number of dishes (or lack thereof) are as equally important as the quality of my dishes.  I don’t want expensive dishes, fine china, or anything remotely fancy.  I want dishes that make me smile when I open the cupboard.  Dishes in colors that don’t match, but blend well together.  Pieces chosen while browsing a thrift shop on a sunny day, or during a weekend trip through a mountain town.  Pieces that bring back a memory.  (But still no more than what I need!)

Minimalism is waiting for what you really want.  Whether that’s a particular set of dishes…or a particular shade of Mr. Blue.  It’s choosing things carefully.  Expressing yourself through your choices, receiving pleasure when they’re used.  Being utterly satisfied with all that you have.

Nothing will ever be perfect.  No perfect set of dishes.  No perfect pair of shoes.  No perfect friends.  What fun would that be?  It’s the cracks, chips, burns, dings and mud stains that make life beautiful.  So, go out and make your life beautiful.  However you define beauty, that is.  Accept nothing less than what you really want, while at the same time learning to want less. 

It’s worth every moment.  Every moment of waiting.  Every moment of drinking from your favorite cup.  Every moment of kissing Mr. Right (or Ms. Right).  Every moment of slipping on your favorite jeans.  Every moment of dancing in your favorite shoes.  It’s worth everything.

Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) isn’t something I usually talk about.  I grew up around an intolerance for “disorders”, which has given me a bit of a complex.  I, myself, hate labels and am saddened when they’re used as a substitute for an authentic identity.  Having said that, I have ADD.  I’m not ADD.  I’m Sunny.  But pretending there’s no such thing as ADD, and refusing to cater to its unique requirements, would make my life needlessly difficult.

While I believe we’re often too quick to diagnose and/or dispense medications – especially to children – I’m grateful for the medical advances we’ve made to understand and treat disease, both physical and psychiatric, and how it’s greatly increased the quality of life for millions of people. 

I wasn’t diagnosed with ADD until I turned 25.  Boy, did it explain a lot.  The uncontrollable rush of thoughts, disorganization, difficulty finishing tasks, inability to manage my time, and - worst of all – being treated like I’m stupid.  Believe me, I’ve tried to focus my mind.  I’ve tried to “be normal”.  I’ve desperately wanted to focus, pay attention to detail, and “be smart”. 

After learning that I have ADD, I realized that there’s nothing wrong with me.  Nothing wrong with anyone who has ADD.  Each of us has a brain that functions in a unique way.  We each have different behaviors and talents, whether there’s ADD involved or not.  But those with ADD share certain traits.  There’s a comfort in finding out there are people out there who are just like you.  Being educated about ADD was a huge relief. 

“Other people struggle like I do?” I asked with disbelief.  “And other people have found ways to make life easier?  And I can, too?“  What a revelation!

I only wish I could’ve known this about myself sooner.  I wish I could’ve learned – when I was still young, suffering with feelings of inadequacy and constantly being picked on – how to build the kind of structure I need to live well.  As those with ADD know, the most basic responsibilities can be monumentally frustrating when you don’t devise a support system for organization and focus.  I have a brain that doesn’t cooperate with details, dates, rules, and schedules.  Sometimes my mind moves so fast that I get dizzy.  I need to take this part of me into consideration, and with the utmost compassion, as I go through my life. 

On the upside, I also have a brain that sees the world in bright colors.  I’m constantly entertained by my imagination.  I’m passionate about many things.  I’m optimistic, happy, and eccentric.  I’m remarkable in my own way.  I’m no Mother Theresa, but I still have a lot to contribute to this world. 

Truthfully, I still struggle.  I can become hyperfocused on a project, like reading, or minimizing my life , to the exclusion of every other thing.  I can lose all track of time, forget to eat, not remember what day it is, and make people very frustrated in the process.  The difference, these days, is that I know when it’s appropriate to get lost in my mind and when it’s not.  I call the appropriate times “planned irresponsibility” and it begins Friday, ends Sunday.  For the most part.

When I became a minimalist, I didn’t expect it to positively affect this aspect of my life.  But it did!  Allow me to be specific:

1.  Without piles of paper lying around, I can find important documents when I need them.  Whenever I’d need my social security card, I’d go into a panic.  It could take days before I’d figure out where it was.  Now I keep this, along with my birth certificate, etc., in one simple folder.  My other paperwork is scanned and appropriately labeled.  Two clicks of a button – poof! – it’s available. 

