unprocessed.

Hello there. It's been a while, I know. I haven't had much to say on the minimization front, although I'm pleased to report that it's still going well. We haven't reaccumulated anything that we minimized; in fact, we continue to downsize, and no longer have TV. Best of all, I haven't experienced a single moment of missing anything that I let go. It's been pretty great.

With the arrival of spring cleaning season, and nothing left in our house to declutter, I decided to take a different approach. I love an opportunity to hit the "reset" button, and this year I've decided to apply the reset button to my diet. Although I've been a vegetarian for many years (and occasionally a vegan), I am often guilty of eating on the run and/or making a meal out of french fries and wine. (What? That's not a thing that everyone does?) I know how to eat properly, I know how to cook well, and I know that I feel awesome when I'm doing those things. Unfortunately, knowing the truth is not the same as living it.

For my spring cleaning effort this year, I decided to apply the basic principals of minimalism to my diet: quality over quantity; want vs. need; and thoughtful decision-making. For me, all roads lead to the same place: real, unprocessed food (aka, the Lloyd Dobler approach).

So, for the next 30 days, I'm committing to only eating whole, unprocessed foods -- i.e. nothing that has more than one ingredient or comes in a package (unless the package contains only one ingredient). No salt, no oil, no sugar. No refined anything. No (gasp) alcohol. I'm just going to eat as much good, simple food as I need, and leave it at that. 

Today was Day 1. I started the day with a green smoothie, snacked on some nuts, ate a bowl full of brown rice, veggies, and beans, and finished with another bowl of plain Greek yogurt, banana, and unsweetened almond butter. I feel full. I feel like I'm going to sleep well.

I feel like the next 29 days are not going to be so easy.

So, if you're interested to see what happens when a woman who treats nachos as a primary food group attempts to go completely unprocessed for 30 days, please follow me here.

bella.

This isn’t exactly a minimalist post, but I feel compelled to share Bella’s story, and this seemed like the best place to do it. Our pets are so often our best teachers about the simple things that matter most in life, and Bella was no exception. She was an extraordinary teacher and a true friend, who patiently supported me through the messy transition years between youth and adulthood, even when I didn’t deserve it. Especially when I didn’t deserve it.  And for that, I am forever grateful.

The winter of 2002 was not a high point in my life story. I had just barely escaped a classic burnout job and had leapt directly into one that was going exactly nowhere. I was dating a much older man who had no intention of ever committing, but suggested that perhaps we could have a baby while living in different apartments, “like they do in Europe.” I carried my life in soggy grocery bags between his posh condo in Cambridge and my slumlord-owned one-bed in Brighton, where the old clawfoot tub never came clean, no matter how hard I scrubbed. I thought about moving out of Boston. I thought about diving back into my college romance with scotch on the rocks. I more than thought about running off with other men.

Instead, I decided to get a cat.

It was a particularly brutal February night, and I hummed a little Dar Williams as I fast-walked from the T stop to the animal shelter. My feet were soaked by the city slush. My umbrella snapped. I showed up with barely thirty minutes to spare before closing, and with a local TV crew staked out across half of the shelter. “You can look at the cats,” the receptionist told me, “But stay out of the picture.”

I started at the far left of the wall of cages, looking in at one sad little cat face after another. The TV reporter held his finger to his lips, silently shushing me, and I nodded. Some of the cats looked up, seemingly hopeful, but most ignored me as I walked by, silently. As I turned to make my way down another row of cages, a white paw shot out and hooked its claws into my coat. The paw was attached to a fluffy black and white cat, with serious yellow eyes that said, “Really? Like you have somewhere else to be?”

Ten minutes later, the paperwork was complete. Bella came home with me the following week, and made it instantly clear that it was time for me to grow up and get my life in order.

