There is a podcast I have been following called the Minimalists. They invented a game called the 30-Day Minimalism Challenge and it challenges you for 30 days to get rid of 1 more item each day.
This means that on day 1, you get rid of 1 item. Day 2, 2 items, and so on and so forth. The main idea is to de-clutter your house but also to make you realize how many things you truly own. 30 days is not the maximum. It can go further if you want, though I have to wonder at what point do you run out of items? Day 84? Day 62?
So I challenge any of you who read my blog to join me. I plan to start on the first of the new year and see what I can reduce out of my house. 31 days, 496 items. Are you up for the challenge?
Find more details here: https://www.theminimalists.com/game/
I have recently moved out of my parent’s house and into the basement living space of my grandparents’ house. This is an entirely new concept for me, as always before in my life, I have always been ‘home’. Never mind spending weeks alone, I was still living and abiding in the house of my parents. For slightly longer than 18 years, that has always been the defining feature of ‘home’.
The experience of packing most of my possessions into boxes and then setting those things up in familiar-yet-entirely-different positions around my new rooms was very emotionally taxing, and it drained me for the rest of the day.
Part of the pain, as I frequently lamented to my cousin, was that the room I had just recently acquired had a window seat. I adore window seats, and have done since I was roughly five and first read about them in a book long-forgotten. I don’t know why, but perhaps simply the pure dramatic appeal is what I love. But that window seat had finally fallen into my possession, and then, just as suddenly, it fell out.
Tobi didn’t know how long it had been since he’d shaved. Two days? Three?
He rubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw in thoughtful contemplation, staring straight ahead without really seeing.
Maybe he should buy a razor.
He didn’t have one at the apartment, nor did he have other normal things, like a bed frame, a kitchen sink, or a couch.
He had cushions and bean bags in place of the last, a mattress thrown on the floor with a collection of ragged old blankets set atop it, to suffice for the first, and for the middle, he used the shower in the bathroom. It got interesting, maneuvering around cereal bowls while one scrubbed one’s hair, (when one did wash one’s much-ignored hair, that is,) but Tobi’d gotten used to it. Continue reading →
They’d discovered hundreds, many of them lost again nearly as soon as they were found.
Scar and Sissy, always together, always looking. Pricilla Rosalyn, or Sissy Rose, to her friends.
Scar, or Scarlette to only her.
“Why do you have a girl’s name?” she’d asked him once as they sat in the rafters of the house, each on their own, their legs swinging in empty space.
“It’s not a girl’s name,” he’d said defensively, shifting his position to a lazy sprawl on the wide beam. “It’s my name.” Continue reading →