In the waning days of summer, I tend to have a “nesting urge.” I want to put things in order around myself so that I maximize efficiency for all of us as the school year begins. No matter what my own work schedule is, an academic year schedule is ingrained in me. So, I’ve been spending some time lately trying to make an office of a loft in a barn.
Truth is, I can work anywhere; I really can. I learned a crazy writing rhythm when my kids were very little, tapping out what I could while six of them played in the same room. I refined that skill over years and years of crowded coffee shop writing while they played soccer. I wrote half a book during the 12-hour drive to Florida with six children in the car. I can do it.
But I’d prefer not to.
I’d prefer to write in a room that is clean and clear of visual distractions. I’m more creative and more receptive to the Holy Spirit in a room that inspires me with little touches of beauty and the ready resource of good books. Bonus points if the room smells good.
The room doesn’t have to be stripped bare. Actually, paring it down to the bones is detrimental to my purpose and utterly uninspiring. Creativity flourishes in a place of ordered, curated inspiration. Souls thrive in an environment of both beauty and discipline.
This philosophy isn’t trendy minimalism. And it isn’t KonMari, the method of tidying by category made famous by Marie Kondo. It is essentialism at home. If home is the sanctuary of our souls, then what material goods are essential in order to nurture our families there? Minimalism has grown in response to a throwaway culture that urges us to earn more, compete more, buy more. We are bombarded with messages that the next shiny thing will make us feel better and live happier. Before long, we discover that those messages are lies.
Then the pendulum swings toward discarding stuff. A new idol is born. This idol demands that you have a certain number of linear feet of clear space. It argues that no item can remain that doesn’t spark joy, and that you must speak to every object as you discard it. It fuels itself on the rush of dopamine that comes with unloading several large bags that are bursting with previously purchased stuff. There is an addictive high that comes with feeling as if we’ve mastered the objects that threaten to strangle us.
But this is not essentialism either. Essentialism in the sanctuary of home is nuanced. We consider our possessions in light of the kingdom. What goes and what stays can be determined by prayerfully considering how we live and who we want to be. It’s not about competing with ourselves (or our neighbors) to see how little we can live with; it’s about discerning what we can’t live without in our mission to be saints. It’s about asking what we need to live most fully as the beloved creatures of a good God who made us in his image to be creative as he is creative.
A lack of clutter will bring focused presence instead of fractured attention; there is no doubt about it. But the thoughtful inclusion of good books, worthy toys and touches of beauty in a space brings joyful inspiration to that focused presence.
We were created with a purpose. We’re here on this earth to know, love and serve God. That is our essential mission. God, in his wisdom, gave us the gift of free will and charged us with the responsibility to use it to serve our purpose. This is where essentialism at home truly shines. So much of what we accumulate has come to rest in our homes unquestioningly.
Try this: Sit in a room and let your eyes stop and rest on every object, every corner and nook. Do the things you find there align with your vision of the life you want to live in that room? Take your time. Let yourself relax into this exercise in every room. Often, you will decide to move items out of the room and out of your life. Sometimes, you will decide to move something into the room. You will curate with an enhanced sense of both order and beauty, with heightened awareness of your freedom to exercise creativity for the good of your soul in the environment where God has placed you. As this exercise becomes your daily habit, you will develop a quiet discipline of careful stewardship.
You can work anywhere. You can create something in almost any setting, even a dusty barn. But you can also bring intention and feminine genius to a space, determine what is essential for its ultimate purpose, maybe clear the cobwebs out and blow the dust away, and establish a sanctuary where souls both work and rest brilliantly for the glory of God.
Foss, whose website is takeupandread.org, writes from Connecticut.
