[Note: This letter is part of a week long email exchange between me and my friend Sergio on the topic of minimalism]
Ben,
Today we're talking about possessions, and I have a confession to make: I’m obsessed with stuff. Only it's not the kind of obsession you see on TV; you might even say it's the opposite of hoarding. Not a day goes by without me asking myself, or Emily, questions like "do we need to keep this?" and, "when was the last time we used it?" If I lived on my own, my apartment would be perpetually empty, as though it were waiting for its next tenant. But don't worry, it's not serious, just one of the things I like to think about.
Something else I like to think about is storage, particularly as it relates to stuff. Did you know that one of the fastest-growing sectors of commercial real estate is the self storage industry? With a collective $20+ billion in annual revenues, the industry is so strong that Wall Street analysts have deemed it "recession resistant." The fact sheet available at the Self Storage Association website has some impressive insights, but the one that I find truly captivating is this:
Total self storage rentable space in the US is now 2.22 billion square feet (as of Q4-2009). That figure represents more than 78 square miles of rentable self storage space, under roof – or an area well more than 3 times the size of Manhattan Island.
That's three Manhattan Island's worth of stuff that no longer fits in our closets, garages and attics! We have more than enough stuff to support the booming self storage industry, the National Association of Professional Organizers, businesses such as The Container Store (stuff to put your stuff in) and TV shows like Clean Sweep.
Of course I haven’t made any new discoveries here, we all know we could use a little bit of spring cleaning. But I’m taken by the sadness there is in all of this. Tom Vanderbilt refers to this sadness in an article on Slate about self storage, these possessions we store away are "mementos we somehow can't live with, and yet can't live without, and exemplify the downside of acquisition.”
And then I think about monastic life. I think about men and women who seem perfectly content and fulfilled, while possessing little to nothing at all. I look at online pictures of monastic cells and think of Thoreau’s descriptions of his cabin at Walden. These are all people for whom the concept of self-storage couldn’t be stranger if you made it up. What is the secret? How does monasticism enable people to detach from material things? Would we be happier, more fulfilled, if like monks, our possessions were fewer?
Simply,
-Sergio.
* * *
Sergio,
We might be the wrong people to talk about the temptation of having too much stuff, as I share your predilection towards getting rid of extraneous things wherever possible. Instead let me say something positive, first personally then monastically, about possessions.
I love things. The desk I’m sitting at right now is made from dark stained hardwood, solid throughout, with a hammer-textured surface and a matching hutch with little cubbies. The bag I use most days is soft leather, lined with a cool patterned fabric; it fits my netbook computer and one book perfectly. Last week I bought a beautiful bamboo dish rack and I’ve been enjoying the hell out of doing the dishes ever since. I’m a tactile person by nature, and I love good things. Long ago I took to heart this quote: “Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.” William Morris said that, though I only just now looked it up. Whoever said it to me added the line, “…preferably both.”
Which leads me to one of my favorite chapters of The Rule of St. Benedict. Besides the obvious stuff (prayers, vows, etc.) Benedict’s Rule contains some wonderful thoughts about things. When it comes to possessions, the saint devotes all 147 words of chapter 33 to saying that monks may not have any possessions at all, not “even their bodies or wills”. Chapter 31, however, is 717 words long, and concerns the Cellarer:
“Let him regard all the utensils of the monastery
and its whole property
as if they were the sacred vessels of the altar.
Let him not think that he may neglect anything.
He should be neither a miser
nor a prodigal and squanderer of the monastery's substance,
but should do all things with measure.”
The Cellarer, if it isn’t clear from the text, is that monk who acts as chief purveyor of all foodstuffs to the monastery, and as general steward. In other words, while monks don’t own anything individually, they do own things in common, and those things are precious, no matter how humble.
We’ve come to the same point, I believe. Appreciation—even reverence—for good and useful and beautiful things is exclusive of the kind of acquisitive consumerism that leads to the need for 2.22 billion square feet of self-storage. I’ve just tried to say it in a positive way. It’s a fine line and a narrow path; Jesus himself recommends a radical minimalism to his disciples when he sends them out to proclaim the kingdom of God: “He said to them, ‘Take nothing for your journey, no staff, nor bag, nor bread, nor money—not even an extra tunic.’ (Luke 9:3)”
Light Journeys,
-Ben.
