This beautiful olive tree is a new member of our family. We didn't buy her. My stepmother-in-law and father-in-law gave her to us. They have a large balcony and often receive plants as gifts from family members and friends. They had several of these trees, so they offered one to us. I'm very grateful for this tree. Our tiny balcony is one of my most favourite places in our home, and it feels wonderful to share this space not only with the stones we brought from Bornholm and the sun, but also with this tree.
As my yet unborn baby and I were spending some time with the sun on the balcony after finishing the first draft of the editorial I was working on and sending it to the editor-in-chief, I was contemplating minimalism, especially extreme minimalism. In my autoethnography, I usually focus on my practices and the reasons behind them. Yet, this time I was thinking about everything that extreme minimalism is not, for me personally. Somehow it felt important to think in these terms, too, as to understand my own practices better and deeper. I observe that what minimalism is not to me in fact is minimalism to some fellow humans. And that's ok.
Minimalism, for me, is not something that I use to increase my productivity. It's not a life hack. In my academic field, we question productivity, especially when it is seen as an end in itself. We believe that higher productivity is not necessarily better. Lower productivity could be better because it allows, for example, to immerse oneself into some process (e.g., a creative activity) more fully. While my practice of extreme minimalism frees up much time in the mornings (I wear the same outfit every day, don't wear makeup, don't style my hair), I love very slow mornings. It takes me a few minutes to get ready, but I spend an hour or more doing the things that I love. I talk to my yet unborn baby, make tea and breakfast. Unless there is some important meeting that was set up by a fellow human and cannot be rescheduled, I avoid meetings before 10 am. Some days, I do nothing, or I simply walk, contemplate and take notes. Living with very few items means I could spend very little time on cleaning, but I love looking after my space and manifesting gratitude towards it, so I take the time I feel that I need.
I don't try to live my life as efficiently as possible. I want to live a full, rich, cosy, and meaningful life. Perhaps it is more efficient to wear items made from wool when I travel, or to travel with a bum bag only. It is more efficient to fly than travel by trains and ferries. But I choose comfort and immersion. Whenever I travel, I take cotton items with me because they feel more comfortable. I can still fit everything I own into a tote bag. I could live with even less, travel with even less, but I choose not to.
For me, minimalism is not about retiring early. I want to continue writing and teaching when I'm older, too. While practising minimalism has financial benefits, I don't pursue saving every penny. My partner and I donate to charities. At times, we buy more expensive things than the cheapest option available because they have better sustainability credentials, and we believe they will last us much longer.
I don't count my possessions. Less is not necessarily better, but lagom/just right always feels good. At times, I live with 10 items of clothing, at other times with 20. 10 is not better than 20. Taking several pairs of underwear with me when I travel instead of just two feels more comfortable.
I don't practise minimalism because I want to travel more. I used to travel more when I was younger, but as I got older, I felt a deep desire to immerse myself in places, to dwell. I'm working on feeling rooted in the place where I live.
Minimalism is not an experiment. As a sustainability researcher, I do see my life as an experiment, a manifestation of theory-practice consistency, an art form, as everyday activism and a form of communication, more generally. But I live this way because it feels most authentic. I've been on this path for 15 years or so, and I continue dwelling this path as it feels good, and right.
My own practice is not something I believe fellow humans should adopt. Even if they adopt similar practices, they will still perform these practices in their own, unique ways, depending on their unique personalities and circumstances. For this reason, as much as possible, I try to avoid telling fellow humans what they should do (e.g., items they should declutter this year, things they should own).
I don't see my practice of minimalism as a sign of achieving something special, something that fellow humans in our society have not achieved. I feel joy when I sense that I'm on a path of spiritual growth, that I genuinely feel love towards fellow humans and want to treat with kindness, care, and fairness.
I don't think that extreme minimalism is something that can be practised only by digital nomads, or by those fellow humans who identify themselves as lone wolves, or by those fellow humans who choose to be childfree. I don't find unrealistic, rigid standards helpful at all. To me, extreme minimalism is inclusive, playful, flexible, cosy.