How much space do we need to occupy in order to be happy? The average American house size is just over 2,000 square feet. The average. That means plenty of folks need to gobble up more space, more resources, more storage for stuff that never leaves its box. A friend who worked for a moving company used to lament the amount of cardboard boxes that he moved from basement to basement, where they would remain planted, growing roots, never leaving the dusty cardboard for a chance at any kind of life. Because we all need three different types of blenders and more television sets than people. Yes, yes. The important things in life.
But the story of American consumption and the idea of paring down is nothing new. The Tiny House Movement has gained popularity over the last ten years. Hell, there is even a tiny house version of the reality TV show House Hunters. It’s trendy to think small, to like the color green, to reduce, reuse, or maybe just recycle. Because we are all aware of the consequences of our own greed—well, at least those of us who don’t believe that God placed us on Earth to gobble it as we see fit. And yet, we still live in McMansions and drive one too many cars and collect cheap Chinese-made objects like we need them to breathe. And we still don’t find the time to donate items we don’t use or repurpose broken items or stop and think before clicking the “Buy Now” button on Amazon Prime. So then the attic fills, the basement fills, the rooms fill, and every corner fills with emptiness. How I ended up living in 200-square-feet is not as purposeful as I would have liked. I do not feel righteous, like I wouldn’t too have too many shoes or buy a big house and fill it with heat and light and a dishwasher if I had the money or the situation or the family with kids. It isn’t about judgement or rejection, but about falling into simple in a way that forced me to give objects weight, to question the usefulness of a plastic container before tossing it in the garbage because the nearest dump is four hours away. I was forced into living the ideology I’d always yearned to represent because I found a place I felt at home and home happened to be only 200 square feet. It is not without challenge. My morning yoga ritual often turns into an anxious dance between trying not to fall on the scalding wood stove while attempting a head stand and avoiding the hanging dirty rag with my clean fingers as I try to breathe through a sun salutation without distraction. It’s like someone should make a YouTube Channel for tiny house yoga, where no limbs stray from the small rectangle of the yoga mat that just perfectly fits in the one free bit of space between the kitchen and the seating area. Occasionally I romanticize the idea, thinking of the one-room cabins I dreamt of while obsessed with Laura Ingells Wilder in my younger days. But when I knock my toothbrush into the dirty grey water tub that functions as a sort of sink and when the water jug springs a leak and soaks through my tea bags that I’ve necessarily stowed beneath it because there is no other logical place for them to exist, I often let out a frustrated sigh. Or when company comes over, and I want to apologize that they must climb over one another to exit the place. Or more often when company does not come over because having a dinner party with no real table is a bit difficult. And all the pans must live in the oven and a chair sets in front of a cabinet that I use daily because, despite a half an hour of contemplation, I cannot find another place for it to be. Life is like maneuvering a puzzle, requiring me to nestle all the pieces into their proper places or the whole room becomes one big, indecipherable mess. And it isn’t just 200 square feet for me, but for two people. Two people’s book collections and two people’s stashes of months’ worth of food and beer and toiletries. And a dog too. But then, miraculously, and despite these occasional frustrations, it does work. Living in a tenth of the space normally occupied by the average American household is not impossible; in fact, it is positively enjoyable 90% of the time. Less space means less to clean. Less space means less money spent on stuff. Less space means every item has purpose, sometimes two or three reasons for existence, filling the entire household with an incredibly useful energy. Less space means more time spent outside breathing fresh, crisp air and pumping warm blood through a happy circulatory system. It also means my creative muscle pumps harder than usual. How to make room for five people in a space meant for one, maybe two? How to use the undersides and insides of cabinets to house spices, dishes, and cups? How to use nails and vertical space and still avoid clutter? I think my interior design skills have grown exponentially over the last six months. And, of course, I can feel my environmental footprint shrinking daily as I compost and reuse and rarely run the generator. My conscious thanks me and so does my bank account.
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Meet ErinJournalist, adventurer, writer, musician, dancer, linguist, and cook, ready to tell you about her ridiculous attempts to live in the Alaskan wilderness without running water and live beyond the woods Archives
April 2016
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