2.  One of the reasons that I became a minimalist was to open more time up for hiking and I go almost every weekend.  I know I mention this a lot, I apologize for sounding like a broken record!  But this form of exercise relieves stress and helps me sleep (stress and sleep deprivation are major contributors to exacerbating symptoms of ADD).

3.  Struggling to organize is a thing of the past.  I’d spend hours setting up – yet another – organizing system.  “This is going to completely revolutionize my life!” I’d proclaim.  Eventually the system never failed to…well, fail .  Now I have so little, there’s no need to organize – beyond, well, putting kitchen things in the kitchen and bathroom things in the bathrom.

4.  With few pieces of furniture, I’m not overwhelmed with cleaning.  I used to habitually rearrange my furniture and scrub/dust constantly.  I was forever distracted by dust (aka “the devil’s snow”).  Focusing on cleaning calmed me, too, and I used it as a crutch when things became chaotic (usually as a result of abovementioned *new* and *improved* organizing system).  Now, I couldn’t rearrange anything, even if I wanted to!  I’m encouraged to sit down with my books – and relax – rather than be distracted by all of the things around me.

5.  After minimizing my schedule, letting go of commitments that didn’t fulfill me, I’m able to manage my time more easily.  I don’t have 100+ appointments to remember.  I’m no longer exhausted from the teeter-totter of one event…to another event…to yet another.  I was constantly stimulated - by people, lights, conversation – and I couldn’t keep up with it.  My mind never had a chance to recuperate.

6.  With extra time and space on my hands, I put more effort into eating well and making sure I have healthy foods available.  There’s nothing like sugar to break my focus!  As I’ve written before, I don’t cook, but I’m conscious of what I eat and take the time to prepare high-quality meals for myself.  I cheat regularly, though, because that’s the kind of person I am .

I realize this take on minimalism isn’t helpful to most of you, but thought it was worthwhile to mention.  

I think it’s important to recognize where our struggles come from.  To know what stands in our way to success.  There’s nothing holding us back, if we choose to commit to our dreams.  But sometimes, in order to get there, we must pinpoint where we hold ourselves back.  What aren’t we taking into consideration about ourselves?  Where must we pay extra attention? 

For me, I have to design a life that compliments my mind’s disorganization.  Find out where you need to compliment yourself.  Don’t be afraid of admitting that you have weaknesses – sometimes that “weakness” is what also makes you incredibly awesome.  I may be incapable of maintaining a calendar, but I can generate hundreds of ideas in minutes.  I can’t easily follow verbal directions, but I’m a great storyteller.  I can’t pay attention during long meetings (especially when they involve charts and graphs), but I can spend hours inside of a book – seeing every description inside of my head as if I were really there. 

Those things that make us us are there, whether we acknowledge them or not.  The good, the bad, the quirks.  Take the time to say, “Okie-dokie, here’s where I struggle, so I need to do ____ in order to create my amazing life.”

Anyway, what’s life without a few disorders? :) .

And consider this, taken from Learning Disabilities Online:

Did you know that Albert Einstein couldn’t read until he was nine? Walt Disney, General George Patton, and Vice President Nelson Rockefeller had trouble reading all their lives. Whoopi Goldberg and Charles Schwab and many others have learning disabilities which haven’t affected their ultimate success.

My next-door neighbors moved out this weekend.  As I passed one of them on the second flight of stairs, burdened with a piece of furniture, I couldn’t help but exclaim, “Wow, that bookcase is the size of Montana!”

“Yeah, we’ll be moving North and South Dakota in the next trip,” came the wry reply.

I hiked up to the third floor, peeking inside my neighbors soon-to-be old apartment.  (Come on, you’d peek, too.)  The woman I’d been living next to these past two years stood near the doorway, hands on hips.  Dust sprinkled her nose, a frown wrinkled her forehead.

Stuff was everywhere!  I was impressed by their use of every inch of their square footage.  That takes talent I just don’t have anymore.

“Happy moving day!” I greeted, giving a little wave.

“What’s happy about it?” She lamented, her frown deepening as she gestured toward her mountain of boxes.  “Where did all of this stuff come from?!“

Since I recognized their wine rack, I could have answered, “Bed, Bath & Beyond,” but I didn’t think that’d be helpful.

