I’m in a season of simplifying my life. With the first year of grief under my belt, I know that my life, as it was built for the two of us, is unmanageable for me the way it is. Because of this, I think a lot about a past iteration of me as a guide for what this new life I didn’t ask for may hold.
Sara the minimalist road warrior rolled back into Iowa just under seven (SEVEN?!) years ago having sold all her stuff except for what would fit in the back end of a Jeep Patriot, with nothing but her dog and a deep desire to start over.
What helped me during that time of reinvention was simplicity. I owned about 20 pieces of clothing and five pairs of shoes. I didn’t shop or spend or eat or drink when I felt empty. I sat with the “ick” and let it wash over me. I delighted in the small stuff that has always made me happy—the “glimmer” moments— because, at that time, those were, by choice, all I possessed. A canine companion. White string lights. Campfire crackling. Wind chimes making tinny melodies in the wind. Drinking coffee outside. Simplicity.
If you know me well, you know how often I talk about living in no more than 750 square feet of dwelling, among the trees and wildflowers. Small spaces and some simple stimuli to entertain me. I’m basically a cat. So, I look around my home and, while I love this house and how I feel in it, I am also weighed down by the fact that this 1400 square feet (objectively not big, I do realize), and all that it contains, is now all mine to share with a beagle. He doesn’t help clean or maintain—something about “no thumbs.”
And what’s heavier than the space is the bulk of what’s here belonged to my husband, and I’m definitely not ready to rehome any of it. If all this stuff were somehow mine (I realize it is now, but it sure still feels like his, like him) I would have a big garage sale, give away the rest, and keep only what I need. And don’t get me started on having huge lawns that need mowing and neighbors that need chatting to (both are objectively good, but I’m not good at either).
I’ve heard it said before, and I’ve also said it, that the stuff you own can end up owning you. I think I get it now, more than ever. If year one of widowhood was about taking stock of what my life was, and where I want it to go, my intention for year two is to start building a life that’s organic and manageable for me. To walk toward a reality that, as much as I didn’t want it, makes sense just for me. String lights. Simple pleasures. Sweet, sweet, nothing.
Sara Middleton is a freelance columnist and Founder/Executive Director/Resident Artist of Studio Sol Art Outreach & Creative Space in Eagle Grove, Iowa. Email her at sara.studiosol@gmail.com or find Studio Sol on Facebook or Instagram.