Ben,
Today we're talking about possessions, and I have a confession to make: I’m obsessed with stuff. Only it's not the kind of obsession you see on TV; you might even say it's the opposite of hoarding. Not a day goes by without me asking myself, or Emily, questions like "do we need to keep this?" and, "when was the last time we used it?" If I lived on my own, my apartment would be perpetually empty, as though it were waiting for its next tenant. But don't worry, it's not serious, just one of the things I like to think about.
Something else I like to think about is storage, particularly as it relates to stuff. Did you know that one of the fastest-growing sectors of commercial real estate is the self storage industry? With a collective $20+ billion in annual revenues, the industry is so strong that Wall Street analysts have deemed it "recession resistant." The fact sheet available at the Self Storage Association website has some impressive insights, but the one that I find truly captivating is this:
Total self storage rentable space in the US is now 2.22 billion square feet (as of Q4-2009). That figure represents more than 78 square miles of rentable self storage space, under roof – or an area well more than 3 times the size of Manhattan Island.
That's three Manhattan Island's worth of stuff that no longer fits in our closets, garages and attics! We have more than enough stuff to support the booming self storage industry, the National Association of Professional Organizers, businesses such as The Container Store (stuff to put your stuff in) and TV shows like Clean Sweep.
Of course I haven’t made any new discoveries here, we all know we could use a little bit of spring cleaning. But I’m taken by the sadness there is in all of this. Tom Vanderbilt refers to this sadness in an article on Slate about self storage, these possessions we store away are "mementos we somehow can't live with, and yet can't live without, and exemplify the downside of acquisition.”
And then I think about monastic life. I think about men and women who seem perfectly content and fulfilled, while possessing little to nothing at all. I look at online pictures of monastic cells and think of Thoreau’s descriptions of his cabin at Walden. These are all people for whom the concept of self-storage couldn’t be stranger if you made it up. What is the secret? How does monasticism enable people to detach from material things? Would we be happier, more fulfilled, if like monks, our possessions were fewer?
Simply,
-Sergio.
* * *
Sergio,
We might be the wrong people to talk about the temptation of having too much stuff, as I share your predilection towards getting rid of extraneous things wherever possible. Instead let me say something positive, first personally then monastically, about possessions.
I love things. The desk I’m sitting at right now is made from dark stained hardwood, solid throughout, with a hammer-textured surface and a matching hutch with little cubbies. The bag I use most days is soft leather, lined with a cool patterned fabric; it fits my netbook computer and one book perfectly. Last week I bought a beautiful bamboo dish rack and I’ve been enjoying the hell out of doing the dishes ever since. I’m a tactile person by nature, and I love good things. Long ago I took to heart this quote: “Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.” William Morris said that, though I only just now looked it up. Whoever said it to me added the line, “…preferably both.”
Which leads me to one of my favorite chapters of The Rule of St. Benedict. Besides the obvious stuff (prayers, vows, etc.) Benedict’s Rule contains some wonderful thoughts about things. When it comes to possessions, the saint devotes all 147 words of chapter 33 to saying that monks may not have any possessions at all, not “even their bodies or wills”. Chapter 31, however, is 717 words long, and concerns the Cellarer:
“Let him regard all the utensils of the monastery
and its whole property
as if they were the sacred vessels of the altar.
Let him not think that he may neglect anything.
He should be neither a miser
nor a prodigal and squanderer of the monastery's substance,
but should do all things with measure.”
The Cellarer, if it isn’t clear from the text, is that monk who acts as chief purveyor of all foodstuffs to the monastery, and as general steward. In other words, while monks don’t own anything individually, they do own things in common, and those things are precious, no matter how humble.
We’ve come to the same point, I believe. Appreciation—even reverence—for good and useful and beautiful things is exclusive of the kind of acquisitive consumerism that leads to the need for 2.22 billion square feet of self-storage. I’ve just tried to say it in a positive way. It’s a fine line and a narrow path; Jesus himself recommends a radical minimalism to his disciples when he sends them out to proclaim the kingdom of God: “He said to them, ‘Take nothing for your journey, no staff, nor bag, nor bread, nor money—not even an extra tunic.’ (Luke 9:3)”
Light Journeys,
-Ben.
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