The Simple Life

For much of my married life, my wife and I had two households. In grad school, one was the apartment within walking distance of the Duke campus, while the other was the home provided by the Friends meeting I served during that time. Later, the parsonage provided as part of Judi’s compensation by the United Methodist Church was our main residence, and the second was a house we were buying for the day when she retired. I joked that it also served as “bishop insurance,” meaning that if the bishop ever appointed Judi to a place she did not want to go, we had an easy housing option! Thankfully, that was never an issue.

One consequence of Judi’s decision to retire a few years ago was that we reduced from two households to one.  What to do with all the duplications we owned? Two microwave ovens, excess lamps and dishes, and more. In East-Central Indiana, the obvious solution to this overstocked situation is a YARDSALE, where one arranges one’s goods on the front lawn and invites strangers to rifle through those belongings while insisting that a nearly new toaster is worth no more than fifty cents rather than the outrageous $1.00 price tag attached to it.  We set a date, sorted, organized, advertised, and waited. In what must be the antithesis of arriving fashionably late, bargain shoppers began arriving a good hour before the posted start time. Reducing two households down to one, enhanced by twenty plus years of accumulation produced, shall we say, a healthy inventory. Fortunately we had a large front yard.

This exercise proved to be a spiritual AHA moment. It began when the first customer sauntered through the inventory and innocently said, “Wow. This is a lot of stuff. How many families are participating in this yard sale?” “Just one,” I answered. “How large is the family?” he pressed. On the off chance that customer service was important even at yard sales, I responded politely. “Just the two of us.” The exchange ended with “Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

A few minutes later another visitor with hands on her hips and mouth agape asked, “Is this an estate sale?” “No ma’am,” I responded. “Moving it all outside nearly killed us both, but we all still had a pulse as of this morning.”

If those two were like ghosts of Christmas past and present, my third ghost arrived in the form of a friend who came over on her lunch hour and exclaimed, “Wow, is this all your stuff?” Being the smart aleck I am, I said, “Why no, we have more in the house. If you don’t see what you’re looking for here we can go inside to look through the rest!”

Honestly, their comments were merely salt in the wound. The whole preparation process had left me aghast at how much stuff we had accumulated. Even the word “stuff” implies such a wide range as to defy precise, descriptive categories. It hints at being too much, as when one is “stuffed” at the end of a meal. I have heard others express a similar response during their own spring cleaning efforts, so perhaps you understand what I was going through. Some duplication was understandable given the need to furnish two homes over the years—but this experience was calling me to deeper reflection. How did this happen? Why had I not noticed?

Intellectually, I know I am more than my material possessions. My value is not enhanced by the car I drive or the logo on my clothing or how much I own. I recognize the seduction cast by our consumer-oriented culture that regularly parades non-essential, if not useless, gadgets as though life is incomplete without them. I would describe very few of my possessions as frivolous; still, accumulation without reflection or critique is an easy habit to develop, creating cluttered homes and complex relationships with the items we choose to claim as our own. It can be difficult to liberate one’s self from it all.

Interestingly enough, early Quakers named simplicity as a worthy practice for the spiritually inclined. Though there is evidence this was not a fully embraced commitment, the idea continues to circulate as a desirable quality of the spiritual life. Frankly, simplicity has suffered from wide-spread neglect through the years. Lack of simplicity does not make many short lists of sins to be forgiven or habits to be changed.

Perhaps part of this is due to the general connotation of the word itself. “Simple” often equates with “easy.” In some cases, that which comes easily may not be worth having, or at least not immediately trustworthy. My guess is that sentiment was coined and marketed by those who sported a strong work ethic, plus a disgust with completing slackers’ unfinished business.

The fact that the word “simpleton” is used to describe foolish or gullible individuals may discourage a stampede toward simplicity as well. Who wants to attempt to live down that reputation?

Simple sometimes implies “less advanced” or “less complicated.” While we may cringe at the idea of being considered “less advanced,” especially if that somehow is interpreted as less cultured or less capable, “less complicated” can be desirable. I appreciate phone apps that make complex computer functions manageable for the technologically untrained. I like subway maps that can be understood by visitors and tourists (are you listening, New York City?) And if less complicated means “less baggage,” then I really appreciate simple, less complicated relationships. If I could add a day to my life for every incorrect assumption or interpretation others have made about something I’ve said, not said, done, or not done based on the baggage they lug through life, I might well outlive Methuselah.

