Hardened bread crumbs burst into fine white powder, sprinkling to the ground. Seeds crack under the weight of jaws clinching, and in an imperfect circle the birds gather round the old man and strut mechanically, their fat necks jerking. They welcome him as if he is one of their own, and he in turn accepts their embrace
One afternoon the two of us found ourselves walking down an orange dirt path behind the house. The dirt was hard, baked under the gilded heat of the mid-day sun, and it crumbled under our feet like carrot cake falling off the edge of a fork.
Minimalism is about intentionality. It’s about questioning all of the stuff in your life — the physical, mental, and emotional — and asking how would my life look differently if I removed that which is unnecessary, that which bogs me down mentally, emotionally, physically, and financially, so that I can pursue the hobbies, experiences, and relationships that bring joy and add value to my life.
I am a minimalist. My journey toward minimalism began the day after my dad died. I woke that morning in my childhood bedroom wearing the same clothes as the day before. A cold sweat had overtaken me, and so I hurried to the small bathroom adjacent to my bedroom where I lifted the lid of the toilet seat and vomited forcefully, my stomach muscles contracting and tightening, my back arched like a cat, then relaxed. I would vomit, then lay on the cold tile floor balled up in the fetal position. After a moment’s pause, I would vomit again. “What’s wrong? Son, are you okay,” my mom called from downstairs frantically, worrying perhaps it was something more. Still on edge from the day before — when death had knocked.