The Joy of Less

by Amy Newmark

  I took every piece of clothing out of the closet and piled it on the bed. Next I put back into the closet the clothes that I truly wore.

  Over the next month my experiment yielded some very surprising and interesting results. First, I rarely faced a cooking project that couldn’t be accomplished with what I had saved. Next, having my trunk handy allowed me to retrieve the few things that I needed to add to my streamlined kitchen drawers to keep me sane. Best of all, it was much more fun to cook without foraging in drawers and moving things on shelves to get to what I needed! And because it was more fun to cook, I was cooking more!

  Having survived my kitchen experiment, I needed to decide what to do with the boxes in my trunk. Surprisingly, I kept coming upon people that were either in the process of starting out on their own, or in need of some odd kitchen item for a project. So, I would lead them to my car and watch them excitedly dig through the boxes like they were on a treasure hunt, holding up the items they found to take to their home. Little by little, news got out, and the boxes shrunk to nothing. What a fun time that was!

  But it didn’t stop there. At one point I decided to expand this newfound concept to my clothes closet and surveyed the crammed quarters. I took every piece of clothing out of the closet and piled it on the bed. Next I put back into the closet the clothes that I truly wore — yes the ones that fit and I enjoyed being seen in. The rest I placed in bags and took to the local thrift store. What an easy process that was, versus the normal mental anguish I went through as I evaluated and scrutinized each item in my closet!

  Looking back over the whole episode, there is not much I would do differently. Occasionally I stand at the stove and miss a specific tool, but I only have to look at my orderly drawers and do some creative thinking to put the smile back on my face. It was a kitchen remodel that yielded the most amazing results ever!

  ~Joan Wasson

  Embracing Black

  I’ve been forty years discovering that the queen of all colors was black.

  ~Pierre-Auguste Renoir

  I walked into the same sporting goods store where I’d bought a bicycle just a few days earlier. “I need some bike shorts,” I told the sales clerk. “With lots of padding.”

  She nodded sympathetically and led me to the cycling department. “Here they are,” she said, waving her arm toward a two-tiered clothing rack. “Lots of different lengths, lots of different styles, lots of different sizes.” I stared in disbelief. There must have been a hundred pairs of shorts hanging there. And every single one of them was black.

  “Don’t they come in colors?” I stammered.

  The clerk shrugged. “Some manufacturers offer other colors. But we never order them. Everyone seems to want black.”

  I bought two pairs of shorts that afternoon — one pair that hit me just above the knee and one pair that hit me just below, both in black. As I rode my bicycle in the days that followed, I made a happy discovery. Every single T-shirt I owned, no matter the color, looked good with black bike shorts.

  Not long afterward, my co-worker Ruth and I attended a weeklong conference. I took three pairs of slacks — brown, navy and khaki. Naturally, I packed tops, belts and shoes that coordinated with each outfit. Ruth took one pair of slacks (black), one belt (black) and one pair of shoes (black). And three tops.

  “Everything goes with black britches,” she said. “I don’t own anything else.”

  Yeah… but, I wanted to say. I love my blue jeans. And my pink-and-white gingham capris. And my neon green running shorts. And my brown wool skirt. But when I thought about all the clothes I “loved” that were crammed in my closet and stuffed in my dresser drawers, I had to admit it was frustrating and time-consuming to put together an outfit every day.

  Could I embrace black like Ruth had done? It was worth a try.

  I pulled all the skirts that weren’t black out of my closet, folded them neatly and put them in a box. I did the same with slacks and shorts that weren’t black. But I wasn’t going to be hasty about this radical wardrobe change. It was too early to give these things away. So I taped the boxes shut and carried them to the basement.

  I’ve discovered that an overstuffed closet is more than a hassle and a headache—it’s a thief of time and of joy.

  I tried on the few black items that remained and found that many of them were out of style or didn’t fit well. Into a “donate” bag they went. Then I went shopping, vowing not to purchase anything that wasn’t comfortable, flattering and well made.

