The Minimalist Life

 In preparing to sell my Chicago condo, I was encouraged to create a minimalist vibe.  "Less is more," my realtor advised.  I cleared off every horizontal service.  My kitchen counters held only a toaster, and sugar and flour canisters.  The basket of fruits and vegetables that don't get refrigerated was tucked into a cupboard (and resulted in me nearly forgetting I had bananas to be eaten!) My recycling bin was stuck under the sink.  All of my toiletries that were normally stored on the vanity counter were either stuck in drawers or into a small basket that I could stow in the linen closet.  TV remotes were in a side table drawer (luckily that table had a drawer!)  My free weights, yoga strap, and yoga blocks were in a storage ottoman.  My desk was clear, no papers, no pens, no mail.  My dining room table had no salt or pepper shakers, no paper napkins, no placemat.

It was bliss.  

I've been through this before, after refinishing the floors or painting rooms.  I am seduced by the zen-like feeling of space and openness. I vow to keep this minimalist style.  But, slowly, things creep out of hiding. It is easier to keep the dish towels on the oven door handle than under the sink. It is easier to keep a pad of paper and pen on the table so I can make lists and notes than to continually get them out and put them away.  So far, I've managed to keep the remotes in the drawer, the exercise equipment hidden, and the toiletries in a basket (although it sits on the counter, not in the closet). Maybe these small steps will carry forward.

And, while I decluttered I did not necessarily discard.  Much of what was on the walls or shelves, in the cupboards or closets, is now in boxes in storage.  Some things will make their way to my new home, and I have donated boxes and bags of belongings, but others are destined to outlive me in boxes.  Yet, I find it difficult to part with them.  How can I get rid of the favorite picture books I remember reading to my sons?  How can I throw out their kindergarten art work?  Souvenirs from my trip to Russia in 1978?  Play programs from high school musicals? Photos of houses where I've lived?  I don't need to see them everyday, even every year, but I like knowing that they are there, somewhere.  Those things help me tell the story of my life--the Mother's Day cards I made when I was 3, the Mother's Day cards my sons made when they were 3, and now the Grandmother cards from my grandson. Marie Kondo I am not.