I've been drawn to the idea of simplifying for some years now. I fantasize about being totally content in a "tiny house," whittling my closet down to a "capsule wardrobe," or feeling secure in knowing if I needed to permanently leave my home tomorrow, everything I need and care about would fit with my husband, dogs, and me in the car. (How we pack for a road trip provides a reality check on that last fantasy...) 

I didn't need the pandemic to recognize the hold that owning so much stuff has on me, but shortages caused by fearful people stockpiling basic goods magnify the problem of basing one's sense of security on things. Even though we have never been in paper goods crisis or at risk of starving, being bombarded with media reports of empty store shelves creates a niggling little sense of fear that maybe we don't have "enough." That fear conflicts with my absolute conviction that my security is not in the things of this world, so it must be quashed. I needed a battle strategy that would work despite being a procrastinator easily overwhelmed by the big picture married to a sentimental man who finds pleasure in dust-collecting objects and things he "might need someday." 

So, having plenty of time these days, I read all kinds of online articles and blog posts, and then finally cracked open a book I've had for more than a year: The More of Less by Joshua Becker of Becoming Minimalist, who's a noted motivator in the current minimalist-seeking culture.  Turns out his definition of minimalism is not bare walls and capsule wardrobes, but "the intentional promotion of the things we most value and the removal of anything that distracts us from them." Perspective shift! Unfortunately, I tend to start things, get overwhelmed, then leave the things unfinished. Becker suggests starting small, so I decided to try cleaning out one small area at a time. An area I look at every day. And then savor it.

I began a couple weeks ago with a book purge that opened up some shelf space. Since office clutter bothers me, being able to look at space around objects is refreshing. Good start.

Today's project was the top of my jewelry box, which was buried under a mountain of cards, bracelets, and miscellaneous doodads that I couldn't make decisions about. I like bracelets because they're a quick and easy accessory. I justify my collection because they're mostly inexpensive (think Paparazzi) or were purchased from a crafter (supporting local businesses!) or have sentimental value (name bracelet gifted to me when I was 16.) I did cull a few from the pile to donate, and everything else cluttering the top was moved somewhere else, or garbaged. (One of life's mysteries: if you can't identify the use or origin of something, why is it hard to throw it away?) The result is a collection of bracelets I can enjoy looking at when I'm not wearing them. Satisfying.

I am a long way from those who have embraced minimalism with such gusto that they've moved to tiny houses or gotten rid of 1000 things in 90 days - although I really do admire that! But I'm making (another) start, and minimal progress is better than no progress.  

#simplicity #minimalism #cleartheclutter

I've been reading a lot this past month or so. The luxury of being able to just sit and read - novels and periodicals, educational content and junk food for the mind - is making me feel a bit pressured. I should be doing my own writing. In truth, I should be doing a lot of things, those things that I've been adding for over a decade to my when-I-have-time list. Clearly time wasn't ever the issue. 

It's not that I've totally wasted the hours of stay-in-place living. On my daily walks I take photos of things that make me smile, like a neighbor's mailbox decor. (I know I'll do something with those photos. Someday.) I've upped practicing my yoga moves to six days a week, thanks to online opportunities, and invested more time into Scripture studies. The Gman is getting home-cooked meals - literally cooked in our home - and the dog hair gets vacuumed up a bit more frequently. I've done video chatting instead of texting, hosted a couple of social distancing porch parties via Zoom, and participated in an online paper arts class in an effort to light some dormant creative sparks. 

I do try to make a plan for each day, but it often derails. Our Corgi Gracie has been to the vet three times in recent weeks, plowing through her canine college savings in order to treat eye issues and have surgery on one of her paws. She hates her collar - "cone of shame" in the pet world - but passively accepts medicines and the protective plastic boot I fashioned out of snack baggies and tape for her potty outings. (Perhaps I'm not giving myself enough credit for creativity.) These little rituals associated with her recuperation add a new dimension to our regular furkid routines.

