When less is more and more than enough
I arrived home on shipment day to a house in chaos—to stacks of items lining every wall and heaps of things piled high at every turn—to a home overrun by the consumerism and materialism we had failed to escape. How was it that we even had so much stuff?
Attempting the impossible task of sifting through our mountains of possessions had me wishing once again that I could be a minimalist. Despite not actually wanting much of the stuff we had in our home, I still agonised over almost every decision to get rid of something—because we might need it, because we paid for it, because someone else paid for it, because it would be a waste, because it was a gift, because it was a dream, because it was once precious, because it holds memories.
How do I let go of the books that were my childhood and youth? When this was the collection I grew from visits to book fairs and bookshops with the pocket money I saved up, and when these were the books I had once read read time and over again. Or how do I let go of the brand-new-in-box-and-will-likely-stay-that-way Chinese tea set? The one that Mum gave amongst a bunch of other traditional items when I got married, despite me pleading with her not to, because she had wanted them to be a symbol of the blessings that she hoped I would have in marriage. And how do I let go of the three stuffed camels that Dad bought on a work trip overseas long, long ago? I had saved two from abandonment (they were my siblings') not because I liked them, but because Dad bought them, and Dad rarely buys us things.
I struggle to let go. Because letting go feels like forgetting—like forgetting the person I was, like forgetting Mum's heart, like forgetting Dad's love. I am as sentimental as I am practical. And despite being confident that I will hardly miss the things that I don't particularly want, I still find the decision to let go painful. It feels like loss and a cutting off, of meaning and of memory. Decluttering is simply—overwhelming.
Yet this shipment day has really cemented things for me because I don't want to continue grappling with this conundrum of too much stuff for the rest of my life. The clutter only gives me a headache. And I know some people do derive joy from many of their material possessions, but I am not one of them. Besides, despite the perpetual state of clutter in my home, laptop and phone, I actually really like it when things are clean and minimal. I find it easier on the eyes and mind, and I like the focus that it brings.
The path before me is clear. I must be more open-handed in letting go, recognising that the true value of what I cling to is not in the material, finding better ways of treasuring their meaning and memory. Which is why, this time, I need to be more tight-fisted in bringing in. After all, the material often does not give me lasting joy, and in my case, the spur-of-the-moment impulse and accompanying high are especially fleeting. And this time, I really need to be more thick-skinned in saying no. Because so much of what we don't want, need or use comes from well-meaning and thoughtful gestures that, quite frankly, miss the mark. It's been some years now, where feeling troubled by the excess and waste of Christmas gift-giving has put a damper on what was supposed to be my forever-favourite season.
As the years pass, I feel increasingly certain that less is indeed more. I look at the amount of books and toys that my four-year-old has, and it bothers me—the toys more than the books—because he has far too much. And I don't feel that it is good for a child to grow up in such an environment of excess.
I had a different childhood, one where money was always tight and where we did not enjoy many luxuries. Our collection of toys was limited, and most of what we did have was shared. And that made the toys I could truly call mine especially precious to me. It was because we had little that we learnt to treasure all that we did have.
I remember each time I'd visit a friend's home to play, how I would feel anew an amazement and envy at their many possessions, more toys for one than we had back home for the four of us. And I remember feeling shocked too, by how careless my friends were with their toys and belongings. Why did they seem to care less despite having more?
I remember wanting so badly to learn the piano but never saying a word to Mum. I was only nine, but I knew enough that I did not want to trouble her with a request that she would not be able to fulfil. I remember wishing and wishing that I could be rich, certain that the path to happiness lay down that road, not knowing that I could not be further from the truth.
For in time, I've come to realise that there are other, richer paths in life that are better worth pursuing. I've come to understand that I gained far more than all that I lacked and lost—precious life lessons in gratitude, contentment and consideration for others. I learnt to share, to cherish and to care for. And I've come to appreciate the humble beginnings that have led me to this point.
The hope that I have for my child then is this—that he too would gain the richness of life that is found not in the material, but in the immaterial, in contentment and in a reaching for the so much more.
Because sometimes less is more—more than enough.