The Joy of Less

by Amy Newmark

Men will always be mad, and those who think they can cure them are the maddest of all.

  ~Voltaire

  Lord, please save me from garage sales.

  Every time I see one, it just never fails.

  I always have to stop and look around

  at all the junk laid out on the ground.

  Oh, the excitement! What might I find?

  What treasures await? It boggles the mind!

  It’s usually worthless, but you just never know.

  I might find an authentic Vincent van Gogh!

  We’ve all heard the stories about some typical fool

  who paid ten cents for some tacky, cosmetic jewel

  then a week later, the same guy found out with a thrill

  that it was Cleopatra’s ring and it’s worth twenty mil’!

  Doesn’t that make you just want to puke?

  I mean, don’t we deserve to have such a fluke?

  It’ll happen to me, though folks say it can’t.

  Someday, I’ll score an original Rembrandt!

  But so far, I’ve only bought stuff I don’t need

  like a mountain of books I can’t find time to read,

  old clothes that are already starting to fray

  and old records that are too scratched to play.

  I have tons of toys (though my kids aren’t yet born).

  I’ve got a stuffed iguana and a bent flugelhorn,

  a velvet painting of Elvis that nobody can stand

  and a baseball mitt that doesn’t quite fit my hand.

  I have a cymbal-banging monkey, an old tambourine,

  a lava lamp, some hula dolls and MAD magazines,

  a banged-up surfboard and a magic eight ball.

  I’ve got enough stuff to start my own mall!

  My den looks like the set of Sanford and Son.

  I know I should stop but it’s just too much fun!

  Some people like neatness but I’d be in a funk

  if I wasn’t surrounded by cool, kitschy junk!

  Searching through old boxes gives me such pleasure.

  It makes me feel like a pirate searching for treasure!

  It’s probably wishful thinking, but I know that someday

  I’ll find something to sell for big bucks on eBay!

  But half the joy of garage sales is passing the time

  with old folks and children and neighbors of mine.

  Just shooting the breeze like folks did in the past

  is less common now that the world moves so fast.

  I have no excuse. I guess I’m a hopeless case

  but I run into garage sales all over the place!

  My home’s filled with junk. My family’s in a huff.

  I’ve got to have a sale to get rid of this stuff!

  ~Mark Rickerby

  Happiness Is Raising a Roof

  Never believe that a few caring people can’t change the world. For, indeed, that’s all who ever have.

  ~Margaret Mead

  The picture of my self-indulgent lifestyle sickened me. The speaker’s words pierced my heart; I was horrified to discover that I was a middle age, successful and pampered woman. I needed more clarification so I leaned forward with interest as the conference speaker continued: “Many women in other parts of the world cannot get into their SUV and drive to the nearest medical walk-in clinic. They cannot run to the corner store or shopping centre to pick up fresh vegetables, toothpaste or a new outfit for their next social function. These women have time and no stuff. People in North America have stuff but no time.”

  I sat back in my comfortable chair and was jolted back to reality. I looked around at my beautiful conference room, the women in their exquisite outfits, and I knew in the next few minutes I was going to a local restaurant to enjoy a splendid meal with friends. I cringed when I realized I was one of those self-indulgent women.

  Over the years I saw videos and heard numerous pleas for impoverished countries, children dying from AIDS, grandmothers raising their children and grandchildren. I have always done my part by adopting children in Africa and Haiti and sending money when I saw the need. But that part is easy for me. Pull out my chequebook and write a cheque to ease my guilty conscience. I’ve done my part; what more can I do?

  This time I knew it wasn’t enough. At the end of the day, as I drove across the bridge to my home in West Kelowna, British Columbia an outrageous idea hit me: Heidi, until you see your own lifestyle as self-indulgent, you will never understand and experience the plight of these impoverished women. For the next four months don’t buy anything for yourself or indulge in any luxury and see how this makes you feel.

