The Joy of Less

by Amy Newmark

  In 2008 our marriage shattered like a mirror. Jon and I decided to pick up the pieces and eventually, after therapy, decided that the best way to reclaim the relationship we began as eleven-year-old kids was to hit the road with our children.

  Now our life fits into 200 square feet of living space in this motor-home and a 5x7 storage unit. With such limited storage space something new comes in only if something old goes out — or so I keep telling my children. This lifestyle holds me accountable, especially when I walk through a store.

  Today, I sit to write in the quiet of the morning. I begin a new travel blog as Jon sets up his TV tray next to me in the corner of the bedroom. Jon eventually found work on the road after a year and a half dry spell. With no money, times were desperate until he found a fellow traveler, now friend, who also lives with his family on the road. A gracious man who offered to mentor Jon from the back of his camper in the art of warehouse software development. Our friendship has now morphed into being more like relatives. That’s how it is on the road. Your crazy traveling friends become your crazy traveling family. After living literally next door to each other one can only hide personality quirks for so long. Or maybe that is just me with the quirks?

  Now our life fits into 200 square feet of living space in this motorhome and a 5x7 storage unit.

  With the Internet the only requirement for his work, Jon clicks away in a T-shirt and shorts. Interesting how productive one can be when out of the sterile environment of a cubby or basement. I work on editing my latest YouTube show as I step out to share my life with the world. A life I am finally happy with living where we are not just surviving, but thriving.

  The motorhome feels cozy. It’s a space that has brought loving things into our lives, from beautiful places to accepting people. A space where busyness has been removed and in its place we have practiced connection. I have permission to find myself, to spend time with my husband, and to know the passions and struggles of my children. I was unable to find this depth in my old life.

  Today, I will rub elbows with my kids quite literally as we pass through the hallway we call a kitchen. I will talk to them as I make brunch, be asked to look at their newest interests, and laugh at their latest funny video find. Traveling friends will soon cram into empty spaces on the floor and couch as they pass around the popcorn and play another round of Clue. There is nothing better than listening to the kids’ laughter pulse through the cardboard walls as they chatter until the moon gleams its light.

  Later in the week we will find a hiking trail to breathe in the gift of nature. Hiking has become a family activity that requires little equipment and provides an array of adventure. It spreads us out and gives us an opportunity to talk one-on-one with each kid as we walk. It has been an activity we continue even as they morph into their teen years — a time when society has warned us we will be at odds with each other. We don’t think that has to happen to us.

  I never knew we could be more content with so much less stuff and less space. Our ancestors may have lived with less stuff and in one-room homes from necessity, but today we are choosing this life every day because it allows us to focus on each other. Sure there are moments where I feel like I might explode from the intensity of sound and proximity. Yes, there are times I fire up the van and squeal away to a coffee shop to just hear my own thoughts! Yet, I now feel such depth of joy and connection in my life.

  In letting go of the busyness of schedule and stuff, my arms are now free to embrace today. And so I embrace the essence of today — the people with whom I share this adventure of life in a rolling cardboard box.

  ~Jema Anderson

  Mental Selfie

  Slow down and enjoy life. It’s not only the scenery you miss by going too fast — you also miss the sense of where you are going and why.

  ~Eddie Cantor

  I picked up my phone to take a picture of the beautiful scenery we were passing through while the tour guide spoke. We were heading to our hotel where we would be spending the night before traveling to the next country on our tour.

  I swiped my iPhone lock screen to get to my camera and got a message that was one of my worst nightmares during a vacation: “Cannot take photo: There is not enough available storage to take a photo. You can manage your storage in Settings.” I panicked and quickly went to my camera roll to see what pictures I could delete. No candidates. I needed to keep all 1,456 of the photos I already had. So I tried the next best thing: to delete some apps: Yelp — need it! Facebook — nope! Need to stay in touch with friends and family and the same thing for Instagram and Twitter and GroupMe and Viber and Whatsapp.

  My dread turned into anger — anger at myself for not remembering to transfer my photos the night before; anger at Apple for having apps that I couldn’t delete that took up valuable space that I needed at this moment; and anger at technology in general for failing me when I really needed its cooperation.

  Then, I accepted defeat. I would just have to ask my newly made friends in the tour group to share their photos with me.

  In the minutes that I spent working through my storage issue, I missed many breathtaking views that the tour guide was pointing out. I would probably never get to see them again, and wasn’t I on this trip to see them? I thought back to the conversation I had with my brother a couple months before planning this trip.

  I had wanted to visit Switzerland, Italy, France and many other European countries for as long as I could remember. As I started to book the trip, my brother said, “What is the point of actually going there? You’re spending pretty much all of your savings to buy tickets, then you’ll have to sit on the long flight there and then once you reach your destination you’ll have to deal with countless more obstacles and crowds in order to experience these countries for just a few hours or if you’re lucky maybe for a day. Instead you can sit here in the comfort of your own home and look at thousands of pictures and videos of Switzerland and all the other countries you want to visit and much more. You will probably also be able to get a much better and complete view of it than if you were to actually visit it.” I knew what my brother was saying was all just crazy talk! How could photos and videos compare to actually going to Switzerland and experiencing it?

