The Moving Minimalist

 

I’m moving.

Again.

I know, I know, after the last move I promised myself, “Never again!” But I’m moving just 200 feet away, within walking distance. That means I’m shifting all my belongings one house over, box by box. Do you remember that I wrote about this idea when I last moved just three years ago? Do you recall the question I pondered? Why doesn’t the whole world embrace the idea and just pick up and move one house over every year or two? 

I'm doing it.  

I hate to deprive you all of the joy of moving.   Quebec does it—the whole country picks up and moves all together. Every July 1st, they have a national moving day and every vehicle is press-ganged into acting as a moving van. Admittedly their national move is not as comprehensive as I envision, only 250,000 people participate, but I’ll bet it would accomplish my original goal and that is to rid myself of most of my life-long junk and re-home it to a better place.  We could all jump aboard the minimalist bandwagon and at the same time, we could make a party from the moving fun! 

I’m moving. One house over. It’s crazy how the universe fulfills my wildest imaginings. I practice hyperbolic writing therapy. I write way over the top and I exaggerate most of my experiences. When I do that, I pretend that no real life experience could ever be as ridiculous. And somehow that absurdity rescues me from life’s irrational moments. But my outrageous satire, is somehow evolving into reality.

Just a reminder to myself, “Don’t write it down because the internet snoops and it doesn’t just send you pop-ups. Somehow it sends your ideas out into the ether and that opens a crack in the universe and it’s leaking!!! I know because I’ve already written about that too.¹

Today’s leak from the internet crack is filled with hints on downsizing. Ads blast me with, “The Magic of Tidy Clutter,” “Swedish Unstuffed,” and “The More Joy Less-ness in Less-ness-ness.”² Unjunking your life is hot, it’s hip, it’s trending. Thanks to insights from my personal and private conversations, minimalism is now my internet focus de-jour.

Minimalism stems from the newest generation’s assurance that their needs will always be met. They have never gone without and expect to never suffer deprivation in their future. So fling stuff away—haphazardly into the wind. Just get rid of it. For the rest of us who call in search and rescue every time we navigate the basement, minimalism is a clarion call to action. It’s time again to dump the junk.

It hard, but I hug each cast-off, I talk to it, and then I pack it joyfully into a box. But trashing that box is a challenge and to make that final shove over the dumpster’s edge, requires intervention. I lean heavily on my family input and our typical conversation sounds something like this:

“Why do you have three of these pans?” asks the daughter.

I respond, “I use all three of those pans.”

“The same size?” she asks dubiously, “And all at once?”

“Yes, often.” I insist.

“When did you start baking for the army?” she wonders.

We all know I don’t start out baking for the army, but I have this irrepressible urge to perform acts of service. It’s my own love language. That’s how I tell people I care about them in their difficult times. Somewhere in my genetic makeup wanders a little old church lady who binge bakes love lasagna, and pity pound cakes and she needs her pans!

“Well,” I take a deep breath, “I have so many pans because I bake unpredictably. I don’t plan that—it just happens. When the first batch bombs, I may need to start a second batch in a second pan.”

She catches on quickly, “Okay, then keep just two pans.”

“But,” I continue, “About the time I botch the first batch, your father smells it and he shows up in the kitchen. Then I have to bake the third batch for him, unless the second batch bombs too—which happens frequently. Then I let him salvage what he can from the first failed two and I try to avoid compounding the failure with my third attempt.”

The daughter is well versed in the perfidy of baking because she shares my DNA and she is nodding like a superstitious fan who gets me. I don’t need to expound for her, but I do it anyway.

“You know my disinclination for repetition? I hate to repeat anything the same way twice. So I substitute an ingredient, tweek the recipe and sometimes a gastric epiphany results. When your dabblings have created a masterpiece and you are on winning streak, you can’t make any changes. If you switch hot pads, or use a different mixing spoon, then you mess with the baking alchemy and the results can be volatile. When your attempts are cursed, you best make your humble apologies to the oven and back away quietly and then love to bake another day.”

I stop to take a breath and to make my final point. “I am forced to keep all those pans. And to wear my shirt backward, and my socks inside out, because doing that sets me up for baking success.”

“Ah Ha!” She nods and understands. “You should keep the pans.”

And the crack in my universe expands.

1And I watch Dr. Who.

2It’s a compilation of a conglomeration.

That's My Reality and Sometimes It Bites.  And When It Does, I Write.