The Joy of Less, a Minimalist Living Guide (2 page)

Finally, we’ll explore how being minimalists makes us better citizens of the planet, and helps us conserve its bounty for future generations. We’ll look at the true impact of our consumer choices, examining both the human and environmental toll of the things we buy; and learn the far-reaching benefits of living lightly and gracefully on the Earth. The best part: we’ll discover how saving space in our closets, and saving the world, go hand in hand.

Ready to sweep away the clutter once and for all? Just turn the page for your first dose of minimalist philosophy; in a few minutes, you’ll be on the road to a simpler, more streamlined, and more serene life.

Imagine that we’re generals going into battle, or athletes before a big game: to perform at our best, we must mentally prepare ourselves for the challenges ahead. In the following pages, we’ll develop our secret to success: a minimalist mindset.

This section is all about attitude. Before we can take control of our stuff, we need to change our relationship with it. We’ll define it, see it for what it is and what it isn’t, and examine its effects on our lives. The principles we learn will make it easier for us to let stuff go, and help us keep more stuff from coming in the door. Most importantly, we’ll realize that our stuff exists to serve us, not the other way around.

Take a look around you; chances are, at least twenty or thirty items are in your direct line of vision. What is this stuff? How did it get there? What is its purpose?

It’s time to see our stuff for what it is. We want to name it, define it, and take the mystery out of it. What exactly are these things we spend so much time and energy acquiring, maintaining, and storing? And how did there get to be so many of them? (Were they multiplying while we slept?)

Generally speaking, our stuff can be divided into three categories: useful stuff, beautiful stuff, and emotional stuff.

Let’s start with the easiest category: useful stuff. These are the items that are practical, functional, and help us get things done. Some of them are essential to survival; others make our lives a little easier. It’s tempting to think that
all
our stuff is useful—but have you ever read a book on survival techniques? It’s quite illuminating how little we actually need to keep ourselves alive: a simple shelter, clothing to regulate our body temperature, water, food, a few containers, and some cooking implements. (If this is all you own, you can stop reading now; if not, join the rest of us, and press on!)

Beyond the bare essentials are items not necessary to survival, but still very useful: beds, sheets, laptops, tea kettles, combs, pens, staplers, lamps, books, plates, forks, sofas, extension cords, hammers, screwdrivers, whisks—you get the picture. Anything you use often, and which truly adds value to your life, is a welcome part of a minimalist household.

Ah, but remember: to be useful, an item must be
used
. That’s the catch: most of us have a lot of
potentially useful
things that we simply don’t use. Duplicates are a prime example: how many of those plastic food containers make it out of your pantry and into your lunch bag or freezer? Does your cordless drill really need an understudy? Other things languish because they’re too complicated, or a hassle to clean: food processors, fondue sets, and humidifiers come to mind. Then there are the “just in cases” and the “might need its,” biding their time in the backs of our drawers, waiting to make their debuts. Those are the items whose days are numbered.

Intermixed with our useful things are those that have no practical function, but satisfy a different kind of need: to put it simply, we like to look at them. Throughout history, we human beings have felt compelled to beautify our surroundings—as evidenced from Paleolithic cave paintings to the pictures hanging over our sofas.

Aesthetic appreciation is an important part of our identities, and should not be denied. The brilliant glaze on a beautiful vase, or sleek lines of a modernist chair, may bring a deep and joyful satisfaction to our souls; therefore, such items have every right to be part of our lives. The caveat: they must be respected and honored with a prominent place in our homes. If your collection of Murano glass is collecting dust on a shelf—or worse yet, is packed away in the attic—it’s nothing more than colorful clutter.

As you’re taking stock of your possessions, don’t give an automatic pass to anything artsy. Just because it appealed to you one summer’s day at a craft fair, doesn’t mean it deserves a lifelong lease on your living room mantel. On the other hand, if it always brings a smile to your face—or if its visual harmony stirs your soul with a deeper appreciation for the beauty of life—its place in your home is well-deserved.

