CLEAR
We all want more. We have an urge for better, and desire what we don't have to the point of feeling distraught without it. The acquisition of physical fitness and well-being, deeper relationships, and more profound experiences is popular and improves most lives. But desire for the non-material can be frustrating when the majority of one's life is spent in search of material riches. Maybe our inability to value what we already have is a byproduct of consumption culture, or a year of isolating in small spaces. Still, that cramped, suffocating feeling you're experiencing is a signal to divest, not accumulate. Very few hear the call to clear out, to empty space. What we invite in needs room, and space is limited. So what are you willing to give up in order to acquire what you think is essential?
How much room do you have in your life? This question encompasses everything, but we can use the analogy of time to make a more significant point. Most people understand that certain things will improve their lives, like exercise, a side project, a hobby, or even rest. Few do these — unless they are built-in habits or are an important aspect of identity (sport = athlete). There isn't enough time in the day to add very much once you account for life's requirements, or so we've convinced ourselves.
I see this all the time with practices known to improve lives with little or no downside, like breath work. I don't think there has ever been presented an argument against taking fifteen minutes in your day to focus on intentional respiration. The benefits are seemingly endless, but very few people do it. Fifteen minutes. That's all. And ... crickets.
When you ask why something as simple as conscious breathing is excluded from daily practice, the excuses roll unconsciously off the tongue while the brain searches to validate its neglect.
We have too much input, too much low-quality content. Cheap conversations, sensationalism sold as news, low-res imagery, and videos of tweens doing 7-second dances are what fill most people's inventory. If the content in people's brains manifested into a living space most would qualify as an episode of Hoarders. The gawk and awe that results from viewing other, disheveled lives is ironic when those images are consumed by, and stored within the minds of those who convince themselves that their life (and storage unit) is different.
If you want good things to happen, you must have or make room for what you envision to occur. Do you want better friendships? How does that occur if you don't clear time for meaningful conversations? Want to improve your diet? Where do healthful foods go if your pantry and fridge are full of low-quality consumables? Opportunity is only such if you have the means to seize it and the space to store it.
The work we do to create the life we want to live produces exhaust, waste. Hands exposed to consistent friction respond by building a layer of dead skin cells to protect the system, but the excess must be managed because eventually, the build-up will stiffen and solidify to the extent that it tears the very flesh it was protecting. That which makes us calloused — the barrier of hardness we see as protection — becomes a liability. It makes us vulnerable unless we take the time to remove the overgrowth.
Minimalism isn't just a print aesthetic or a feature of nerdy architecture. It is a part of nature that can induce deep states of bliss. Sitting in an empty room can be a freeing experience or it can be debilitating; the outcome depends on the mind that dwells in that space, and whether it is full or clear, and open to receive.