  These days, my closet is home to one pair of black jeans. A pair of black corduroys. A black wool skirt and a black polyester-blend skirt. A pair of black dress pants and a pair of black capris. In my bottom dresser drawer are black yoga pants, black running shorts and black biking shorts.

  That’s it.

  I also boxed up all my shoes that weren’t black. I won’t say it wasn’t painful, but I did it. My shoe rack now holds one pair of black heels, one pair of black flats, black athletic shoes, black sandals and black flip-flops. Next to it is my beloved pair of black cowboy boots.

  What did I do with the taped-up boxes in the basement? A few months after I stowed the boxes away, I gave them to a used clothing drive without ever opening them. And you know what? I’ve never missed a single thing that was in them. Not once. I’ve discovered that an overstuffed closet is more than a hassle and a headache — it’s a thief of time and of joy.

  I cherish the day I decided to embrace black. And I’ll never go back.

  ~Jennie Ivey

  My Father’s Watch

  Oh, my friend, it’s not what they take away from you that counts. It’s what you do with what you have left.

  ~Hubert Humphrey

  On the tenth anniversary of my father’s death, I awoke at 3:30 a.m. to deafening fire alarms. Alexis, my older daughter, was standing in the hallway with her cell phone and a blanket wrapped around her younger sister, Sierra. We ran down the stairs to the main floor. The girls stood by the front door while I checked for the cause of the alarm.

  When I opened the door to my living room, I could see the carpets were smoking. My house really was on fire.

  I yelled to the girls, “Get out! Get out! The house is on fire!” They turned and ran out the front. Because there was no smoke in the hallway, I ran upstairs two times to drag our terrified dogs outside. On my third trip, to find our cat Biscuit, the smoke curled up the stairs like a black menacing snake. Dreading Biscuit’s fate, I abandoned him and ran.

  Explosions were shattering glass everywhere. The cars in the garage were exploding along with the lawnmower and snowblower. The fire burst out of the garage doors and crawled up the wall like deadly reptiles slithering up to the main floor. The heat shattered the windows, allowing the fire to climb back inside to continue its advance.

  We ran through the woods to our neighbor’s house. Alexis was carrying Sierra and I was pulling both dogs by their collars as we climbed over limbs and stumbled over rocks. I pounded on my neighbor’s front door as police cars with their sirens blaring passed by.

  Later, I was told it only took eight minutes for the fire trucks to arrive. The firefighters immediately started containing the fire. They saved a lot of our things and most importantly, Biscuit.

  Standing outside my burned and smoking house the next day, I struggled with dozens of questions. I had no ID or cash. How was I going to pay for anything? I didn’t have a car so I couldn’t leave. Where would we sleep? Where would we live? What would happen to my house now? I didn’t even know where to start.

  I was sleep deprived as I stood in my burned-out kitchen wearing my neighbor’s shoes, pants, and robe. My throat ached with unshed tears as I stared at my home in ruins. Everything was covered in burned wood, broken furniture, glass, soot, water, chemicals, and insulation. Everything smelled like smoke.

  During the first weeks I wasn’t thinking clearly, eating, or sleeping. I was afraid of everything: loud noises, unusual smells, electricity, fire alarms, and being awa
y from my girls. In our new rental, the girls and I slept huddled together in one room, even though we had separate rooms.

  Despite the loss of valued mementoes, the fire did burn away a lot of needless clutter from my home and my life.

  What I didn’t anticipate was how it would feel to have no personal items from our old house. Nothing was mine. I was sleeping in someone else’s house, wearing someone else’s clothes, and driving someone else’s car. The fire not only burned our possessions, it seemed to strip us of our identities.

