Some of my best thinking, best problem-solving, best mind clearing moments happen out on the trails. Miles away from communities and cities and work and home ownership and people. And stuff. Anywhere between 15 minutes to an hour or more drive from my front door I can find myself on one of the thousands of trails in my state of Washington, and then beyond into the beautiful Pacific Northwest. And for this I am forever thankful and a good steward of the public lands I frequent. Without the ability to spend time on the trails, I don’t think I’d be here today. I’ve been through some shit. Some hard, butt-kicking kind of shit like losing parents at a young age, divorce and death of dear friends and my cancer and youth suicides. As a licensed therapist, I can’t count the many times I’ve recommended to my clients to get outside. On a regular basis. Go. Outside. Because one of the most profound lessons I’ve learned while being outdoors is that things, possessions, stuff don’t bring happiness or peace of mind. Away from stuff, you realize that you are all you have. You’re it. Wherever you go, there you are. And stuff helps you to forget that profound truth.
Bumping River | Soda Springs. Okanogan-Wenatchee National Forest. WA. In my head I said goodbye to a very toxic friend on this hike and all the heavy stuff that goes with it. And rehearsed the message of delivery again and again and again and until the tears stopped.
During 2020, like all of humanity, I started to experience some major life changes. All at once it seemed. And not just the fear of a plague. Almost like an onion, layers of my life were starting to shift and move and I knew deep inside that I needed to let them begin to slough away. Working two jobs was too much. My home was too big. A friendship was toxic. Empty-nester life was around the corner. My physical body needed rest. My mind wasn’t quite accepting as usual of the ultra-busy demands I trusted it could tolerate. Just so much mental, emotional, and physical stuff.
I’m not sure when it clicked, or if there was ever a moment when I said ‘This is it. Let’s do this. Get the dumpster!’ as much as I just seemed to be taking a more careful stock of the stuff. Being on the trails as much as I was allowed for mental and physical cleanses that seemed to happen naturally: deleting Facebook and Twitter, choosing news sources yet limiting my attention to those, cancelling my yoga membership and thus scheduled exercise, having a tough conversation with a friend or two. Letting go of this stuff felt freeing. Goodbye, one of the jobs. Yes, that second income was padding my retirement and paying off debts. But it was also contributing to the gerbil wheel life I was living. Goodbye, to one of two offices and the furniture and cabinets and bills and burden of all that. Goodbye, to that second car in the garage. And the maintenance and license tabs and tires and insurance.
Rachel Lake. Snoqualmie Region. WA. My legs taught me on this hike that they can carry me through tough terrain while my mind willed me to keep climbing through the physical pain and the uncertainty and the question if my sons were going to be ok on their own. I shed a ton of stuff on this hike. And then the view.
And then empty-nester life hit me hard and fast. One, two, three sons moved out within months of one another and into places of their own. And with that the family home began to go through some deep and necessary cleaning. Looking back, I know now that I was emotionally attached to way too much stuff. Boxes of stuff. Cupboards full of stuff. Rooms of stuff. With each son who moved out, however, things began to go. There were dump runs, Goodwill deliveries, a few yard sales here and there, and a whole lot that went with them to their new places. It was a new and strange feeling to see things go, and I oftentimes felt empty and sad when I’d return to a closet, a room, a cupboard where so much stuff had once been.
Would the family home have to go now? Should I downsize? For the first time in my entire life (my entire life of 56 years) I found myself living alone. Living alone in a home that listened to a marriage fall apart, safe sheltered 3 kids, welcomed endless pets, stored a mountain of dirt, offered meal after meal. So much stuff.
Dog Mountain Trail. Columbia River Gorge. WA. My diagnosis of Generalized Anxiety Disorder tried to take me down on this hike and mainly because I was tackling setting down the one of two jobs and weighing out the pros and cons. Near this false summit I slipped and fell and a really nice backpacker sat with me until I gained my composure. She said something that helped me to let some stuff go.
Downsizing to a smaller living space within a big home has been a concept that I’ve learned to love. Even with all the strange and unfamiliar big-empty-house noises, it feels the right thing to do to let the house rest now. Breathe. After emptying her, cleaning her, walking around and around and around touching windows and door handles and walls that know so much, I just want to love a small part of her now. Turning to my kitchen and bathroom and bedroom closets, so much stuff is gone now that I had a friend recently joke that in a case of an emergency I could probably move completely out in an hour. I decided to give away almost all of my clothes and shoes. Three car trunk loads to the Goodwill. I decided to adopt a uniform type style of dressing for work — 3 pairs of pants, 3 shirts, 3 blazers, 3 pair of shoes. That’s it. I still feel a tiny bit of dread when I wake up in the morning thinking I have to pick out an outfit to wear. But then I remember my ‘uniform’ and I just laugh and almost feel giddy.
Once you begin to rid yourself of stuff, you wonder how in the world did you collect it all, and for what reason, and why was it so important?
What a trip it’s been. Around the sun the past year. Hiking and snowshoeing and camping through the seasons. Climbing and challenging myself beyond measure. Solving problems and then seeing them to fruition back in the real world. But mostly just saying goodbye to a lot of stuff. And waking each morning with a lighter heart. A lighter step. A clearer mind.
.
White Pass Nordic Center. Leech Lake. White Pass, WA. The quiet and silent peace of a snowy landscape is just magical. This snowshoe allowed my mind to wonder in and out of all the scenarios of keeping a home that is just too big to manage, but what if I burrowed into a little corner of it like a little creature in the winter wonderland and let the big old thing just breathe and rest?
Minimalism is counterculture. It is contrary to every advertisement we have ever seen because we live in a society that prides itself on the accumulation of possessions. Materialism and consumerism. Our culture begs us to own more and more and more. Our minds become full of stuff to manage — social, emotional and physical. And with that is the very real threat of chronic stress and anxiety. This leads directly to human disease.
But in choosing to pursue and live a life of less invites freedom. Financial freedom, creative freedom, social-emotional freedom, freedom that more time can bring. It invites lifespaces that can be meaningful and purposeful. It doesn’t mean we must be single or rich or embrace a specific nordic design or buy an electric car or move our home so we can walk everywhere. Heck, it doesn’t even mean you have to start hiking.
It just means that less can be more.
Happy New Year. Be good to yourself.