Whenever I made a bad choice, she judged me…and I was twenty-nothing, so I made a lot of bad choices. The way-too-old-for-me boyfriend was the first to go, but Bella continued to mete out punishment whenever I brought home someone who did not meet her standards. One of her favorite tactics was to pull a cashmere sweater from the laundry bin and shred it to bits, whenever I allowed ne’er-do-well to spend the night.  She was also fond of hissing at those she found unacceptable…which was pretty much all of them. And she was right.

Soon after, we moved to a better apartment in Back Bay and she took to sleeping beside me at night, tunneled under the blankets in a neat little mound. She’s stay there all night, only moving when I woke her in the morning. She followed me everywhere -- to the kitchen, to the bathroom, even into the shower. She had somehow decided that I needed constant supervision. And she was right.

Bella politely disagreed when I moved in with my first husband, going so far as to even run away one night.  She came back the next day, but continued to make her reluctance known.  We moved again, this time to a loft overlooking the ocean, where we drifted for a while, uncertain of what was next. I turned 30. I got a divorce. Bella sat by the window, ears pricked for whatever was coming, knowing that it was something big. And she was right.

When Scott entered our lives, Bella changed. She relaxed a little, secure in the knowledge that she wasn’t solely responsible for taking care of me anymore. It wasn’t that she instantly loved him, but her instincts were always impeccable, and she trusted him without question. The three of us became a fierce little family, adventuring in Philly for a few years before settling back down in New England. Along the way, we picked up Coco, who was intended to serve as a companion for Bella, but mostly served as her foil. Where Bella was careful, intuitive and guarded, Coco was a toddler loose in a toy store, gleefully crashing into everything in her path and making friends with everyone along the way. Bella was not amused, but she tolerated her, for my sake. She knew Coco was there for a reason. And she was right.

Were I the author of my own story, I would have included Bella in many more chapters. She always seemed so enduring to me, so permanent. Cats can live to be twenty or older, and I always assumed that Bella and I would grow old together, bitching about arthritis. Instead, she passed away suddenly in her sleep last night, almost exactly twelve years since the day we first met. I had stayed home sick from work, and she spent the day in bed with me, tunneled under the covers like she used to do when she was a kitten, purring away while I sneezed and coughed. After one particularly bad coughing fit, she crawled up to my pillow and put her paw on my face, as if to say, “You’ll be okay.”

I really hope she was right.

holidays.

It's getting to be about that time. Thanksgiving will be here in just over two weeks, and then it's headfirst into Hanukkah, Christmas, and New Year's. There will be parties and gift giving, endless treats in the office kitchen, gestures of goodwill wrapped in tinsel and holly, and festive dinners cooked with love and washed down with glasses buckets of champagne.

I don't think it's a stretch to say that most people don't equate holidays with minimalism. Whether it's a teetering display on a buffet table or a round-the-block line of midnight shoppers, we've been taught that when it comes to the holidays, more is more...and even more would be better.

Since this is my first time facing the holidays as a minimalist, I've had to take a much closer look at the how and why of my approach. I love a good party as much as the next person, and I've always enjoyed giving and receiving gifts. As a kid, Christmas was my favorite time of year, and each ritual was anticipated and celebrated with equal levels of excitement: unpacking our colorful felt advent calendar; hanging the Christmas lamb on the highest branch of our tree, helping my mom roll out sand tart cookies and sprinkle them with cinnamon and sugar; shopping for a new velvet dress at Donecker's with my grandmother; and raising our candles in unison during the final chorus of Silent Night at church. Initially, the idea of a simplified holiday season just felt wrong. Really, really wrong. But, like all of minimalism's lessons, it ultimately snapped into focus in a way that made me think, "Well...duh."

While rituals are lovely, I truly don't need gifts. I don't need to attend every party and holiday event that appears in my inbox. I don't need to spend a weekend baking treats for my colleagues, or wrapping elaborate packages, or waiting in checkout lines with angry, frustrated shoppers.  I can prepare a few small, handmade, and personal gifts for my immediate family and leave it at that. No credit card required.  Ultimately, I'm not even interested in making a show of the holidays. Instead, I'm interested in showing the people I care about that they matter to me...by simply making time to see them.