  Every day, I visited our burned house to search through the debris. It’s interesting how you learn what really matters to you in those circumstances. I found myself primarily searching for my late father’s watch. I found other treasures as I searched for his watch, including the ring my mom gave me when I left for college, a watch my grandmother gave me for high school graduation, and my daughter’s unworn prom dress, which was ruined. I found the last shirt I remembered my father having worn before his hospital stay. We had taken a cruise after his second course of chemo. It was the last vacation we would take before his death.

  For sentimental reasons, I wanted to make sure my dad’s watch wasn’t thrown in the Dumpster. After weeks of searching, in the corner of the study underneath a pile of destroyed books, I found my dad’s watch. I wept with relief.

  The lessons my daughters and I would learn from this experience were numerous. One of the greatest gifts we received was experiencing firsthand the kindness and thoughtfulness of our community. Friends and acquaintances, school counselors, teachers, principals, supportive contractors and thoughtful neighbors dropped by with food, clothing, furniture, and money. Others came by to help me sort through the debris for salvageable items. We had no idea how amazing people could be until our house caught fire.

  Two years later, I feel differently about the fire. Despite the loss of valued mementoes, the fire did burn away a lot of needless clutter from my home and my life. I discovered that life is much easier with fewer items and less “stuff” to clutter the journey. I didn’t replace many of the things that I thought were necessities before the fire. My newly built home is cleaner and has more open space, as do I.

  My dad’s watch is on my bedside table now. It is a physical reminder that time matters. Anyone or anything can be lost without warning. My desire is to find a sense of serenity, compassion, and strength within myself, model those qualities for my daughters, and share those qualities with others.

  Since the fire, my girls and I keep watch for those who experience loss. It is important to us to repay the many kindnesses we received. My family experienced the genuine love and assistance of a community and the warmth it provided. That feeling was priceless. We will forever be profoundly grateful.

  All in all, the fire gave us more than it took away.

  ~Paula Sherwin

  Lessons in Less

  The One Thing We Didn’t Have to Unpack

  A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen.

  ~Edward de Bono

  It was two days before we had to leave our large four-bedroom house and move out of state. I loved this house and all the memories we had made in it. I thought back to raising our son and daughter there. We had brought them home from the hospital to this house. This was where they learned to walk and to talk. This was where we watched them play on the lawn as we rocked on the welcoming porch on beautiful spring and autumn days. I had picked apples from the trees in the back yard and learned to make apple pie from scratch in this house.

  And now we were saying goodbye.

  My husband announced that our things would not all fit in our POD. I stood in our driveway while the cicadas screeched like a car alarm. “What’s not going to fit?” I asked.

  “The sage couches, the kitchen table, the coffee tables, the treadmill, the rocking chairs…”

  “We have to take the porch rockers!” Thunder was starting to rumble in the distance, and the wind was picking up, only adding to my sense of urgency. “I nursed our babies in those! We sat in those and counted the fireflies every summer.”

  “Honey,” my husband continued patiently, “they’re not going to fit. And even if they did, we’re not going to have a porch in California.”

  We lived east of the Mississippi and all our family was out West, so we were moving out there to be with the people we so desperately missed. We needed our children to be surrounded by people who loved them unconditionally the way only grandparents can. We needed to know that someone had our back and would move heaven and earth to be there if we called. We had flown solo for five years, and although we had made dear friends, there was just no substitute for our parents, Grandma and Grandpa for our kids.

  When an opportunity came for my husband to transfer west (to a town that was just a few hours from my parents and a day’s drive from his), we knew it was time. We were excited. We would be living in a house half the size of this one, but we didn’t care. We would never have to spend Thanksgiving or Christmas alone again. Our children would be able to grow up with grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins in the picture.

  “Could we get a bigger POD?” I asked, still trying to bring everything along with us.

  Jason sighed. “Amy, this is as big as they come.”

  “But I love the kitchen table,” I said.

  “Do you want to bring that one instead of the dining room table?”

  I thought a moment. “No.”