And, as if our world isn't wonky enough, we are having our modular home re-sided (apparently contractors have extra time right now.) The ripping off of old siding along with the sawing and pounding that goes with prepping the walls for their new covering is teeth-gnashing, nerve-wracking background music which can't be escaped by driving to the local library, shopping plaza, or  

coffee shop. Our walls are bare so the vibrations don't damage stuff hanging on them, and our windows are all covered with the vapor shield that hasn't yet been trimmed to fit. It's like living in an opaque plastic box. ​

Still, I can't help but admire those who are harnessing the energy of this enforced slowdown to move themselves - and us - to the next level. Shel Harrington, the Relationship Advocate moved beyond of her comfort level to do her first Facebook live broadcast. Topic? Moving beyond one's comfort level. Joshua Becker at Becoming Minimalist is offering a discounted course to help people utilize this time to pare down to what's important. (Minimalism is a concept I'm seriously attracted to these days.) RobinLK Studios is offering creative paper arts gatherings - previously done at locally owned coffee shops - through Zoom. 

Then there's those who just find ways to bring out the enjoyment of everyday living. After our neighborhood pool was closed, some 60 and 70-somethings put on swimsuits and rigged up a garden hose to the lamppost in a front yard, fashioning a sprinkler of sorts they could run through to beat the Florida heat. This morning I spotted a vibrantly colored birthday greeting in a neighbor's yard. A few hours later, I heard lots of horn-beeping and ran outside (because my windows are all covered!) to see the lengthy birthday parade of honking vehicles filled with people waving balloons and signs. Delightful!

Maybe I need to rethink those things I've been wanting to do "when I have time."  Maybe what I really want to do when I have time is read and notice things around the neighborhood that make me smile and look at friends' faces when I talk to them from a social distance. And maybe - occasionally - write.

Before I moved to the southeastern United States, I never thought about hurricanes. They were weather events I might see on the national news, happening in places I’d never been to. In 1999, I personally met Dennis and Floyd, but we lived 90 minutes from the North Carolina coast, so we experienced them as windy, rainy events that flooded streets and disrupted daily routines for a few days. The real devastating impacts were again viewed through a television screen.

 Then we moved to Florida.
​
In 2004, I got a crash course on hurricanes. I learned a storm on Florida’s west coast can also impact its east coast when Charlie ravaged Punta Gorda before it crossed the state to put a tree down on our manufactured home’s porch while we were in the house. Jeanne visited just weeks later, and – due to my refusal to stay in the house during another hurricane – we evacuated with 5,000,000 of our closest friends to points north where we spent much of Labor Day weekend letting Jim Cantore ratchet up our anxiety level via TWC. The return trip was terrifying; power was out everywhere on the last 100 miles of state highway that we drove in total blackness. Shortly after Jeanne, Frances turned from blasting through the Bahamas toward Florida, and we waited her out in a local pet-friendly shelter, sharing our designated piece of “camp space” with our 80-pound Rottweilor and 40-pound Corgi.

After those adventures, I diligently prepared for possible evacuation each season for some years. Then, in 2016, just when I was feeling we’d had our lifetime share of hurricanes, Matthew roared up the east coast. We opted to check into local motel for brick-and-mortar safety since shelters and traveling were not practical options for my nonagenarian parents. The following year Irma visited, and back to the motel we went, a bit savvier as to what we might need in a motel should it lose power. This week my mom - now widowed - and I moved into the local motel once again while Dorian decimated the Bahamas before choosing her path up the coast.

Each of these hurricane experiences was distinctly different from the others, but they have a common denominator: WAITING.

When the tree hit our porch during Charlie, the power also went out. In the inky darkness we could see parts of the tree and rain coming in on the porch, but not much else. We spent the night waiting for the winds and rain to stop, waiting for daylight. During Jeanne, we waited in traffic as we inched north, waited in the hotel room for an indication we could return to Florida, waited in traffic as we crept back south. Staying locally in the shelter or motel was equally wait-intensive: wait to be able to check in, wait for storm to arrive, wait through the frightening noisiness of stormy nights, wait to be able to go back home.

​The ability to wait doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m impatient. I need to “do something.” And the something needs to have some sort of perceived usefulness. I do plan ahead: I bring things to read, my laptop, tablet, board games; the diversions they provide are usually short-lived because it’s hard to stay focused when part of my mind is waiting for the main event or worrying about possible outcomes.

It occurs to me that waiting is an on-going component of daily living, a state-of-being thrust upon us in medical facilities, check-out lines, application processes, and numerous service industries. Whether we are complacent or resentful, the requirement of doing it is not going away. Someone should create and market a course called The Art of Waiting Well. I’ll be waiting for that one.