  This was the middle of August, so that meant I had to do without any shopping, restaurants and any other indulgences until the middle of December. By the time I arrived at my home I was determined to do it and excited by the prospect. In fact, I was going to take it one step further. Whatever money I would have spent in those four months I would contribute to a worthwhile project.

  Over the next two days, as the conference continued, I shared my story with my closest friends and asked if they wanted to join me. I was amazed at their excitement and eagerness to jump on board. Word spread and soon we had twenty-three women ready to sacrifice everything for the next four months and donate the money they saved to a worthy fund. It was interesting for me to hear what other women indulged in and what they had to give up:

  “I’m not much of a shopper Heidi, but I do spend about $150 each month on specialty coffees.”

  “I don’t spend money on clothes, but I sure do love to shop for kitchen gadgets.”

  “Gardening supplies, flowers and tools are my weakness.”

  “I watch too much TV, I am going to cut off my cable for the next four months.”

  “I spend way too much money on magazines each month.”

  We all indulge ourselves in different ways. I have the luxury of buying new outfits for my speaking engagements, and I love the challenge of finding just the right attire for each event. I was just going into my busiest months for speaking engagements and I would have to “make do” with what I already had. For the first time I was shocked and yet very grateful that my closet was already filled with beautiful clothes, scarves and shoes and all I had to do was get creative.

  The next few months were a revelation. I discovered I had so much more time to spend on coffee dates with friends instead of stopping off at a mall or a favourite store. And I was able to go right home after work. I also found that I had shampoos, toothpastes and soaps tucked away that I had never used. Eventually when I did go into the mall with a friend, I found the atmosphere to be loud and confusing. I was quite disgusted with the frenzy of people searching for their next purse, shoes or unnecessary trinket. I saw the obsession of our culture with stuff and it saddened me. Finally I was able to “feel” and experience a smidgen of what women from an impoverished country might be feeling.

  People in North America have stuff but no time.

  At the end of four months the twenty-three women handed me the money they would have spent. Some of the women had tears in their eyes when they gave me a cheque and said things like: “Heidi, this experiment has changed me forever, thank you for allowing us to experience it. I don’t know when I have experienced such joy.” When all the money was deposited I was amazed and delighted with the final amount. After some research, and by placing this money into trusted hands, we were all delighted to be able to put a roof on a church in Hermosillo, Mexico.

  These four months of walking in someone else’s shoes taught me truths that will affect me forever and have changed me. Here’s what I learned:

  1. Stuff does not bring me happiness.

  2. Before I buy anything I re-evaluate the cost and need.

  3. Nothing will change until my heart really wants it to change.

  4. We are all on this earth to help one another and we all have to do our part.

  5. When we pour out our lives for others, we are the ones
who experience the happiness and feel fulfilled.

  I am so grateful that a speaker had the courage to tackle some tough issues about the overindulgence of my lifestyle. Those words changed my behavior and put new happiness into my heart.

  ~Heidi McLaughlin

  It’s Still Too Much

  If you live for having it all, what you have is never enough.

  ~Vicki Robin

  It took all I had to fight back the tears that were beginning to trickle down my cheek. Crying was not allowed in my home growing up, especially over material things. We were to be appreciative and grateful for all that we had, because we didn’t have much.

  As the tears began to fall I found myself thinking what I had felt many times before: “Why can’t I have what she has?” “Things” mattered to me. I wanted the latest designer jeans, the newest bike, the roller skates with stoppers on the toes. But my family didn’t have much money. And even if we did, it certainly wouldn’t be spent on such frivolous things. Yet it seemed that all my friends and neighbors had all the money they needed, and it made me so sad that I often cried myself to sleep.

  I just wanted to be like all the other kids. In my mind, I needed these things in order to fit in.

  Being the determined young lady that I was, if my parents wouldn’t buy me the things I so desperately wanted, I would make them myself. I began designing clothes at the age of thirteen. As soon as I was old enough, I began to work. I loved making money. I could buy whatever I wanted, and that’s exactly what I did.

