Monday, April 13, 2015

Minimalist Dreams

I wonder if there's ever been a study done on the number of people who survive a serious illness (as either the patient or the caretaker) and then become a minimalist.  I'll bet the number would be much higher than the general population.

Clutter and chaos in the house is a side effect of cancer that I have never seen mentioned.  It should be.  It can lead to insanity.

This is thankfully, NOT our house, but our house FEELS like this.
As a result of the clutter, I have become obsessed with dreams of living a minimalist life.

So many things needed to be changed after Rudy was diagnosed.   I abandoned my upstairs loft and craft room.  My desk is our dining table where I can see everything that's going on.

Cabinets and extra shelves hold bills and medications, bills and records.

These are not our medications, but we probably have more than this and even though I try to keep them organized, they keep getting spread out all over the place.

New appliances take up space on our kitchen counters - a juicer for making all that beet juice and a waffle iron that Rudy requested after eating a Belgian waffle that tasted particularly good (when nothing else did).  A crock pot is usually out, too, filled with the bone broth he's meant to be consuming daily.

Stuff is everywhere and the house never, ever, ever feels tidy.

Added to that are the things we keep getting from people who love us - cards and photos and plants and things to do if we get bored.  We keep these things out to remind us of how much we are loved.  (I hope they still love me in my new home at the funny farm!)

All of this stuff is either necessary or sweet, but the bottom line - every flat surface in the house is covered.  Seriously!  Every single surface.

Whoever wrote that clutter is a source of stress was right.  I don't resent the changes we have needed to make.  I know it may sound that way, but I really don't.  I just want desperately need to see some empty space somewhere in our house.  I keep trying to simplify, but for every thing I get rid of, something else comes in.  I'm not giving up.  I'm going to try harder.  And if anyone feels compelled to give us something, please let it be food... in a container that doesn't need to be returned.  I feel rude saying that, but seriously, our house can't hold any more momentos.  I'd rather have a hug than a gift.

By the way, this whole tangent came on after my sweet friend, Shirley, sent me a message about a fun thing I might enjoy - a coloring book for adults.  Have you seen them?  They are suddenly all over Facebook and Pinterest and they really are kind of cool.  Before cancer, I no doubt would have enjoyed it.  Now?  Not at all.  If I got a coloring book, I'd have to find some place to put it and there is absolutely no place for it.