This year, we're doing a good deal of travel. First, we're off to Lancaster for Thanksgiving with family and old friends, and then to Philly to catch up with people we haven't seen since we moved back to Boston. Then, in December, we're traveling to the Southwest to visit with some of my oldest and dearest friends and their significant others. I love the tradition of raising a glass on New Year's Eve, and this year, we'll be making that toast beside a hot spring, in the middle of the desert, with people I've known since before I could (legally) drive. Everything about that scenario says "celebration" to me, and I cannot wait.

I'm also carving out time to see local friends during the holiday season -- meeting for cocktails or tea, or getting together see a play, take a dance class, or attend a reading. It's a busy time of year, and I'm sure I won't have a chance to see each and every person I'd like to see. But that's okay. The world isn't going to end on January 2, once the holidays are relegated to the discount bins at CVS. This year, I'm not going to try to cram a year's worth of socializing into four, short weeks in December, and then beat myself up about everything I still didn't manage to do. I'll just do what I'm able to do. I'll see the people I'm able to see. It will be enough. And I'll even carve out some time for myself, to simply sit and think about the passing of another year.

After all, isn't that what the winter holidays are all about? During the darkest, coldest days of the year, the holidays give us an excuse to come together and say something like:

We made it.
This year was hard,
and we might have given up,
but here we are. We made it.
We made it, and the candles are burning,
and there is wine in our glasses,
and there are people singing,
and they might even be angels.
We made it. We made it,
and the best is yet to come.

travel.

There was a time when I boarded a plane at least once a week. Yes, it was for business, and no, I didn’t particularly look forward to it, but, regardless, frequent travel became part of the rhythm of my life. Unsurprisingly, it spilled over from business to pleasure, as reward points took me around the world and back again. When a friend suggested a trip, I was always first in line to buy my ticket, regardless of the cost. More travel meant more of everything I loved  – friends, food, shopping, drinking, adventure – and it was easy to ignore the consequences. After all, you can’t put a price on experience. (Let’s pour one out for the lies I liked to tell myself.)

These days, I rarely travel anymore. I lost my status with US Air, Hilton, and National, my reward points ran out months ago, and my carry-on is tucked away in the laundry room instead of standing at attention in my closet. Most of the time, I don’t miss my life on the road. But sometimes – like right now, for instance – it comes on like a fever. Over the past few weeks, I’ve nearly booked B&B’s in the Berkshires, Cape Ann, and Vermont. I’ve researched writing retreats and meditation retreats. I’ve contemplated road trips. My need to get away grew so strong that I even started opening the JetBlue deal emails that annoyingly pop up in my Gmail every morning. In other words, I was desperate.

Somehow, I held out. I consoled myself with the upcoming travel I’ve already booked for the holidays. I put away my credit card. But still, the fever raged. It was about this time that my husband mentioned a park he’d recently discovered near Lechmere. He asked if I knew about it, or the new footbridge that connects it to Charlestown. No, I said, we never go to that part of town.  (It’s true. Despite having a combined 20+ years of living in Boston, there are so many parts of the city we never visit. I think I’ve been to Charlestown maybe once?  Same for Southie.  We never go to the Waterfront, or to Allston, or Chinatown, or the North End, or Beacon Hill. Honestly, we rarely leave our little corner of Cambridge, unless it’s for work. We’re...kind of lame.)

And so, a minimalist idea was born. We decided to be tourists in our own town, spending a day walking around our city in much the same way we’d explore somewhere new. We rolled out of bed, put on comfy clothes and walking shoes, and headed out without an agenda, in search of adventure. Along the way, we took photos, stopped to eat and drink at new-to-us cafes and restaurants, and Googled the landmarks we happened to stumble upon. (As it turns out, we have a piece of the Berlin Wall in Cambridge, and an 18^th century ship docked at the Navy Yard. Go figure.)

