Small might not be the right word to describe my new home. It’s smaller than where I lived before, half the size of my former house. Yet at 790 square feet (including the closets) it’s still plenty large. My San Francisco and New York city friends laugh at me gently and offer kind advice. Yes, my home does have generous closets and cupboard space, enough room for a moderate amount of dishes, the pots and pans I need to cook great meals, and the floor plan is excellent. It has a nice layout and an easy flow.
Still, I have let go of all of my large pieces of furniture. Our large kitchen table, massive bookshelves and my bedroom dresser are gone. Those pieces were too large, the beautiful wood too dark and gobbled up too much space and light.
Instead, we went with less furniture, just a small dining table and chairs, a small bookcase, a large comfy sofa, and a new large coffee table to anchor the room. Plenty enough for comfortable living.
The hardest part was deciding which books to keep, and how to arrange things to make the space look loved and cluttered enough to feel lived in, yet keep the small open concept kitchen/living room sparse enough to offer freedom, and how to balance the old with the new and make the place feel like mine.
Now that we no longer have a garage, I have given up the notion of storing lots of things, and have narrowed down my keepsakes. For me, it is much better to take stock of what I want to save, hold the pieces I’m ready to let go of, feel, remember, and then say goodbye. Memory and imagination, I’m beginning to understand, are two sides of the same coin. The longer I save something the more meaning I assign to it, and the years that I’ve saved something become almost more important than the object I’ve saved.
With this move I was faced with editing my clothes again. I let go of everything I’ve been saving while asking myself what if? What if I need it? I kept only the things I wear regularly and a few things I love, but don't wear all that often.
Most of all, I have discovered that don’t want, or need, near as much as I did in the past.
What I have right now feels abundant. I have books to read, essays to write, paths to walk, and winter soup making ahead.
With all these good thoughts swimming in my head, I’m still missing not having my own backyard, and I’m still lamenting not having my own washing machine and dryer. But we do have community washers and dryers we share with our condo neighbors, available between 8am and 8pm.
At first, I fell into the trap of thinking without access to doing laundry whenever I want, not being able to throw a load in late at night, or early in the morning, that I would need more clothes and more towels. Then when I saw my fellow condo neighbors, the ones who save up laundry, and load up all of the machines and have mountains of washing, drying and folding to contend with, that’s when I understood I’m far happier doing laundry more frequently, and owning less to land in the dirty hamper. So far, I have not once run out of clean clothes to wear. I can put my fears to rest.
I may not ever get over my longing to have my own backyard again, private space to call my own. But if I’m willing to put on my shoes and walk out my front door the natural world is all around me. Early mornings are fog softened and the ocean mist is heavy. Most days I’m able to walk far, the same as I always have. But on those days when my energy is low, or my joints ache, there are nearby benches I can hobble to, with trees and birds all around. Autumn leaves falling in the wind, and pink, orange and magenta sunsets.
There is also a farmer’s market an easy walk from my doorstep, and we are growing a small winter garden up on the mountain. But most of all, I’m growing trust. Gaining faith in the ebb and flow of life, love, relationships and material possessions. Beginning to understand how I leap at the flow of gaining and resist in fear of its ebb. True continuity, I’m discovering, is possible only with growth, change, fluidity.