But what might simple mean as a spiritual practice or a disposition in life that is not burdened by negative implications? For better or worse we often evaluate simplicity by material measures like price and quantity—buying $20 sneakers instead of $300 ones, or owning one pair of jeans rather than a dozen. Those measures are important, but I doubt they are the only, and perhaps not even the primary, determination of simplicity. Things like the quality of goods purchased and the means by which the items were created are important as well. Multiple levels of corporate ownership and numerous steps between producer and consumer make it difficult to know the full details and consequences of our choices. Even when available, those facts are often overlooked in a system that depends on reoccurring business or awards contracts to lowest bids without insuring equality of proposals. I shake my head when delivery persons tell me the average lifespan of their appliance is five years knowing those of my grandparents sometimes lasted decades. Choosing to purchase cheap garments that last one season at best rather than paying more for clothes that last for years may be a case of frugality or even economic necessity, but is not necessarily an example of simplicity.

What if we were to begin by considering that simplicity is not a mandate for a sacrifice of quality, and instead turn our attention to quantity? Here, we may discover that our purchasing habits are off the rails. Judging by the number of antique shops around the country and the popularity of storage unit rentals, I think society has made its peace with at least a four-tiered system of “stuff.” Level one consists of items we truly treasure that stay at home where we can see them, touch them, even be inspired by them. For me, beyond those items with practical functions, these consist mainly of photos or travel mementos that remind me of happy experiences. What are yours?

Level two includes things we never use and do not miss but cannot bear to release because we might need them one day! These are stored in attics, basements, and rented storage units. If it has been in a box unused for five years it is not a high priority item, though as soon as I get rid of it, I will need it the next week. Or at least, that rationale helps justify hanging on to multiple claw hammers or three partially complete sets of drill bits. 

A few of us utilize level three. It consists of things we no longer want, but believe others might be willing to purchase. These wind up in antique stores or posted on the likes of e-bay. But until someone hands over the cash, it still counts as part of the volume of stuff we cannot release.

The fourth level is reserved for things we are not sure anyone would buy; but since one person’s trash can be another’s treasure, those items are donated.  The fact it can be considered as recycling means we can dispense of it and still feel good about letting it go.

Imagine how much less space we would need or how much less trash we would have if a commitment to simplicity resulted in buyer constraint! While it would declutter our personal space and positively affect our cash flow, I confess I do not know how it would impact an economy that depends on wanton purchasing habits. It may be a risk we are not willing to take.

Building on this thread, if simplicity does not sacrifice quality but does commit to more responsible decisions that declutter our space, one could ask if simplicity is merely concerned with external clutter. As Quakers learned, a preoccupation with the simplicity of external trappings could lead to such obsessions as what constitutes a suitable fabric and weave of cloth used for garments, or what is the acceptable height for tombstones. I wonder if there isn’t also an internal clutter that complicates our lives? I have witnessed it in the exhausting complexity that results from over-committed schedules. I have faced it in the busyness that ultimately makes us strangers in our most intimate relationships, including ourselves. Many of us know some variation of that experience. Perhaps we work multiple jobs to make ends meet. Or we are over-extended through our passionate volunteerism for causes we love. Possibly it results from the rhythm of the life we have chosen, which requires two-hour commutes in each direction sandwiched around an eight-hour day so that we are burning the proverbial candle at both ends. Our interior space can be over-crowded by these commitments. Our attention can be splintered by competing demands. As a consequence, we slowly but surely lose sight of our inner core that keeps us centered and accountable to our values.

My hunch is that simplicity is best rooted in the interior space where we notice our values and desires. Planted and nurtured there, the seed of simplicity tempers our attitudes and practices. There it gives life to a disposition, a posture, that knows none of us can do all or be all. It understands that most of us need less than we think and that richness arises from relationships and experiences more than things. It has some calm understanding of the Power of Enough, an invigorating force that allows us to relax and trust and love . . . and simply be present wherever we are.

Hmmm. Simple may not be so easy after all.