It was a surprisingly great day. Despite the fact that we were only a few miles from home, it felt as if we had really gone away and explored a new city. Better still, we did it without accumulating plane tickets, jet lag, or a pricey B&B bill, and (bonus!), we made it home in plenty of time to feed the cats their dinner.

Have you ever played tourist in your own town? If so, were you surprised by what you discovered?

web.

Lately, there's been a noticeable backlash against smartphone use. It started with awkward Instagrams of people staring at their phones instead of enjoying the activities happening around them. Then there was a short video making the rounds that featured a woman who "forgot" her phone and moved through her day like an outsider. And then, Louis CK went on Conan and delivered a manifesto that was shared on my Facebook feed no less than a dozen times last night.

I can't help but wonder how many of those Facebook "shares" were posted via smartphone.

Enough is enough, we seem to be saying...via Twitter and Facebook and Instagram and YouTube.  In other words, we're ready to acknowledge the problem, but we're not willing to change our behavior to address it.  See also: The seemingly endless lines for the new iPhone yesterday morning that wrapped around city blocks and shopping malls across the country.

Personally, I've been struggling with this issue for a while now.  One one hand, online clutter is as problematic as any other kind of clutter.  Just like an overflowing closet or a teetering bookcase, my online accumulation serves as an unnecessary distraction that diverts my time, energy, and focus from more fulfilling things. On the other hand, the web is aptly named -- it allows us to maintain threads of connection with the people and places that matter to us.  What can I say?  I like the idea of connection, in whatever form it takes.

This is particularly true for me when it comes to Facebook.  I've loved connecting (or reconnecting) with friends, and I generally enjoy seeing their photos and reading their posts.  But having the Facebook app on my phone means that I am constantly checking in to see what's "new." The barrage of information is near-constant, without any built-in boundaries.  And, if I'm being honest, it has become addictive.  The more access to information I'm allowed, the more I want.  I'm reminded of an oblivious chain-smoking friend who once told me that she only smokes when she's bored.  Based on my Facebook usage -- at my desk, sitting in traffic, while shopping, during intermission, in bed, at the studio -- I must be very, very bored, indeed.

Enter minimalism.  (Is there's anything it can't fix?)  I've decided to minimize my virtual life in the same way I minimized my real life.   I'm keeping my phone, but I'm reducing my usage.  I'm keeping my Facebook account, but I'm going to carve out a specific time each evening to catch up on my news feed.  No more mindless surfing by taking out my phone while sitting in restaurants or waiting in traffic.  No more looking down at a screen when I should be looking up at everything around me.  I'm going to give my head some time to clear.  I'm going to see what it feels like to be bored.  I'm going to spend less time exploring the web and more time weaving it.

Disclaimer: if I don't respond to your status as quickly as I used to, or return your text or email immediately, please don't take it personally. I promise, I'll get back to you soon.  And when I do, you'll have my full attention.

quiet.

I've been quiet lately. Not just on this blog; although, yes, I realize I haven't posted in a while.

I've just been quiet lately. I think it has to do with the open space created after so much has been pared away. It's the second phase of minimalism: where once you had to negotiate corners and navigate through the thicket, suddenly life is an open, harvested field. I'm reminded of the final line of Sunday in the Park with George, "So. Much. Possibility."

I guess it's not surprising that so much possibility has simply returned me to my roots. I'm back in the dance studio again. I'm reading really good books. I'm taking the time to plan and cook food that I love. And I've committed to ending each week at the stables, riding across the pasture while the sun sets. After so many years of constant output, pursuit of achievement, and over extending myself to the point of exhaustion, I'm finding that the things that make me the happiest are the things that have always made my happy...and, for the most part, they tend to be solitary things. Quiet things.

As a culture, we put a great deal of value on the notion of busyness. If we aren't multitasking, we're failing. But what I didn't notice until very recently is how much noise is connected to that level of constant activity. I've never had a particularly high tolerance for noise, but lately I've been noticing it even more. I notice it particularly as I leave my house in the morning and head into the city, where everyone and everything is busy. There is so little quiet to be found in the city; sometimes it feels like there's so little quiet to be found anywhere. And so I bundle up my quiet moments and tuck them inside, waiting.

