A Carload, Three Days on the Road, A Dream To Unfold: A Minimalist’s Gold

A carload. That’s all this self-declared minimalist had.

I was sitting in my Civic in my older sister’s garage at 6 am on a Monday morning. I’d been staying with her for the past couple weeks after moving out of my apartment. While most were getting ready for a day in the office, I was preparing for eight hours on the road. I was headed for my own personal brand of freedom. It came in the form of an answer I’ve given to the question, “What brings you to Austin?”

I just wanted to go.

That’s what freedom has always been for me; just doing what my gut instructs with intensity. That could be interpreted as selfishness. I’d like to think otherwise, but I felt a bit selfish after getting a tear-streamed hug from my sister. She was trying to rival my parents’ emotional good-bye. And she was doing a pretty god damned good job of it.

Practically lugging my car up the driveway, I couldn’t ignore the juxtaposition of the incredible lightness of my life- only a carload of possessions, freedom of the open road, and the chance to start again in a new city- against the true weight of my car moving a bit differently than usual. It was also pitch black dark and starting to drizzle.

I’d never been so excited to go for a drive.

First to Staunton, VA, then Knoxville, TN, seeing old friends, I was floating. The reality settling in left me feeling anything but settled. It was more exciting than what I’d imagined. Some dreams come later than you dreamed and in different form, but I could feel the two decades of fantasy finally getting it’s moment.

I’m in the business of helping people downsize, organize and simplify their lives. The portability of my company enabled me to move from the Washington, DC area, where I’d lived my whole life, to stake it out in Texas. I wanted the cacti. I wanted the heat. I wanted different. And I didn’t want it by way of a moving truck or shipments of stuff. I wanted it by way of my dreams.

So I did what any good professional organizer would do. I downsized my already downsized life further to make it all fit. I’ve heard that some therapists are a bit crazy and many doctors don’t exercise. Sometimes we find it easier to help people down a path we resist ourselves. But I had no plans to join those ranks. I sold my furniture, took a deeper look into my possessions, and revisited emotional weight I thought I’d lost when I last moved. There is always more questioning to do. There are always assumptions we leave unaddressed and things we hold onto for the silliest of reasons. I can only convince myself that my car held close to the essentials, but definitely a bit more. The handpicked and vetted quality raised their value. So after my second day driving through Tennessee and stop in Little Rock, AR for the night, I worried whether all my worldly possessions would be there in the morning. They needed to make it through the night with me. Was I holding on tighter to things because I now had so little? Or did I just want to avoid the pain of loss?

Then, I stopped worrying and indulged in cable t.v.

On my third day of driving, Dallas within reach for a lunchtime break, my car gave out. The eventual tow brought me to a little Texan town where the good nature came in spades but the replacement motor head was a day away. Given the one week turnaround time for its repair, I rented a car, and threw in my two suitcases of clothes, guitar, yoga mat, a set of sheets, and a towel. Sheer determination was my fuel. I made it to Austin late that night to sleep in my empty apartment on my yoga mat beyond content. Though, I wished I’d remembered to bring a pillow.

For a week, I experienced my new home with little of my last with me. This is the best sort of minimalist exercise. I was so happy without stuff. I almost laughed when thinking about my tightly packed car sweltering in the auto body garage and the faith I’d put into it’s security. Or perhaps I was already on a roll with letting things go.

A week later I picked it up. Everything was there. It seemed like so much. I’d only missed the kitchen essentials and some books. I worried my records would no longer work given the heat but they were fine. Laughing inside with each trip from car to apartment, I lamented the effort that stuff requires. I saw the absurdity of the vintage scrabble game whose tiles escaped and scattered, and the stuff I now questioned needing. But I was heartened seeing my pillows, additional shoes, and a frying pan. Too much, too little, who knows?

Yes, we can always have less. Finding your equilibrium takes time. But it also involves taking some risks and defining your version of freedom. You can’t truly know its essence until you’ve jumped in and touched it.