Space For Sale: Up To 50% Off!
You can’t buy time.
Space is my obsession. I put a lot into my relationship with space: wondering (and worrying) how best to arrange it, fill it, rent it, rebuild it. I’m also sensitive to how space affects me functionally and energetically — I’ve re-organized rooms and remodeled homes based on my rudimentary understanding of Feng Shui principles.
The variables that determine the value of space are a mystery. In Seattle where I live, small, single-family homes sell for exorbitant amounts and a Lilliputian backyard is a rare luxury. Perhaps we pay for an abundance of convenient abundance—a 10-minute walk takes me to a dozen stores and restaurants — Greek, Thai, Italian, French-Cambodian fusion, pizza, tacos, a bakery, and a cookie shop with locally-made ice cream. But this region I’ve loved for over half my life has gradually traded its quirky charm to push the limits of urban density. Our senses are under assault with poor air quality and incessant noise from leaf blowers, pressure washers, and planes passing overhead every 38 seconds¹. Short drives are clogged with commuters, and even hiking trails are jammed like highways where people cut others off to get a few steps (or cars) ahead. The increasing cost to live here is more than the monetary price of the structures we inhabit. When I vented about the changes in the city, a friend who has been here her whole life summed it up, “People build their fences taller these days.”
Frequently, I find myself questioning what I really want or need in a space. In suburban areas, houses have a healthy separation and people mount riding mowers to manage their sprawling lawns. There are cul-de-sacs and community pools and views from the kitchen of gardens and grass, instead of the gargantuan TV in the living room of the neighbor next door. But bigger is not necessarily better — mammoth spaces can feel lonely and uninviting. I’ve loved renting tiny houses and micro-apartments where the cave-like proportions were surprisingly more cozy than confining. There is an appeal to the simplicity of living small.
Recently, I’ve been especially stressed over several decisions about space, and in my effort to regain perspective, I remembered this sign that I saw on a run during my last visit to the Midwest. Seduced by the idea of acquiring space on sale (up to 50% off!), I stopped to investigate. Studying this marker and the expansive land that lay beyond, I realized the advertised space was not for occupancy per se, but for one’s remains after their spirit had moved on: I was standing at the entrance of a cemetery. The discount was for space to store (or incinerate) our earth suits once we’re done. The sign didn’t spell out what space could be had for up to 50% off, but cremation or a slot in a mausoleum were bargains at 15% and 25% less. These deals struck me as strangely sad and ironic — were people living too long such that the demand for death containers had gone down? I recognize every business must meet a bottom line, even one that deals in bodily disposal, but it is disheartening that we are lured to buy space for when we will need it the least.
Seeing this image again was the reminder I needed that our most precious commodity is time — we can’t upsize or downsize or negotiate for more. We don’t even know how much we have, but we can control how we spend it. And I want to be better about that. Maybe what I’m looking for won’t be found within the bounds of physical space, because it’s about spaciousness, moments where I step away from demands and commitments and job and expectations. What I really seek is space between — intentional gaps that allow room to open and expand — space to breathe, space to be.
¹This is no exaggeration. I live in the flight path, and during peak hours, I have clocked 2 planes per minute passing over my house.