Now if all the stuff in our houses were either beautiful or useful, this would be easy. But as sure as the day is long, you will come across plenty of items that are neither. So where did they come from, and why are they there? Nine times out of ten, they represent some kind of memory or emotional attachment: your grandmother’s old china, your dad’s pipe collection, that sarong you bought on your honeymoon. They remind us of people, places, and events that are of particular importance to us. Most often, they enter our homes in the form of gifts, heirlooms, and souvenirs.

Again, if the item in question fills your heart with joy, display it with pride and enjoy its presence. If, on the other hand, you’re holding on to it out of a sense of obligation (like Aunt Edna would turn over in her grave if you gave away her porcelain teacups) or proof of an experience (like nobody would believe you visited the Grand Canyon if you ditched the kitschy snow globe), then some soul-searching is in order.

As you walk around your house, have a conversation with your stuff. Ask each item, “What are you and what do you do?” “How did you come into my life?” “Did I buy you, or were you given to me?” “How often do I use you?” “Would I replace you if you were lost or broken, or would I be relieved to be rid of you?” “Did I ever want you in the first place?” Be honest with your answers—you won’t hurt your stuff’s feelings.

In the course of asking these questions, you’ll likely come across two sub-categories of stuff, one of which is “other stuff’s stuff.” You know what I mean—some stuff just naturally accumulates other stuff: like accessories, manuals, cleaners, stuff to go with the stuff, display the stuff, contain the stuff, and fix the stuff. There’s some great decluttering potential here: ditching one thing could lead to a cascade of castoffs!

The second sub-category is “other people’s stuff.” This is a tricky one. With the possible exception of your (young) children, your authority over other people’s stuff is pretty limited. If it’s the kayak your brother asked you to store in your basement—and hasn’t reclaimed in fifteen years—you have the right to take matters into your hands (after a phone call requesting prompt removal, of course). However, if it’s your spouse’s overflowing hobby supplies, or your teenager’s outgrown pop star memorabilia, a more diplomatic attitude is required. With any luck, your decluttering will become contagious, and result in those other people taking care of their own stuff.

For now, simply stroll around and get to know your stuff: that thing is useful, that one is beautiful, that belongs to someone else (easy as pie!). Don’t be concerned about decluttering just yet; we’ll get to that soon enough. Of course, if you happen to stumble across something useless, ugly, or unidentifiable—go ahead, get a head start, and give it the heave-ho!

Contrary to what marketers would have you believe,
you are not what you own
. You are you, and things are things; no physical or mathematical alchemy can alter these boundaries, despite what that full-page magazine ad or clever commercial tries to tell you.

Nevertheless, we occasionally fall prey to the advertiser’s pitch. Therefore, we must account for another sub-category of items we own: “aspirational stuff.” These are the things we buy to impress others, or to indulge our “fantasy selves”—you know, the one that’s twenty pounds thinner, travels the world, attends cocktail parties, or plays in a rock band.

We may be reluctant to admit it, but we likely acquired many of our possessions to project a certain image. Take automobiles, for example. We can satisfy our need for transportation with a simple car that gets us from Point A to Point B. Why then, would we pay double (or even triple) the price for a “luxury” car? Because automakers pay advertising firms big bucks to convince us that our cars are projections of ourselves, our personalities, and our positions in the corporate world or social hierarchy.

It doesn’t stop there, of course. The compulsion to identify with consumer products reaches deep into our lives—from our choice of homes to what we put into them. Most people would agree that a small, basic house more than satisfies our need for shelter (especially compared to Third World accommodations). However, aspirational marketing decrees that we “need” a master suite, bedrooms for each child, his-and-her bathrooms, and kitchens with professional grade appliances; otherwise, we haven’t quite “made it.” Square footage becomes a status symbol; and naturally, it takes many more sofas, chairs, tables, knickknacks, and other stuff to outfit a larger house.