Keeping Quiet

by Pablo Neruda

Now we will count to twelve

and we will all keep still.

This one time upon the earth,

let's not speak any language,

let's stop for one second,

and not move our arms so much.

It would be a delicious moment,

without hurry, without locomotives,

all of us would be together

in a sudden uneasiness.

The fishermen in the cold sea

would do no harm to the whales

and the peasant gathering salt

would look at his torn hands.

Those who prepare green wars,

wars of gas, wars of fire,

victories without survivors,

would put on clean clothing

and would walk alongside their brothers

in the shade, without doing a thing.

What I want shouldn't be confused

with final inactivity:

life alone is what matters,

I want nothing to do with death.

If we weren't unanimous

about keeping our lives so much in motion,

if we could do nothing for once,

perhaps a great silence would

interrupt this sadness,

this never understanding ourselves

and threatening ourselves with death,

perhaps the earth is teaching us

when everything seems to be dead

and then everything is alive.

Now I will count to twelve

and you keep quiet and I'll go.

-from Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon

Translated by Stephen Mitchell

process.

I wasn't planning on writing a "How To" post, but since so many people have asked for specifics (particularly related to clothes and shoes), let's talk process.

Preface: I am a woman. I am a woman who used to direct a fair amount of her disposable income into her wardrobe. To quote Ms. Bradshaw, "I like my money right where I can see it...hanging in my closet." Thus, the process I'm about to discuss is most applicable to those with similar wardrobes situations. And, like anything I say on this blog, please take all of my advice with a grain of salt.  This is what worked for me, but, by all means, you do you.

Let's start by setting expectations. You are not going to effectively minimize decades of wardrobe accumulation in a single session. Trust me on this one; it's not gonna happen. That said, the first session is by far the most time intensive, and the most important. Don't attempt to tackle it unless you have a solid 5-6 hours of free time on your hands. Okay? Okay. Here we go...

10 Steps to a Minimized Wardrobe

Step 1: Gather your supplies. You'll need a pen and paper, a lint roller, an iron/steamer, and a sewing kit, if you do your own mending. You're also going to need several large bags; I recommend an assortment of heavy duty garbage bags and shopping bags with handles. Label the bags as such: throw away; donate; give to friends; mend/tailor; extra hangers; consign locally; and consign internationally (for your very high end items).

Step 2: Start with your dresser drawers. These generally contain your less prized items, and are therefore easier to minimize. Keep only enough socks/underwear/pajamas/workout clothes, etc. to get you through two weeks (or less). For me, two weeks is a reasonable stretch between loads of laundry, but you might be able to get by with only a week's supply. Keep only your favorite items -- the ones you reach for most often. Throw out everything else; nobody wants your old yoga pants or bras. If you have nice workout wear that you don't love for whatever reason, ask around and see if your friends might be interested. I unloaded a bunch of unused lululemon on a colleague, and she was thrilled.

Step 3, Part A: Next, move on to your hanging clothes. You might want to pour yourself a glass of wine now, or a cup of coffee...we're going to be here a while. Starting at one end of your closet, take the first item off its hanger. Ask yourself the following questions, and answer them honestly: Do you love this item? Do you wear it frequently? Does it represent a staple in your wardrobe? If you answered no to any of these questions, the item in question needs to go. I know. I know it's hard. I know it has nostalgic significance, or cost you way too much money, or could be the perfect date night outfit if only you found a wide enough belt to cinch it. Yes, I know. But it still needs to go. Based on what it is, determine if it should be added to the throw away, donate, give to friends, or consignment bag(s). Put its hanger in your extra hanger bag and move on to the next item.