I entered into my own apartment, where the square footage isn’t used at all.  I consider my “home accessories” the wall-to-wall carpet and built-in fireplace.  I fell onto my sofa and started to giggle.

No, of course I wasn’t giggling at my neighbor’s distress.  All have you know, I’m a very compassionate person.  I was giggling because I’d just returned from Bed, Bath & Beyond, myself.

An hour before, I’d been cruising the above-mentioned store, pushing my shopping cart through the tightly packed aisles in an attempt to “spruce up” my apartment.  I’d recently redefined minimalism, adding some comfort to my austere life, and I’d decided that art work and extra kitchen towels were suddenly needed, too.  Not to mention that I was feeling a bit of peer pressure.

See, as I started dating again, my dates occasionally pick me up at my home, and I’d become discouraged at the shocked looks on their faces.  They inevitably ask, “Um, what happened?”

“To what?” I ask, not catching on.  I’m a little slow sometimes .  In a moment of panic, I’m tempted to use my Uganda Story, but (so far) have managed to control any outlandish lying.  Okay, I admit, I once said my carpets were getting shampooed, but that’s because I knew there wouldn’t be a second date.  Lying to those you won’t ever see again isn’t really lying, is it?

Last week, I wasn’t able to sleep, so I did the only practical thing I could think of: I ate peanut butter from the jar.  Since I’d recently purchased a full set of silverware, I was very classy about it.  Instead of my fingers, I used a spoon.

“I love spoons,” I said, mouth full of delicious stickiness.

And, as is typical when I’m up late at night eating peanut butter, I contemplated my life.  I looked around at the 750 square feet of bare carpeting. I brushed my fingers along the bare walls.  I thought of my dates, and my resulting embarrassment.  Tears welled in my eyes.  “I’m not normal!”

How could any other reasonable human being love me?  How is it possible that I have any friends?  I am crazy.  I don’t even own coffee mugs.  I’m unfit to live in society, for the love of goodness!

“Normal,” I said to myself with determination, “here I come.”

I abandoned the peanut butter jar (it was, after all, empty) and made a list of items that would make my apartment normal.  Rugs, lamps, art work…It was a long list.  I planned a Shopping Day.  I lifted soup cans to tone up my shopping muscles.  I ate a big breakfast.  I wore comfortable shopping shoes.

I was ready.

At Bed, Bath & Beyond, I became quickly overwhelmed.  I’d forgotten how many choices there are.  The colors, textures, patterns, “Seen On TV!” items, and hefty price tags.  I gripped the handle of the shopping basket, heart pumping.  But then a particularly lovely faux-watercolor caught my eye.  “Oooh, pretty!”  One thing lead to another and my shopping basket was overflowing with replicas for all of the things I once owned.

“And I must have this,” I said, throwing a polka-dotted oven mitt onto my stack of stuff.  Who can resist polka dots?

Sitting in line, I tapped my foot to Matchbook Twenty playing from the ceiling speakers.  I got a little closer to the register.  My foot slowed its tapping.  I gulped.  I rolled up to the check-out.  It was my turn.

“Find everything you need?”  The check-out lady asked, chomping on what looked like grape Bubbilicious.

I gripped the cart’s handle.  No, I’d hadn’t found anything that I’d needed.  Was a polka-dotted oven mitt going to make me a different person?  Would hanging pictures on my walls make people like me?  Well, maybe, but was that my purpose?  To slip on a veneer that doesn’t represent who I am?  I mentally calculated the dollar amount that sat in the cart.

“That’s, like, 3 years’ worth of state park stickers,” I blurted.  And hiking in my favorite state parks isn’t a veneer, it’s me.  Those hikes are more important than any faux-watercolor, no matter how pretty.  I glanced at the polka-dotted mitt.  “I don’t even use my oven.”

“Huh?” Miss Bubbilicious asked, brows cocked.

“I’m not normal!”  I exclaimed, releasing the cart like it’d suddenly caught on fire.  “And there’s nothing wrong with that!”

And like a tornado, I turned and ran to the parking lot like I’d just caught on fire.  I revved Eddie, hit the gas, and screeched out so fast I left tire marks.  This is panic with a dash of realization, Sunny-style .

On the drive home, I accepted the fact that I’ll never be normal…and should never bother trying.  Ever.  Again. 

