“In this world in which we live, simplicity and kindness are the only magic wands that work wonders.”
-L. Frank Baum

When I think of living simply, I immediately envisage small living spaces. Most often, the requiem I find myself in is a small loft apartment, with charmingly crackled walls, cold concrete floors, and a bed clad in diaphanous white linens, the center of it all. There are countless little towers of vintage books, haphazardly strewn throughout the humble haven, all standing watch like little sentinels. An unassuming little window with melted glass and black diagonal panes is perched right above the bed. There is never any semblance of a kitchen to be found, which, is rather remarkable given my affinity for all things epicurean. Oh, and somehow, the small little sanctuary always manages to smell of gardenias. …  Clearly, my idea of living simply is little more than an exercise in idyllic reverie than anything else, and it is paradoxically rather grand, seeing as how loft apartments aren’t exactly cheap. My real life is simple, though not necessarily by choice. It is simple because I can’t afford it to be otherwise, haha. However, the more I examine the practice of living simply out of agency (and once one steps out of one’s deceivingly austere loft apartment), rather than necessity, the more it appeals to me. I am constantly purging my clothes, because I am enamored with the notion that if I had to move tomorrow, I could fit everything I own in my Subaru.

I read a piece this morning dedicated to the art of living simply and it echoed to the parts of me I want to refine. I am a sentimental pack-rat, have a debilitating weakness for embroidered or crotchet knits (basically anything that could have been spotted on any free-loving, daisy-wielding hippie at Woodstock), and never met an empty journal I didn’t like. What can I say? They just have a way about them- a “way” that takes up space, though. Additionally, I tend to collect feelings like sea glass. (I also collect sea glass, by the way.) Some close to me have referred to this as “emotional hoarding”. I like to think of it as my own personal reserve for creativity and self-atunement. (I’m fully aware of how self-important that sounds. But maybe I am aware of that because I hoard feelings, though… Hmmm.) I love this quote by Anaïs Nin and admittedly have justified my proclivity for “feels” by it: 

“You must not fear or hold back, count or be a miser with your thoughts and your feelings. It is also true that creation comes from an overflow, so you have to learn to intake, to imbibe, to receive, to nourish yourself, and not be afraid of fullness. The fullness is like a tidal wave which then carries you, sweeps you into experience and writing.”

And yet, I want to be a simple creature. This creates quite the dischord, for how do I “imbibe” whilst living simply? (I spell it “dischord” rather than “discord” because thinking of it in terms of music and harmony better appeals to the fibers of my soul.) As I mused on this for the better part of the morning and well into the afternoon… I had the thought that maybe the two are not in dischord, maybe the way I am choosing to exist within  them is in dischord.

To me, any words written in beautiful succession are scripture. These just happen to actually be “scripture” : “Open thou mine eyes, that I may behold wondrous things…” (Psalms 119:18). With all I’ve read about living simply, the connecting thread binding it all together is the promise that doing so allows us to experience the miraculous in the every day, and what better way to imbibe “this one wild and precious life” than by experiencing wonder on a regular basis?  And can’t we best do that by removing the excess that blinds us so that are eyes are open wide?

You can find that wildly inspiring piece { here }.

Peace and Love.