The quest for simplicity is a common thread in the life of monks and hermits. For me, such simplicity is worth pursuit for the clarity that I hope will come with it. I’ve had a few careers (sculptor, grad student, scientist, web developer, entrepreneur) and several hobbies (boat building, playing multiple instruments, furniture restoration, unicycling, and juggling). And I was a parent. All of this adds up to a complex heap of possessions that would complicate a simpler life.
The process of cleaning house took nothing less than years. That’s right. And it continues.
I come from a lineage of packrats and hoarders. I didn’t get the hoarding impulse, but I did have the packrat one (I like to think there is a difference). Lots of scraps that I might use one day, several yards of books that have one or two pages marked for reference from the days before wikipedia. And as the parent of the sole child in our family’s lineage, I had hand-me-downs to be treasured from all directions. It was an overwhelming burden, an impossible mess to keep organized, and I’m still not through with it, but so much closer.
I’m fairly good at assessing when I have reached a clear limit in my abilities. Downsizing from a bloated three bedroom that I raised my son in to a 99sq ft shed was once such time. I dug into the self help media, and encountered the popular series by Marie Kondo, which, in short, recommends that you responsibly get rid of stuff that doesn’t spark joy. It was a completely foreign notion to me. This method worked great for kitchen stuff, books, and clothes. It didn’t help much with my kid’s things, tools, and supplies that I was surely convinced might be useful someday, and paperwork, which never sparks joy.
The next helpful thing was learning about the Scandinavian habit of “Death Cleaning.” This amounts to routinely casting away things that you won’t ever use that you don’t want your survivors having to deal with. After seeing my parents endure this process, which they never finished, and my brother and I dealing with both our parents’ and grandparents’ belongings, I will not stand for all the crap to be moved on to yet another generation. This line of thought was immensely helpful for family photos, my estranged older brother’s ice-cream-goobered kids books, tufted Victorian era chairs, and shit that smelled musty and recalled family arguments over dry turkey and cold green beans.
I gave meaningful and useful things to people I knew who might use them. I donated clean, functional objects. I recycled a lot of things. And I threw out what was left if I couldn’t compost it or burn it cleanly.
I think I cut my possessions down to about 20% of the initial bloated hoard. I’m having trouble pinning my son down to make decisions about what “Sparks Joy” for him, so his things are in sealed tubs, but some day…
I no longer accept gifts of stuff. People can write me a poem, sing me a song, or make me gluten free cookies if they find their generosity towards me compelling. The things in my hermitage bring me comfort, and they have a place. I can find an 1-1/4″ drywall screw in the dark. It’s efficient, and I don’t have to think about things in amorphous ways that cause stress.
I should also mention that Mons Domus has no closets. That was an intentional designed-in commitment to have only what I need here.
My recommendations based on my massive downsize:
- Pick up one of Marie Kondo’s books and follow through with it. Spark Joy was most helpful for me. Forget the dramatic tiny house videos with weepy newlyweds bickering about scarves and shoes. Focus on your stuff.
- Watch some videos on Scandinavian Death Cleaning.
- Sort your hardware. It will be useful that way and save you trips to the hardware store.
- Make yourself a poster with a decision tree about keeping or letting things go. When you have an object that you have history with in hand, sometimes it is surprisingly difficult to make that call. Having the procedure spelled out objectively in front of you helps keep the process from being too emotionally draining.
- Since I am a functional animist, Ms. Kondo’s advice to thank objects for their service to you before parting with them was unbelievably helpful in letting things go like hole-y socks, excessively worn favorite T-shirts and extra food storage lids.