For the record, living a minimalist lifestyle doesn’t automatically mean you’re wacked in the head.  I’m abnormal for many other reasons, as those who know me can attest to.  For example:

• In third grade, I told my teacher that my parents were foreign diplomats and because of this I couldn’t be placed in the “Time Out” corner.  It was worth a shot, considering how much time I spent in “Time Out” during elementary school.
• I drive with the windows down, even when it’s snowing.
• At 23, I decided to make all of my own bath products, but only succeeded in blowing up 20 pounds of wax in my kitchen.
• When I was 18, I spontaneously got a tattoo while walking by a tattoo parlor.  (The removal of this tattoo several years later made me question impromptu decisions – ouch!)
• When I was forced to go to Confession (I grew up Catholic), I’d pretend to be someone else and make up wild sins to tell the priest.  I kinda miss telling those stories, but not the 2,567 Hail Marys I had to recite afterwards.
• When I’m feeling stressed, I drive out to my favorite spot in the country, where the moon illuminates the Rockies.  I sit on the top of my car and sing BB King songs.

When I wrote my previous post about redefining minimalism, I hadn’t yet read the “riff” that’s developed within the minimalist blog-o-sphere.  The sudden shift away from 100 Things and criticism regarding extreme minimalism saddens me.  My intention in my last post regarding this subject wasn’t about giving up minimalism, or criticizing it, and hope it didn’t come across that way. 

I became a minimalist because I wanted a messy, authentic, happy life.  I got too wrapped up in the counting, taking me away from what I love most about minimalism: consciousness of life, not things.  For example, I gave away my coffee maker in an attempt to get as minimal as possible, just for the sake of it.  I realized coffee is my one-true-love (next to my sneakers).  Recognizing my folly, I replaced Mr. Coffee Pot a couple of weeks later.  I’m adjusting my approach as I move further along my minimalist path.

I recognized that my pursuit of minimalism had become an obsession over the mechanics of minimalism, instead I should’ve maintained my focus on the philosophy of minimalism.  Both aspects are a lot of fun, no argument there.  I consider the 100 Thing Challenge to be kind of a ”Step 1″.  It’s an excellent beginning that raises your awareness.  It never has to be given up, but if that becomes your exclusive focus, I’d ask, “Why?”  If the answer is, “‘Cause it makes me happy,” – awesome!  Keep going.  But if it’s lost all purpose, reconsider your approach.

Here’s my list of what I need, in terms of fulfilling the mechanics of minimalism:

• A set of dishes so I can eat more than one meal before running out of plates and bowls.  But no more than 1 set – and no fine china for this girl!
• A set of silverware so I can eat peanut butter civil-like from the jar.  How else could I contemplate life, hm?  
• Kitchen appliances I actually use.  There are only two: (1) coffee maker, (2) toaster.
• Fluffy towels.  Not enough to stock Target’s aisle D3.  Two works perfectly.
• A place to sit – comfortably – to read my books.  This is my sofa.
• A place to eat dinner and write blog posts.  This is my (borrowed) dining table.
• A place to sleep.  Unfortunatey, this is also my sofa, but here’s one area I’ve decided needs an upgrade.  To a real bed.  Yum.
• Enough clothes to get me through a week.
• Hiking gear because this is a huge part of my life.
• Digital camera because taking pictures is my favorite hobby.
• Laptop.  Couldn’t live without it!  Well, wouldn’t want to live without it.

Here’s what I concentrate on to pursue my personal philosophy of minimalism:

• It’s chipping away what I consider superfluous.
• It’s accepting who I really am.
• It’s deciding how I really want to spend my time.
• It’s giving up pretense.
• It’s giving up consumerism.
• It’s cherishing time.
• It’s saying exactly what I mean.
• It’s the foundation on which I structure my entire life.
• It’s constantly asking, “Do I need this to live well?”
• It’s deciding, for myself, what this life means to me.  And going after that life, without holding anything back.  Doing so, too, with as few burdens as possible – in my heart and in my home.

I’m a long-term committed minimalist – would marry it, if I could.  I’m committed to concentrating on what matters.  For me, this means owning so little that I’m considered kooky.  The time and mental space that my minimalist lifestyle lends is too delicious to give up.  I want to fill that extra space – not with things – but with time driving with my windows down in a snowstorm, being with people who make me laugh, giving of myself whenever it’s needed, and getting lost on a backwoods trail with my camera.

I’m off to eat peanut butter now.  With a spoon.  But my walls aren’t going to make me cry tonight.