My idea of bliss is spacious: open fields, airy rooms, bright spaces. I’ve always thought it was an aesthetic thing, but as I’m reading (again, in parts) Kim John Payne’s Simplicity Parenting, I realize that’s it’s more than that. As usual, aesthetics are also ethics, and I believe in a lifestyle that is simple, natural, deep, and direct.
Yesterday was our fifteenth wedding anniversary, and while we had a lovely night out, the day itself was hard. I’d been looking forward to it, because I had both boys and a playdate in the morning AND a visit from another friend in the afternoon. But the boys were more or less intractable. We spent much of the morning in a tussle to get TO our friends’ house and the rest of it in a tussle to get back home. I’ve never seen so much crying. It occurs to me, of course, that what they want is simple downtime — to rummage through their toys, invent new games, lie on the floor under the table, eat an oversized apple in a particularly messy and inefficient way.
Payne’s book makes the case that such downtime is not only valuable for kids; it’s necessary. For them and for us. Our lives are too complicated, too fast, too crowded, too loud, and the net result is that we don’t have much space to permit our feelings, our processing, our development, our SELVES, to show up. We feel sad about something so we put on a movie. We have a window of time between meetings so we hit Pinterest. Even the guilty pleasures we adore sometimes drop away from our lives, squeezed out by a sense that we don’t deserve such luxury and that anyway, we don’t have time. Reading is like that for me. But it’s astonishing how time stretches out when we let it. I check the clock after fifteen minutes of reading because I’m sure it’s been an hour already. Singing does that. Gardening does that. Lying on the floor with our kids does that.
Time with our kids, and SPACE with our kids, is like that. We filled up Ezra’s walls with pictures of animals because he loves them, but before long he seems not to care about them anymore, and the room just looks smaller, cluttered, with less room for air and light. The single bird-feeder, mounted outside his window, does far more for entertainment, learning, and connection to the animal world than the twenty pictures all over the walls. And yet, when I try to reduce the book collection, as Payne recommends, I hit a wall. There are a few things I don’t love, but mostly his two-shelf collection is carefully chosen and thoroughly wonderful. How to get it down to twelve books, and why? Perhaps a commitment to rotation more often would soothe my concerns here…or perhaps we try to winnow in other places.
Because I do think there’s a place where abundance still does mean abundance. A collection of fabrics that I love makes me feel rich, as does a well-chosen shelf of books. A stack of good magazines, arranged in a lovely basket, ditto. A coffee table obscured by heaps of books and magazines, however, makes me crazy. So the line between simplicity and plenty is a moving target for me, highly conditional, field-specific, and storage-dependent. I revile the notion of storing lots of stuff — why? WHY? — but I honor the desire to keep what really matters.
I come back, over and over again in my life, to the Craftsman principle articulated by William Morris: “Let there be nothing in your home you do not know to be useful or find to be beautiful.” With kids, I grant you, that’s a bit of a stretch, but then we’re not shooting for ideal. We’re just looking to feel at home in our lives. So we keep tacking back and forth, then, clearing out and making way, hoping the new air and light will help us make best use and beauty of all the chosen objects of our lives.