Tomorrow is moving day. I am looking forward to it because I am one of those rare people who actually enjoys moving. It probably helps that I am a minimalist, since that means I don’t have a lot to move. My daughter, on the other hand, did not inherit the minimalist gene.
I did not inherit it, either. Neither of my parents are minimalists, so I have no idea where this personality trait came from. In fact, I don’t know of anyone in any branch of my family that even comes close to my level of owning as little as possible.
Sometimes, I take this to the extreme and end up getting rid of things that I later wish I had kept, but most of the time my minimalism has served me well. It not only makes moving easier, but it also makes it a cinch to find things — regardless of whether I am looking for something in the kitchen, or in a closet or in the garage.
Okay, so I am not just a minimalist. I am an organized minimalist. Simply put, clutter bothers me. It feels like a burden. I agree with William Morris, who said, “Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.”
Our homes ought to be sanctuaries that feed the soul. Of course, not everyone shares the same vision of what their sanctuary would look like. Mine looks tastefully sparse with splashes of color, whereas my daughter’s looks like a giant library full of every good book ever written.
That could be why her moving boxes are much heavier and more numerous than mine. It could also be why we are going to pay three strapping young men to do all the heavy lifting. Oh, well, at least I don’t have to do it! Vive la difference!