  “Honey, we can’t take both!” My husband took off his work gloves. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and locked the doors to the POD. The wind was blowing the branches of our pear trees sideways. The thunder boomed. “We have to wait until the storm passes before we can load anything else in the POD. Okay? You think about what you want to take with us.” He slipped quietly back into the house.

  I stood in the garage and watched the rain run off our driveway. I felt like the sand was running out of our hourglass. We had to say goodbye to the home I loved and the furniture I loved, too.

  I sat down on the bumper of my car and called my mom.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mom. It’s Amy.”

  “Hi, honey. What’s new? How’s the packing going?”

  “It’s not all going to fit,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady and not burst into tears.

  “What’s not going to fit?”

  “The treadmill, the kitchen table, the couches, the porch rocking chairs.” I felt hot tears spill down my cheeks. “And I know it’s just stuff, and I know stuff doesn’t matter, but it’s hard! I sat in that rocking chair and read stories to Azure when I was pregnant with Seamus. And I lost the last thirty pounds of my baby weight walking on that treadmill at night after the kids went to bed. And I’ve sat at that kitchen table every night with my family since we moved into this house…”

  You will always have those memories, whether the stuff comes with you to your new house or not.

  “Amy, honey. The stuff isn’t the memories. You don’t need the rocking chairs to remember reading books to Azure on the front porch when she was small. You don’t need your kitchen table to remember family dinners. You will always have those memories, whether the stuff comes with you to your new house or not. And you don’t have to worry about losing the memories when you leave your stuff behind. Those you take with you, and you don’t even have to worry about boxing them up. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “How’s your weather?” my mom asked.

  “We’re having an afternoon thunderstorm.” I looked up at the skies. The clouds had thinned and bright blue sky bent around them. “But it looks like the rain has stopped.”

  “Yeah. You are going to be just fine. Moving is tough, but we are so excited that you are going to be closer.”

  “We’re excited too.”

  My mom was right.

  We’ve been very happy in our new home, half the size of our old one. We have half as much stuff as we did before. W
e don’t miss it, and we have not lost the happy memories of our old home. Those came with us, and they were the only things we never had to box up or unpack.

  ~Amelia Hollingsworth

  The Rule of Twenty

  To manifest something in your life it is wise to first clean out your closets.

  ~Author Unknown

  My eyes narrowed as I pawed through a tumbled mountain of shoes. They were once stacked in two neat lines across the floor. Now the closet looked as though an earthquake had shaken a shoe store. It took me more than five minutes to find a mate for the navy blue pump clutched in my hand. Being late to work again wouldn’t be beneficial to my performance appraisal. I could no longer avoid my need to organize.

  Later that morning I grumbled to a co-worker about the mess my closet had become. She grinned before giving me a sound piece of advice.

  “The best thing I ever did was buy a shoe rack. One glance and you can find what you need in a snap.”

  Her suggestion made sense. The idea of bringing order out of chaos appealed to me so much I drove straight to a discount store after work to see what they had available. I browsed up and down aisles until I found the shoe rack jackpot. A multitude of choices included racks that held as few as six pairs of shoes all the way up to seventy. I calculated my needs. Only six pairs of shoes would be impossible. Yet I knew I didn’t have anywhere near seventy pairs of shoes in my closet. I scanned the options until I noticed a tiered portable shelving unit that held twenty pairs of shoes. Twenty would be perfect. I even felt a little smug. I’d only need to get rid of a few pairs for the new system to work.

  At home I assembled the shoe rack and then sipped a cup of hot tea while staring into my closet. The first step would be to see exactly what I had accumulated. I began to pull out shoe after shoe until my bedroom floor was completely littered with them. There were flats and pumps and boots and sandals and tennis shoes and flip-flops. Once I’d emptied the closet I counted shoes and couldn’t believe my eyes. Sixty-three pairs were on the floor. They looked like a sorrowful, drab rainbow in shades of black, blue, and tan.