We’re told that the contents of our homes are reflections of ourselves—and we should take care to display the “right” things to convey the desired impression. Bear rugs and deer antler chandeliers proclaim our outdoorsy, pioneer spirit; Old World antiques speak to our refined European tastes; Moroccan lanterns and floor pillows reveal our exotic, bohemian side. Yet none of these things are really necessary to communicate our interests or personalities; it’s what we do—not what we have—that’s far more illuminating.

Ads also encourage us to define ourselves through our clothing—and ideally, with brand name apparel. These designer labels don’t make our clothes any warmer, our handbags any sturdier, or our lives any more glamorous. Furthermore, such trend-setting items seem to go out of style mere minutes after their purchase—leaving our closets packed with outdated duds which we hope someday will return to fashion. In reality, the majority of us have no need for celebrity-sized wardrobes, as our clothes and accessories will never garner widespread comment or attention. Nevertheless, marketers try to convince us that we live in the spotlight, and would do well to dress accordingly.

It’s not easy to be a minimalist in a mass media world. Advertisers constantly bombard us with the message that material accumulation is the measure of success. They exploit the fact that it’s a lot easier to
buy
status than to earn it. How many times have you heard that “more is better,” “fake it ‘til you make it,” or “clothes make the man?” They tell us that more stuff means more happiness, when in fact, more stuff often means more headaches and more debt. The purchase of all this stuff is certainly benefiting someone…but it’s not us.

Truth be told, products will never make us into something we’re not. Designer handbags won’t make us rich, premium lipsticks won’t make us supermodels, and expensive pens won’t make us successful executives. Pricey garden tools won’t give us green thumbs, and high-end cameras won’t turn us into award-winning photographers. Yet we feel compelled to buy, and keep, stuff that holds a promise—to make us happier, prettier, smarter, a better parent or spouse, more loved, more organized or more capable.

But consider this: if these things haven’t delivered on their promises yet, it may be time to let them go.

Similarly, consumer products are not surrogates for experience. We don’t need to own a garage full of camping gear, sports equipment, and pool toys when what we’re really seeking is quality time with our family. Inflatable reindeer and piles of presents do not make a joyous holiday; gathering with our loved ones does. Accumulating mountains of yarn, stacks of cookbooks, and boxes of art supplies will not automatically make us accomplished knitters, master chefs, or creative geniuses. The activities themselves—not the materials—are what’s essential to our enjoyment and personal development.

We also identify with stuff from our past, and hold on to certain things to prove who we were, or what we accomplished. How many of us still have cheerleading uniforms, letter sweaters, swimming trophies, or notebooks from long-forgotten college classes? We rationalize keeping them as evidence of our achievements (as if we might need to dig out our old Calculus tests to prove we passed the course). However, these items are usually stuffed in a box somewhere, not proving anything to anybody. If that’s the case, it may be time to release these relics of yesterday’s you.

As we examine our things with a critical eye, we may be surprised how much of it commemorates our past, represents our hopes for the future, or belongs to our imaginary selves. Unfortunately, devoting too much of our space, time, and energy to these things keeps us from living in the present.

Sometimes we fear that getting rid of certain items is equivalent to getting rid of part of ourselves. No matter that we rarely play that violin, and have never worn that evening gown—the moment we let them go, we’ll eliminate our chance to become virtuosos or socialites. And heaven forbid we throw away that high school mortarboard—it’ll be like we never graduated.

We have to remember that our memories, dreams, and ambitions aren’t contained in these objects; they’re contained in ourselves. We are not what we own; we are what we do, what we think, and who we love. By eliminating the remnants of unloved pastimes, uncompleted endeavors, and unrealized fantasies, we make room for new (and
real
) possibilities. Aspirational items are the props for a pretend version of our lives; we need to clear out this clutter, so that we have the time, energy, and space to realize our true selves, and our full potential.