  I was forced to take mental pictures and to experience Switzerland without a camera coming between us.

  But wasn’t that exactly what I was planning on doing? I was planning on looking at Switzerland through a screen in order to take pictures and that is exactly what I had been doing since the beginning of this tour. Sure I got to see some things when I gave myself a chance to look up every once in a while between taking pictures, but I was robbing myself of the experience that I had been looking forward to for so long. So while at first I was annoyed at myself and heartbroken that I wouldn’t have pictures of my own, it was actually a blessing in disguise. I was forced to take mental pictures and to experience Switzerland without a camera coming between us. Throughout the last couple days of the tour, I reminded myself of this and forced myself to experience the other countries the way that I had with Switzerland.

  Now, a year later, as I continue to share my travel experiences with my friends, I no longer use countless pictures that they could see on Google to tell my story. Instead I use my memory and my unique experiences to create an image in their minds that no picture could ever match, because this experience was mine: the mental pictures that I took, the beautiful and sometimes horrible smells, the taste of different cuisines, and the first time I ever touched a snowflake. These were all things that I touched and felt without a screen getting in the way.

  Is my first instinct still to reach for my phone to take a picture? Yes! But over time I have trained myself to limit it to a couple of photos rather than 1,456.

  ~Shehfina Mamdani

  Finding Mount Fuji

  I like to walk about among the beautiful things that adorn the world; but private wealth I should decline, or any sort of personal possessions, because they would take away my liberty.<
br />
  ~George Santayana

  “Where’s the rest of it?” I peered in the doorway of what was to be our home for the next twelve months, convinced that the nineteen-hour flight to Japan had adversely affected my vision. There was no way our apartment could be this small.

  “This is all of it,” my husband Pete responded.

  “The rental agent said our apartment was a mansion — this place can’t be more than three hundred square feet.”

  “It’s a mansion by Japanese standards,” Pete reminded me.

  “It’s a mansion if you’re a Polly Pocket doll,” I retorted.

  I surveyed my surroundings. Ever since Pete and I were notified that his company was transferring us overseas, I had envisioned what life immersed in the Japanese culture would look like. Nothing I saw before me came close to what I had anticipated. With dismay I realized that the tiny space I was standing in was both the family room and the bedroom — the setup of the futon would determine what role the room played. Stepping forward a few feet, I slid the rice-paper door that divided our sleeping/living area from the kitchen/dining area.

  If I wanted to cook, it would be in a contraption that looked like an Easy-Bake Oven — if I figured out how to use the controls, which were all labeled in kanji. The dorm room-sized refrigerator meant daily trips to the grocery store. And while the kitchen was stocked with dishes and cookware, there was no garbage disposal or dishwasher; apparently KP duty was also on my list of expatriate chores. Then there was the bathroom — not much larger than an airplane lavatory, yet somehow the washer/dryer was crammed in there next to a tiny bathtub and single sink. The heated toilet seat, while novel, was hardly a consolation. I wanted my soaking tub, massage jets, and steam shower.

  “This place is claustrophobic,” I told Pete.

  “Maybe it’ll look better in the morning after we’ve gotten some sleep,” he answered.

  “Maybe it’ll look better in twelve months — when we’re moving back to the U.S.,” I replied.

  The apartment didn’t look any better, or bigger, in the morning. If anything, daylight illuminated how cramped and unsophisticated our quarters really were. A bulky contraption haphazardly attached to the wall functioned as both heater and air-conditioner. We had a television, but no access to American programming. We had a bike for transportation, but no car. And as for clothes — I now understood why we were told to bring only one suitcase each. We would be sharing a closet that was one-fourth the size of the space we had at home.

  For the next several weeks, I hid in our apartment and moped. I came to Japan picturing sprawling landscapes, lush cherry blossom trees, glamorous ladies wearing kimonos, and awe-inspiring shrines. I expected dinners at expensive Japanese restaurants, overnight weekends in Tokyo, invitations to tea ceremonies, and abundant opportunities to be the token “American friend” to my Japanese neighbors. Instead, I was stuck, alone, in a studio-sized apartment overlooking an active construction site and congested city street. The homeless lady who spent her days sitting on the bench outside our doorway was a constant reminder of how displaced I felt. I missed my spacious house, my friends at the gym, my lively social life, and my stocked freezer. I craved Diet Pepsi, peanut butter, and candy corn. I wanted my car, my TV shows, and my cleaning lady.

  And then one afternoon, bored and depressed, I saw it — Mount Fuji — right outside our kitchen window and, until now, hidden by the summer smog which had finally lifted. I was awestruck and incredulous that we had been living within eyesight of this iconic and majestic landmark yet hadn’t seen it until today. I suddenly realized how insignificant everything I missed from the U.S. really was compared to the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity I had before me. I had been letting all I longed for back in America cloud my experience here in Japan. I needed to stop dwelling on what I had left in the U.S. and start focusing on what I could find in Japan.

