All of a sudden,I understand the minimalist aesthetic. I agree with all philosophies that say possessions are fleeting and only bring pain. The capacity for sentimentality has left my body. Every single object is my enemy.
Packing up junk:it’s not fun.iStock
Moving house is said to be one of the most stressful things you can do but,as always,this is a matter of perspective. You can find ways to look on the bright side. I would tell myself that this is the last time I’d ever have to clean this particular kitchen. I’d try to remind myself of all the fun I had making scuff marks and holes in walls that I would later have to repair. I would note the rental price going up an extra hundred dollars and realise that our spirit must have made the place at least a hundred dollars a week better – as there were certainly no other notable improvements and otherwise it would be shameless profiteering in a housing crisis and I just don’t believe such a thing would happen.
Sure,you spend a lot of your day on the phone with real estate agents but,again,you can look on the bright side:every other conversation you have that day is improved by the sheer fact that you’re not talking to a real estate agent. Our local vet could call me and say that she’s putting down my dog just out of spite and boredom,and I’d be thrilled to be talking to someone about anything other than property.
Nothing can really brace yourself for the constant,unsettling tension of packing up all your worldly things and shipping them out. When I was younger,it was fun. Everything I owned would fit in a van,and I’d drive it across the country to wherever I was settling next. Now,life has gotten bigger,there aren’t enough seats in the van for the whole family,and that family has objects of their own that need to be shipped. It’s a long and slow process and because it is occurring in your own home,it’s suddenly impossible to rest,to recover,and to feel at ease as you approach the next day. In every room is a reminder that you are about to be unsettled or,even worse,a normal room that you haven’t even started to pack up andoh my god why is this taking so long we should have set everything on fire when we had the chance.
But if it’s alljunk,then why is it so hard to decide what to keep and what needs to go?
Sitting among the pile of half-filled boxes,I realise the core of the problem. When we live in a materialistic society,these objects become the physical embodiment of time and memory. This isn’t just a crappy plastic walker that my kid has outgrown,it’s the walker that helped her to take her first steps. These are the board games we played when we were locked in together at the very start of our marriage. This isn’t just an old mangled t-shirt with holes in it and a bit of a pong – actually,yeah,that can go.
Despite my grumbles at having to pack everything away then unpack it again,I don’t think the minimalist lifestyle is for me. I don’t want my life to be aesthetically perfect and emotionless. Sterility is for hospital wards. I want a home that looks like people live in it,one with character and love. I want a home. Somewhere that is more than a place to sleep but is rather a record of the people who sleep in it,the people who stop by,and the joy found inside. And if at all possible,I would love for all of that to be easily erasable so I can somehow get my bond back.
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