Everything Must Go

You rarely have time for everything you want in this life, so you need to make choices. And hopefully your choices can come from a deep sense of who you are."

Fred Rogers

Once in awhile someone asks, "how do you have time for it all?"

I don't really know what they mean, specifically. Raising four little kids? Doing farm chores? Pseudo-camping in the tiny house? Writing down ramblings in this blog?

But I guess my answer should be, "I don't have time for it all. In fact, I have time for very few things."

I've noticed lately all the things that have burned away, or never had any place in our lives in the first place . . . all the things that aren't worth spending time, money, or energy on.

Everything Must Go . . . a Quit List in the Tiny Season

• TV, movies, shows

• Video games

• Social media

• News

• Politics

• Celebrities

• Gambling

• Cosmetics

• Jewelry

• Clothes Shopping

• Hair, nails, skin regimens

• Home decor

• Collectibles

• Fancy trucks or a second car

• Consumer debt

• Fad diets

• Sugar

• Elaborate meals

• Tobacco

• Alcohol

• Gardening

• Pets

• Expensive hobbies

• Elaborate vacations

• Lots of toys

• Baby and kid furniture

• Meticulous housekeeping

• Organizing excess stuff

• Keeping up with the Joneses (or even knowing who they are)

Some of the things above are inherently wasteful, valueless, or even harmful. But some are good. And I can admire and enjoy other people's choices to adopt an adorable dog, run a 5k for charity, get a flattering new haircut, or maintain a sparklingly clean home.

Still, I can't do it all - and don't want to. So I have to prune back even good things to make space. Everything must go but the best.

Everything Must Go . . . a Best List in the Tiny Season

• Cherishing Big Country and the kids. Sharing each another's wild ideas, dreams, problems, spiritual wrestlings, and inside jokes.

• Engaging with friends.

• Sleeping and eating well.

• Reading.

• Writing.

• Exploring artistic ideas.

• Stewarding our finances.

• Hikes, music, museums, sushi, burgers, pie.

• Choosing joy and savoring the day-to-day . . . sunshine, storms, deer in the meadow, hanging laundry, washing dishes, braiding hair.

It's funny, but although these may look simply like the bare essentials of raising a family and being human, I'm not going to add anything else to the list right now.

I'm not really homeschooling in any laborious way, as a play-filled, nature-filled, unhurried life is so good for the kids when they're young.

We're not doing extracurriculars at the moment. We don't sign up for extra anything, really. Big Country and I barely have time to grab groceries and squeeze in showers to wash off all the farm sweat.

In the quiet of the night, I may read, write, fiddle with my creative projects . . . or go to bed early.

The Stuff of Life

Just like our time, we cannot do it all or have it all, materially.

Maintaining possessions is a part of living life. In an affluent society, it can easily become a defining, all-consuming activity.

But the looser we hold onto the idea of stuff's permanence, the freer we are from it. Freer from emotional strongholds over stuff, freer from letting stuff build, clutter, and monopolize time.

After all, whether later this week, later this year, or later in life, eventually . . .

Everything Must Go

All the clothes will go. I'll wear my shirts over and over, stretch out the belly from pregnancy, stretch out the neckline from nursing. Cut my jeggings off at the knees to make shorts for the summer. Perhaps cut them into rags to sop up all the messes, and finally, into the dumpster they go.

All the toys will go. Noisy toys are kept less than a day. Cheap, breakable toys less than a month. Toys Mommy doesn't like are snuck into the trash late at night. There are a few special toys, a beautiful wooden stacking tree and Big's stuffed teddy, that may outlast the others and be something fun to keep around for the grandkids. But even these have bite marks and missing stuffing and won't last forever. And then, one day, because they don't mean as much to the kids as they do to Big and me, we'll assure them that they can get rid of them when they want to. And they will go.

All the books will go. We'll outgrow some of them and pass them on. Other children's favorites will be read and reread again, pages taped and binding mended until they nearly disintegrate in our hands. A handful of favorites may journey with us til the end. Bibles, Tolkien, Jane Eyre, Ron Paul, Nourishing Traditions, Dr. Montagu's Touching. But our kids won't have too many to sort through.

All the furnishings will go. Big Country and I have already used up three pieces of furniture and a stroller just in the last three years in tiny house living. The morning we had planned for a dump run, Firebell solidified our decision to chuck the hand-me-down golden flower couch by throwing up all over it. A dilapidated table and a high chair that split in two after years of use also departed. And now it feels so much lighter.

So now, as we move from tiny house to "big house," from farm to town, we'll keep much of the new space unfilled and much of the new bustle checked at the front door.

We'll hold fast to the simplicity, the clarity . . . and the best.

What's on your Best list?

What's on your Quit list?

How much time, energy, and money would suddenly be freed up if you decided that everything must go but the best?