Minimalism and the Shame of Having Nothing
“There are two ways to be rich: One is by acquiring much, and the other is by desiring little.” — Jackie French Koller.
My wife and I are minimalists to a fault. We’re not bragging. This is going to be embarrassing.
We choose to own so little that it becomes a hindrance to daily life. Only owning two forks means you wash forks a lot. Two pairs of pants means lots of laundry or dirty pants.
Spoiler Alert: It’s usually dirty pants.
The other side of this is growth. When you only have one knife, you learn patience, you learn to wait your turn.
Quick History of Our Living Situation:
Married — Van — House — Cabin — Motel — Van — Condo — ???
When we moved out of the cabin we downgraded to less than 100 items each. Including all clothing, cups, razors, and phone chargers. It is incredibly freeing to know your items. I mean to really know each one of them.
Go ahead. Try counting the things you own. Even at 100 it isn’t easy.
We lived in a van for a year.
Not the cool Instagram traveling the country kind of living (though we did that too). We lived in a van, in a Walmart parking lot, in Denton, Texas for an entire freaking year. Everything we owned was in our car. It was wonderful and hard. Financially cheap and emotionally exhausting. Life is just harder in 70 square feet. There is no where to hide. You have to deal with your shit — literally.
Simple is not always simple.
Little things like using the restroom and changing clothes become acrobatic. Eating becomes a chore and privacy is always public. You can only eat so much Peanut Butter and peeing into a bottle is never sexy.
Then the peace sets in.
All of the stress of things fade away. There is a real joy that comes from knowing whatever happiness you have doesn’t come from the things you’ve acquired, it comes from the person you’ve become and the people you’re with.
Fast forward to now.
We are living in a two-bedroom condo. It’s nice. Not luxurious, but nice.
The day we got the keys we drug our mattress out of the back of the van, threw our backpacks in the corner, and we were finished.
Minimalism makes for very easy moves.
We decided not to buy any furniture. We got a couch from a good friend. Found another one on the side of the road. A coffee table followed. We do not own much. Our house does not feel like a home. It is a nice place to sleep and to eat and to watch Netflix. But it is not a home. It is not warm or welcoming.
This is the first pain of minimalism.
We are happy with the little. The empty walls and old sofas don’t bother us. But there is a certain shame that comes with owning nothing.
A pit in the stomach when anyone wants to stop by.
A verbal dance around “When are we gonna come see the new place?”
It’s not new anymore. It’s still empty. And people still don’t come over.
How do you tell someone you can’t return the dinner, because you don’t have a kitchen table? And that you don’t particularly want one?
Minimalism is not all white walls and designer sofas. It’s not tossing out a few old t-shirts to make room for new ones. It’s not even living with less.
Some days it feels like a disease.
Like a glitch in my head that just doesn’t want.
Since we got married we have moved 6 times. Every time we get rid of almost everything. It’s probably wasteful, but it’s compulsive. A material vomit that fills trashcans and Goodwill piles.
Inevitably we will re-buy. It turns out when it gets cold you’ll need those blankets. And eventually you’ll want to bake something again.
Living with less isn’t buying nothing. It’s holding loosely.
There is nothing I own (other than my phone) that I wouldn’t walk out on. Ditch the lease and disappear.
There is no, “What one thing would you grab in a fire?” Fuck it. Let it all burn.
It is freeing to type that. In a world so defined by obtaining more, I am confident in needing less.
A good friend of mine often jokes that he expects us to just disappear one day. To up and leave without a word. I kinda like that.
But I also hope that I’m a better person than that. After all, we aren’t what we own. We are the sum of the lives we are entangled with.
This leads me to the big question.
Where is the line between minimalism and hospitality?
How do we adapt for our relationships? How do we grow as individuals? Do I need to buy a kitchen table or do I need to overcome the ego that says I need one?
If the purpose of minimalism is to reduce the material’s influence over you, then to live in a state where material goods (ones you own or the ones you don’t) define your emotional well-being is wrong.
You’re not a minimalist if you always feel shame for what you don’t have. The kitchen table still has the power.
Owning nothing is emotionally heavy.
I have come to learn that we can either carry the possessions we own or we will carry the possessions we don’t.
True growth and true minimalism happen when you become fully comfortable with what you have AND what you don’t have.
“Have nothing in your homes that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.” — William Morris
I love this quote. But, sometimes I stop reading too early. I don’t always allow myself the beautiful or the practical. This is where I hope to grow.
Minimalism has become trendy. Like everything that trends it gets whitewashed. It’s not easy. It’s not even fun. It’s therapeutic. It’s a release.
It is a way of being and interacting with the world. It is a personal pursuit for greater purpose.
For a deeper understanding of need and want.
For a better balance.
To want less.
“It is not the man who has too little, but the man who craves more, that is poor.” — Seneca
