Once upon a time, I used to really care about owning stuff.

I thought being a respectable adult meant owning a stainless steel trash can and beautiful linens and Pottery Barn throw pillows and a flat screen television. This wasn’t just about how I attempted to make my apartment look like a shrine to the most recent Anthropologie catalog, but about making myself seem as eclectic and well rounded as the things in it. This naïvity made me an unhappy competitor in the game of who owns more nicer, better, prettier, more expensive shit. This isn’t to say making a living space beautiful and functional is a bad thing; but maybe buying more shit isn’t the solution.

Then, if I was interested in any subject you better know it just by walking into my apartment; such as the record player I owned because I wanted to be a record playing enthusiast.

But the thing is, owning a record player doesn’t make you any more of a record playing enthusiast than wearing a collar makes you a dog.

I had a desire to own these things so I could one day in some future reality identify myself with what they represented, yet my apartment became filled with nouns instead of verbs. It became a graveyard of “one days” instead of a mecca of “right nows”.

Since getting rid of 90% of my stuff, I am a happier and more intentional person. Being a minimalist doesn’t mean I have nothing. My art supply arsenal is chock-full with mediums to make beautiful paintings and drawings. I have a set of dishware, utensils, and an herb garden to make healthy, fresh food. I have less things to distract me from creating. I spend more time doing nothing. I go to galleries and museums. I actually spend time reading, writing, cooking, and hiking. I think clearer. I feel more alive.

I love and use almost everything I own and my apartment is carefully, minimally composed of the things I love... and even if everything in my home was completely destroyed I would still still be completely whole.