A Life Decluttered: Space for the Future
I write a lot about decluttering and its impact on my stress levels today. How a minimalist, organized space aids in my productivity as well as my relaxation. And it's true. But today I want to focus on another reason to simplify: to make room for the future, and all that it will bring.
We moved into our new home about six weeks ago and have scurried about to get things in order - even more so now than my usual need for serenity due to this growing little one in my belly. It's been an exciting season - a season of accumulation as I've been terming it - in large part due to the fact that we had nothing whatsoever for a baby. I wondered if the accumulating would add stress to my life - it going so against the grain of the minimalist lifestyle I live and write about. But it hasn't. And here's why: we had space for the baby. We didn't have to make room for her. By not filling every nook and cranny of our former home, and by consciously consuming baby products that weren't excessive, there was space waiting for her.
When we hold onto possessions for all the wrong reasons ("I spent a lot of money on that"; "So and so gave that to me ten years ago and while it'll never leave my closet, my guilt won't allow me to let it go": "This particular collection - of books, of CDs, of memorabilia - is proof that a significant period in my life took place"; "What if, even though I haven't touched this object ever, I find a use for it someday") - when we hold onto possessions for all the wrong reasons, we are cluttering our present lives with the stuff from our past. And when we are bogged down the past, we make no room for the unknown that will surely meet us. And I don't know about you, but I want to make room for the adventures that come my way.
When I moved to Indianapolis and we donated half of my man's house to charity, we weren't even engaged yet. It was a smaller home, but we had tons of space. After we'd decluttered what wasn't necessary, the second bedroom had one object in it: my desk. We could have bought furniture to fill it. But we decided not to. Because the only reason to have done so would have been to fill up space for filling up space's sake.
Like my bedroom in Brooklyn, I have found memories of that room, writing in it. My desk was all I needed. There was a window that looked out on the pond - I'd watch the geese fight with the ducks, but sometimes an elegant blue heron would stand in my sight-line and take my breath away. All I needed was that desk and that window.
And the excess space served a purpose. When we did have out of town guests, we pulled out the blow-up bed and they had a place to stay. When they left, the bed deflated and the room returned to normal, giving me space to write.
After we got married and before we decided to move closer to downtown, I'd daydream about it becoming a nursery. More incentive not to fill it up with stuff... Because I was waiting and hoping for a future when it would be a nest for our sweet babe.
And then my grandmother took a turn for the worse and had to move into a nursing home. My mother and aunt started parsing out her beautiful collection of furniture. The lady had taste. And while much of her pieces didn't necessarily fit our aesthetic, she had a set of blue slipper chairs that always took my breathe away. And they fit perfectly in a writer's room. When they arrived, it was as if they'd always been in there, as if I'd always curled up in them to read a book or sip my morning coffee. As if the space had been waiting for them, and them alone. They were worth the wait. And they'd grow with our house. I just knew it.
Now that we've moved, the chairs are in the family room and we again have a room that houses only my desk. And again, I have no desire to fill it up just to make it look less barren. Life has taught me that the future will reveal how its use will change. For now, it'll be my writing room where I can also roll my yoga mat out (and get this bod back into shape after Little Miss arrives). And, as life unfolds, more will be revealed.