  Finally inspired by Mount Fuji, I began to explore our little town of Tokorozawa. The grocery store, the convenience store, and the post office were all easily accessible on my one-speed-bike-with-a-basket — who needed a car? Emboldened, I ventured farther from home, taking the train to Harajuku, Roppongi, and Tokyo. And while I loved the bustle and vibe of those progressive and energetic cities, I realized that I was comforted upon returning to what was becoming my welcome-home place — my small, cozy apartment that was simple, clutter-free, and “home.”

  When our assignment in Japan ended, I re-entered the U.S. with a new appreciation for all the conveniences life in America offered but very little desire to take advantage of them.

  I learned to appreciate the simplicity of my lifestyle in Japan. It was liberating not to sort through an overstuffed closet deciding what to wear; I fell into a predictable rotation of jeans, sweaters, shorts, and tops. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel the urge to update my wardrobe — what I had on hand was good enough. I began to look forward to my daily trips to the grocery store. Unable to fall back on frozen food or prepackaged meals, I challenged my culinary skills and exercised my creativity in the kitchen — something I found I actually enjoyed.

  I resumed journaling and writing letters to friends and family and discovered a renewed appreciation for something as simple as a reply sent via airmail. And, when one of my afternoon excursions led me to a vending machine that dispensed Diet Pepsi, I was thrilled by this small luxury. I realized that I didn’t need or even care about all the luxuries afforded to me back home. The size of my house, the labels on my wardrobe, inclusion in a social scene — what did that really matter? What did that prove about my worth? Absolutely nothing. And that knowledge was absolutely freeing.

  When our assignment in Japan ended, I re-entered the U.S. with a new appreciation for all the conveniences life in America offered but very little desire to take advantage of them. I was overwhelmed by the size of homes we were bidding on — why did I need all this space? And TV — how could anyone focus on one particular show with so many choices? Much of what we had left in storage, I donated to Goodwill — it no longer had a hold on me. And when we finally moved into our new home, the one item I held most dear was a print of Mount Fuji — artwork I hung in our foyer as a daily reminder of how much abundance can come from having less.

  ~Stacy Thibodeaux

  Trading Houses

  You don’t have to be rich to travel well.

  ~Eugene Fodor

  When I tell people that my husband and I are able to travel so much by trading houses with strangers, I usually get one of two reactions: “Wow! I want to try that!” or “Ew! You let people you don’t know sleep in your bed?” House trading is not for everyone; it takes a certain adventurous spirit, flexibility, and a bit of faith in humanity, but we’ve found that taking that leap of faith has been well worth it, both in expanding our travel options and opening us to new experiences.

  My husband retired early, and I work part-time as a freelance editor. This gives us lots of time and flexibility but not a lot of funds. And while we have happily chosen free time over money, we do love to travel, and travel is usually expensive. Still, we’ve managed to take a lot of affordable trips, and the best way we’ve found to keep the cost down is by house trading.

  House trading is not the same as Airbnb or renting out a room in someone’s home; house trading involves no exchange of money. We connect with people in cities we want to visit who are looking to visit our area — and then we trade! While there are businesses that facilitate house trading, such as Homeexchange.com, made popular by the 2006 film The Holiday, and HomeLink, which has been in operation since 1953, we’ve found all our trades through craigslist’s “housing swap” category or through friends of friends.

  There are, of course, commonsense precautions you should take before handing over your house keys (and sometimes car keys) to virtual strangers, but we’ve had more than fifteen successful trades so far. After the initial contact through craigslist (we post an ad both in our area and in the area we want to visit, and we also browse those are
as to look at other people’s ads), we exchange photos and e-mails with our potential trade partners. If both parties feel comfortable (a lot of it is just gut feelings for me), and we come up with dates that work for both, we’ll move on to a phone call or two to work out the details, such as how we’ll exchange keys.

  House trading is not for everyone; it takes a certain adventurous spirit, flexibility, and a bit of faith in humanity.

  We’ve found a whole range of trade partner styles — from the young couple who left the keys to their San Francisco apartment in their mailbox for us along with a note that said “Enjoy!” to the family who provided us with a three-ring binder full of information. I admit that I fall more into the “binder” category. Along with where to find things in the house, I include maps, tourist brochures, and menus from nearby restaurants. While it’s fun to stumble onto new places on your own, it is even more fun to have an “insider” tip about the little taco place around the corner or the pop-up ice cream vendor who shows up at the park on weekend afternoons.

  With no money involved, house traders feel more like guests in each other’s homes. My husband and I are generally relaxed about people using our things, and we just assume our trade partners will treat our belongings as well as we’ll treat theirs. Staying in someone else’s home creates a certain intimacy. I always enjoy looking at our trade partners’ artwork and décor, the books on their bookshelves, and the pictures on the fridge. By the end of our visit, I feel as if I know these former strangers pretty well. We’ve been lucky enough to find some trade partners to do multiple trades with, and they have truly become new friends. On our very first trade, our trade partner welcomed us with a bottle of wine and a cheese platter in the fridge We’ve continued that gracious tradition with our own “guests.”