  To make matters worse, I discovered credit cards! I started spending money faster than I could make it. It was wonderful — or so I thought — to live above my means and not have to worry about it until later. Or course, I would later discover that “later” always came.

  After several years, the harsh possibility of bankruptcy woke me up. I had to get my act together or forever suffer the consequences. By this point in my life, I no longer liked myself. I had spent every penny I earned and more, and I had nothing to show for it. All of the friends that I bought things for were gone. Everything that I just “had to have” was already in the trash or worthless.

  While I spent a good number of years improving my credit and reining in my spending, there was still a part of me that vowed, “When I earn more money I will get it all back.” My desire for what I perceived to be the must-haves was keeping me from focusing on the bigger picture. I was always focused on what I didn’t have, until the day when I walked into my closet, which was the size of a small bedroom, and I really looked. I rationalized that other women had even more clothes, but a little voice inside me said, “It’s still too much.”

  “Can you do without this?” If my answer is yes, or if I have to think about it for a moment, I don’t buy it.

  I was disgusted with myself. “This ends here,” I thought.

  I began to set aside all of the clothing and shoes that I hadn’t worn in years. The pile was huge. That small voice rose up inside me and asked, “Could you have made do without these?” The answer was yes. I could have done without all of those clothes. I had barely worn them, and now I had no interest in them at all.

  Then I added up the amount of money that I spent on those clothes. It came to $8,000.

  That was my breaking point. I thought of all the good I could have done with $8,000. I began to look around at all the “stuff” in my house and asked myself the same question. Could I have done without all this stuff? The answer was a resounding “Yes!”

  Even though I was a grown woman at this point, I was still trapped in that little girl mentality of needing to have it all. It was time to change.

  I repented of my gluttony and asked God to help me through this transition. I wanted nothing in my life that wasn’t needed. I wanted only what would bring me true and meaningful joy and not rob me of money and — more importantly — time. When I thought of how much time I had lost trying to acquire these expensive, wasteful things, it was painful, but it fortified me. This was a new day.

  From that moment on, I have asked myself this question: “Can you do without this?” If my answer is yes, or if I have to think about it for a moment, I don’t buy it.

  My closet today is one-tenth the size it used to be and nowhere near filled. It brings me tremendous joy when I see how simple life can be just by looking in my closet. I love my clothes and I wear each and every piece. No longer do I look around at my life and think, “What a waste.” Rather, I think, “What a blessing to be so free from the chains of STUFF.”

  ~Kris Reece

  The Most Valuable Lessons

  Happiness resides not in possessions, and not in gold, happiness dwells in the soul.

  ~Democritus

  If you work hard for your money you deserve to have fun spending it. And spend it I did — mostly on clothes. Long, floaty dresses in a range of colours, dangly earrings, and shoes for all occasions. High, low, pointed, patent, round — whatever the pair, or the price, there was always a reason to buy.

  For a few moments, clothes brought me joy, and I firmly believed they were the means to a better life. With a pink silk dress I could capture the attention of my perfect man. A tailored suit would ensure I aced the job interview. From the moment I spotted an item in a shop, lifeless on its hanger, an image of a sharper, chicer me would appear in my mind and propel me towards the till.

  Some years later, with a bulging wardrobe but still no closer to contentment, I was given the opportunity to work at a primary school in Nigeria. The pay was basic but the chance to help others and explore a new country was priceless. Within a month I’d made the move and started adapting to a new culture and lifestyle.

  I know that some people have epiphanies — they are suddenly struck by an urge for less. However, I wasn’t one of them. My transition to a more minimalist existence was a result of circumstance rather than intent.

  It was inconvenient, and expensive, for me to get hold of the magazines and cosmetics I’d always bought in the UK so I was forced to forage for replacements. Instead of consuming one women’s glossy after another, all regurgitating exactly the same empty promises, I switched to books and never looked back. Meeting with other volunteers once a week we’d swap paperbacks — biographies, short stories, spiritual tomes — the genre didn’t matter but my rediscovery of reading did.

