As I re-arranged a few items today, I came to a startling realization about my place in our home.
I had always assumed, you see, that my journey into minimalism would mean that there was less of “me” in our home. Fewer toys from my favorite shows. Fewer trinkets and knick-knacks. Fewer books and games on the shelves. I was okay with that, because I would still have all the things that actually mattered to me.
What I realized, though, is that isn’t what happened at all! I’m still apparent in our home, but defined less by what I have bought than by what I do.
Most of the posters on the walls belong to others . . . but the paintings on the wall (and a few simple pieces of graphic design) are all mine. Not bought, but made.
I own fewer of the books on the shelves (though there are still a few hundred novels both graphic and prose) but there are also a few journals where I pour out my thoughts quite frequently. I’ve even written one of those books up there, even if it was only self-published!
I have a few store-bought knick-knacks left, those that I love, but I’ve also molded several figures out of clay, tucking them into the odd corner or window sill.
More, while I may not have as many items about as I used to, I still control the arrangement – for good or ill – of each one. The overall feel of our home is almost entirely on my own terms. I organize and arrange things as I see fit – the guys long ago learned it’s easier to just get out of my way and figure out where everything is when the dust settles.
I expected that with fewer belongings my influence on our lifestyle would be less, but I was wrong.
I wonder what else I might have been wrong about? What other assumptions should I question?