Step 3, Part B: If you answered yes to any of the above questions, take a long, hard look at the item. Is it in good condition, or does it need mending, ironing, steaming, lint rolling, or dry cleaning? If so, do not put the item back until it is in ready-to-wear condition. I know, I know. Such a time suck. But you'll thank me later, when you're not blearily ironing at 6:00 a.m. because you really need that blazer for your morning board meeting. So, if you sew, mend it now. If it needs ironing/steaming/lint rolling, do it now. If it needs professional tailoring or cleaning, add it to that bag, but leave its empty hanger on the rack as a placeholder. Note: if all of this seems like too much hassle, then the item in question is not that important, and should instead be directed to one of your give away bags.

Step 3, Part C: Keep on keeping on for another three to four hours. Go ahead and curse my name, if you must. Pour another glass of wine. Just keep swimming.

Step 4: Move on to your shoes. I had 70 pairs, so this took me quite a while. Submit your shoes to the same process as your hanging clothes, paying particular attention to any that may need a visit to the cobbler before going back into your closet or being put up for consignment.

Step 5: Next, do the same for your handbag collection. Remember, you can only carry one bag at a time, so be brutal with your choices. You likely need an everyday bag, a workout bag, and a bag suitable for formal events. Everything else is probably an extra, and should be treated accordingly. (We're talking handbags here, not luggage, which is a separate issue.)

Step 6: Open your jewelry box and any accessory bins lurking in your closet. Repeat the process again.

Step 7: Get out your paper and pen, and make a list of any wardrobe staples that now need to be replaced, or that you discovered are lacking from your newly minimized closet. Tape this list to the inside of your closet, and upload an electronic version to your phone. The items on this list are now the only wardrobe items you are allowed to acquire.

Step 8: Get rid of your minimizing bags ASAP. This will prevent you from opening them and changing your mind about anything you've just let go. Here are a bunch of great outlets for unloading your stuff:

• The trash. Enough said.
• Facebook. Nearly everything I posted on Facebook was claimed within 30 minutes of posting.
• Craigslist. Put "FREE" in the title, and you're guaranteed to get 1001 replies.
• Worthy organizations. Ask around for recommendations of thrift shops, women's shelters, and other non-profits that would benefit from your donation. You can also find donation bins for the Red Cross, Planet Aid, etc., at many gas stations. Put your donation bags in your trunk for easy unloading when the opportunity arises.
• Your friends and colleagues. I had great fun matching specific items to specific friends. Sometimes, the things that never quite "clicked" in our wardrobes have just been waiting for the right home.
• Consignment shops:
• For lower-end items, I like the Second Time Around chain. Warning: they only give you 40% of the selling price, so you might want to find another outlet for your pricier items, such as Linda's Stuff.
• Linda's Stuff is an online service that takes professional photos of your items and posts them on eBay. Their payment % is considerably higher (there's a range, depending on the selling price), and they send you a prepaid label to ship your stuff to them, which makes it super easy. (Shameless plug: If you decide to use them, tell them I sent you.)
• Authentic Luxury Goods. Another legit online service, specifically for very high-end items. They also have a storefront in San Diego. I'm currently consigning my Chanel with them. 

Step 9: Breathe the free air again, my friend. Do a wild dance of joy in your newly minimized closet. Start mixing and matching your items in fun, new ways. Ride the unbelievable high of an uncluttered, organized wardrobe.

Step 10: Start all over again. Yeah, I know. And I promise that subsequent rounds will take much less time than your initial purge. But facts are facts: It's been a month since I completed Steps 1-9, and I am still minimizing my wardrobe. So far, I've completed five additional rounds, and this weekend, I managed to purge yet another small bag for donation, and two more bags for consignment. It's just the way it works. The more you minimize, the more you'll realize how much you still have...and how much you don't need.

So, there you have it. I hope this is helpful. Please feel free to call, email, or comment if you have any specific questions I didn't answer in this long, rambling post. Minimizing a massive wardrobe is a major undertaking, but it's also an incredibly revealing and fulfilling process. Bonne chance, mes amis. See you on the other side.

style.

I can see the look in their eyes when I tell them about my minimized closet. Even before the words are spoken, I know what they're about to say...

But you love fashion! How can you just give it up like that?