  Cosmetics, which had previously given me no trouble in colder climes, suddenly seemed to react with the intense Nigerian heat and my skin became incredibly sensitive, causing an ugly, throbbing rash to spread across my face and down my neck. With the guidance of my new friends I replaced my large collection of beauty products, and my exhausting ten-step cleansing routine, with just two items: African black soap and coconut oil. They turned my skin around in less than two weeks and they’re the only two products I continue to use to this day.

  As I reduced my possessions, giving them away to the people who really needed them, the amount of pleasure I got from life increased.

  I discovered that Nigerian women excelled at fashion, looking so much more stylish than their western sisters, and if they were on a limited budget it was never reflected in their attire. Gowns and dresses were chosen with unparalleled attention to cut and colour. Cool cottons and silks were selected in rich jewel colours to complement skin tones and carefully cut to drape rather than cling. The end result was two or three perfect outfits, tailored especially for the woman who was wearing them.

  As I reduced my possessions, giving them away to the people who really needed them, the amount of pleasure I got from life increased. I no longer took hours to get ready, hunting for missing items or trying to salvage an ill-matched outfit. The constant hum of anxiety, which I’d dragged around with me since my twenties, began to abate and in its place I found freedom.

  What I lost in possessions, I gained in experiences. The time I saved was put to good use. I travelled all around Nigeria — from the red stone villages of the north, smelling of dust and heat, to the hustle of Lagos in the sout
h. I walked across the lushest most beautiful forests and played in waterfalls under dark, starry skies.

  I spent three years in Nigeria, teaching underprivileged school children, and in return I learnt the most valuable lessons of all: possessions will not make you happy but people might; experiences are worth more than the world’s most amazing dress; what you lose in clutter you’ll gain in joy; don’t choose trappings, choose life.

  ~Celia Jarvis

  Setting the Place

  Life is short. Use the good china.

  ~Author Unknown

  For the past five years, I have been employed in the marketing department of an upscale retirement community. I view my job as a vocation because it taps into something I hold dear — I love working with seniors. Where some folks adore babies, kittens and puppies, I find the grace, wisdom and life experiences earned by those over the age of eighty-five a treasure trove.

  Classified as a continuing care retirement community or CCRC to those of us in the business, my place of employment offers five levels of senior care. These include: independent living with supporting amenities; assisted living; sub-acute rehabilitation; skilled nursing; and memory care. The goal of a CCRC is to have seniors age in place, ideally entering the community as independent residents and then moving seamlessly through the continuum of care should the need arise.

  Sounds like a plan? Perhaps to some, but for far too many, this scenario presents a major stumbling block — one that may extend beyond medical issues and financial challenges. To those of us in the field, it’s the dreadful “D” word: downsizing. Though many retirement communities offer spacious apartments — featuring open floor plans, large bathrooms equipped with every safety feature, and huge closets with built-in devices for easy access — I know of none that can accommodate all the contents of a family homestead.

  I will never forget one lovely lady, a widow, who lived in a magnificent Victorian mansion. I nicknamed her “Rapunzel,” not so much for her thick white hair, neatly arranged in a long braid, but more so for the “tower” in which she lived. Her home was built with many deeply pitched staircases, diminutive bathrooms, and breathtakingly beautiful, but slippery, hardwood floors. She was quite frail, arthritic, and used a walker to navigate. Her mind, however, was razor-sharp. While her family was urging her to consider a move to a home that was more suitable for woman in her nineties, she was adamant about remaining “home, with all of my things.” When I asked her what “thing” was most precious, she directed me to the breakfront in her dining room, a huge mahogany cupboard that housed English bone china, with place settings for forty-eight guests. “You see, my dear,” she said to me, “how could I ever leave this home? No other place could ever accommodate my china like my breakfront.”