Less Is Less

I find the tiny house movement fascinating. These inventive homes of just a few hundred square feet—sometimes only 100!—present charm, simplicity, and affordability. That said, I would not last long trying to live in one. There is definite appeal to the monastic like idea of ditching all the junk possessions you need a larger home to accommodate or for which you pay rent at your local storage facility. I struggle with questions about which of my possessions do I really need and how many more material items need really come into my home/life. My home's size provides helpful motivation for me to question my storage limits. When faced with the semi-hypothetical question of larger home or less (or limited) stuff, I go with less stuff, though I keep finding plenty of things I would like to own, some of which makes it through the front door.

Image from New York Times

Houses in the United States keep getting bigger. My house, built in 2005, offers about 1800 square feet, a little more than than the average square footage of a house built in 1980. By 2013 the average new house in this country comes in at about 2600 square feet, or 40% more house than I have (even as family size has been shrinking). Given the opportunity I do not believe I would have a larger house; well, not much bigger.

When I went house hunting and found my current home ten years ago, I had a few specifics for the realtor of things I wanted: 1) close to work, 2) a garage (there's a tradition on both sides of my family about respect for your vehicle; also, I hate getting into a cold car), 3) a bath attached to my room (because that's just nice to have), and 4) another bath and couple of bedrooms (for a guest room and office). I also had a lost of things I did not want: 1) a dining room and a breakfast nook, which I knew would be another room to furnish with a table I would casually pile things on, 2) a living room and a den, I was single and didn't want the extra room to furnish and to accentuate my alone-ness, and 3) if possible, no (or limited) hallways that would just add to the feeling of rattling around in an otherwise empty house. I lucked out and got everything I wanted and nothing I didn't.

That was then. Today I have a partner, a baby who will one day be adult size, two dogs, and cat. I hardly worry about feeling alone in my home. I also have about all the space I want. This is not slam against people with large(r) homes. I enjoyed the houses I lived in before going off to college (3,000 and 2,400 sq. ft., respectively), but the life that went along with those houses doesn't work for me now. Part of that comes from the fact that we have one, still-small child. Also, I remember the extra rooms in the houses I grew up in, rooms with the word "formal" attached (e.g., formal dining room) that translated to "show room" or "you-kids-get-out-of-there room." Those rooms of furniture too nice for me to use without an annual holiday as permission were an important part of a performance to keep up with the Joneses. If you have those other rooms and use the them all the time (or never, for that matter), I am not talking about you; I am talking about me. For me, a house without show rooms keeps me from having to stress about the show: less room is less stress.

Glennon Doyle Melton penned a great piece about appreciating your home for the life lived in it. I cannot agree with her more. Though I cannot go the way of the tiny house movement, I like that my partner, daughter and I are always semi on top of each other, with a dog or two running between us. The connection feels right. Sometimes I retreat to the office space upstairs to really concentrate on work, but when I can I use a laptop on the couch amidst the hubbub. My partner has her reading corner (i.e., a chair and a lamp) in our bedroom where she sneaks off to sometimes for a little respite. In the future our daughter will need time alone for homework or figuring out who she is. Even still, I like the communal default of our house; unless you're in a bedroom or bathroom, you're pretty much in the same room with everyone else: less places is less separation.

Lest you think me on my high horse, with a magic wand I could find some changes to make to the house. A foot more of counter space on both sides of my kitchen and a few more cupboards would be nice. Our biggest limitation is the eating area (you remember, the solitary eating space I insisted upon). Our dining table sits between the entrance/exit to the kitchen and a wall—not really a room, more of a space. When just us three eat, or even a couple of dinner guests, the table works really well with a long side pushed up against the wall with windows. Holidays are a different story: the table has to come away from the wall, which means everybody can get into their chairs, but they are pretty much locked unto their seats unless somebody else gets up. The holiday arrangement creates some gritting-through-my-smile moments when I have to ask two people to get up so I can maneuver around for a minute. As soon as I reflect on it though I always wash it over the same way, "It's just what family does."

The first holiday I hosted was an Easter luncheon of friends when I was in grad school. I had one of those experiences where you casually invite people who surprise you by agreeing to come. I freaked out: my then-table sat two! Boring story short, people ate with plates on their laps and had a good time (well, I did at least). It's just what family does.

I need to embrace less. I have learned my own mental health improves when I have what I need and not what I think I need by comparison. Letting go of the stress that comes with trying to "keep up" or make a show leads me closer to happiness. I have to keep learning this lesson. Would I like a larger eating area? Yes! A larger home? I guess not. We could afford a mortgage for a larger home, but we choose not to do so as our choice. For me—really, I'm just talking about me—keeping the home I have, which hardly qualifies as roughing it, keeps me a little saner. I can appreciate your bodacious media room setup without trying to figure out how to match it; there's no place for it. I can admire your huge kitchen and not want to replicate it at home; there's no space to expand. Seeing something "more" and embracing my "less" equals less of the negative energy I can create for myself. Less is less, and I need that.