I realized just a moment ago that one of the key motivators in my own approach to minimalism is the simple desire to feel connected. Who would have thought? A general philosophy about objects and possessions might actually be related to a bigger perspective on relationship, on how we relate to the things and the people around us.
I seem to be in a constant battle with the things I own, to keep things simple. And my efforts in that realm fail in various ways, in that while I’ve been successful getting rid of many things, there is always this gnawing in my heart, this constant ill-satisfaction with the number of thing I have. As the sun grows dark earlier in the evening, I’m reminded of wonderful Fall memories, warmth in the face of cold, food, and good times with friends. I think of place and how the comfort of familiarity made my room home in high school, and how possessions relate to our sense of belonging and place.
The truth is, I’m realizing just how hard it is to truly appreciate time. I returned to my favorite valley this past weekend, and hiked to a section I had not been to in six years. “Isn’t that funny?” I thought. “It’s been six years. How has it been six years? Don’t I love this valley? How have I not made it back to this section until now?”
It happens. Time flies.
And then I thought about all the places we go, the places we have been, and how it’s so easy for years to pass by, and I wonder just how many times in my life I’ll see some of these places. Because if you re-visited once-visited sites, one per day, time could still sneak up on you. It could still get to the point where you say, “Dang, it’s been a whole year since I came here!”
This happens with possessions, too. “I haven’t used this in five years!” “I haven’t sat outside on my patio set in a month!” “I haven’t made that meal in over a year now!”
Time. The great saboteur.
It’s in that otherness of exploration that we come to appreciate the familiar, the warm, the memorable.
Just last year my young adult group was having “fire nights” in one member’s backyard. Then that ended, and didn’t happen this year. Same for the Tuesday nights, which ended in the early Spring. It’s been a year and a half since I left my little apartment.
Why is the time gone?
The beauty of keeping your possessions to a quasi-minimum is that you can appreciate them more. They become more integral. They gain a greater sense of permanency.
I think that’s the idea, but I don’t know how effective it is. This cool blue cabinet I scored for $20 or $30 at a garage sale is still a little unfamiliar. Looks nice, though. Everything is still in flux. I’ve had my PS4 for less than a year. I’m using a different laptop now. Most of the hiking gear is new.
Ah, I’m afraid I’ve made myself a bit too busy once again. I’m having an easier time putting the books aside, I’d say I’m doing much better in that arena, but I’m still not giving my brain the full space it needs to settle down, to soak in the life I have.
And these memories, they are here, then they’ve moved on. It’s like as a kid, the slight sadness when you have a friend over but then they leave. There’s that existential pause of, “Well, what’s next?”
I burnt myself out on Final Fantasy 12. Too much escapism, then the level and item grinding just got boring. I dream of tall mountains, long hikes, and foreign languages, but always beating on toward the future, going up, going anywhere, just to escape, it seems, my own failure to truly grasp the life around me, the friendships that bleed through my clutched hands. The daylight I can’t get back, not until next season, and then the next.
I am full and empty at the same time. I can’t grasp it.