Or, better yet, the unspoken sentiment...

TRAITOR!

My fashion friends have taken the news hard. At first, they were delighted to scoop up my castoff Prada, Manolo, and Gucci. But now, when they want to talk about this season's Stella, or duck out at lunch for a quick run to Barneys, they find me much less fun.

Ay, there's the rub: Shopping is no longer a recreational activity for me. I still buy things, of course, but each purchase is carefully weighed and planned. As I minimized my wardrobe, I started a (very) short list of workhorse items that needed to be replaced, and uploaded it to my phone. Now, when I shop, I know what I have space for, and what I do not. If it's not on the list, it's not allowed to come home with me. It sounds restrictive, I know, but it's actually quite freeing. In a world of near-limitless options, I now have a set of functional parameters to help keep me focused. (In case you're curious, the list currently includes a black cashmere sweater, a pair of flat black boots, and a winter white blazer.)

I read somewhere that we wear 20% of our wardrobe 80% of the time, and I've found that to be true. (It's also the reason we stand in front of our over-stuffed closets and wail that we have nothing to wear.) Since down-sizing my wardrobe, I find that I'm never at a loss for options. Getting dressed in the morning is incredibly easy, and -- surprise! -- I've received more compliments these past few weeks than I've received over the past year.

So, why is that?  My hunch is that the basic tenet of minimalism -- quality over quantity -- forces us to sharpen and refine our personal style. Instead of a fashion stew, I now have a bouillon cube. But every item in that cube is highly functional and beautiful (at least, to me).  Better still, I can actually see my entire wardrobe when I enter my closet. For the first time in my life, there is space between my hangers, and a friend recently told me that my minimized shoe wall (70 pairs downsized to 15) looks like an art installation. I found the comparison apropos; after all, a minimized closet is a curated closet. And just like a carefully curated art collection, a carefully curated closet says a lot about one's personal style.

Take the classic French woman, for example. I've long looked to her for fashion inspiration; not for the size of her wardrobe, but for how she wears it.  Her effortless chic comes from a few well-chosen, perfectly tailored pieces that mix and match in sometimes unexpected ways. She exists in that magical space between form and function, and is never under or over dressed.  Most importantly, she claims her style in such a way that she never looks like anyone but herself.  She has that certain je ne sais quoi.

I'm not saying you are what you wear. Clearly, it's not that simplistic. But the choices we make about our clothes, or shoes, or jewelry, or hair, or tattoos, or accessories, or whatever, serve to project a piece of ourselves to the outside world. There's a reason that we don't all wear the same uniform. There's a reason that some people reach for tie-dyed silk and others reach for beige wool. There's a reason we smile a little brighter when wearing something we find beautiful. Our stylistic choices, no matter how small, help to define us. And minimalism supports that process, it doesn't negate it. By paring away our non-essentials, we are free to become even more of who we are.

obligation.

One of the side effects of extracurricular clutter is the number of friendships-of-convenience that begin to accumulate over the years. I've found this to be particularly true in the theatre. One moment, I'm sharing a laugh or a drink after rehearsal, and the next, I find myself committed to attending birthday parties, fundraisers, baby showers, and every production my new "friend" happens to participate in until the end of time. Hello, calendar clutter.

I'm not saying it's a bad thing to support your friends. But let's be real here: All 525,600 of them are not actually my friends. Many of them -- the vast majority, really -- are acquaintances. And that's great! It's nice to have a wide circle of people with shared interests and networks. In fact, most of my closest friends are people I met through theatre and dance, and I'm very grateful for them.

But. But, but, but. Through minimalism, I've begun to realize that accumulating relationships is just as problematic as accumulating physical things. As individuals, our time, attention, and focus are finite resources -- and when they get depleted, we feel miserable.  In order to remain sane and balanced, we have to make choices about how we spend our time. Sometimes, those choices are easy. Sometimes they suck. Regardless, we still have to make them.

For me, it's been difficult to shake the guilt that comes with saying no. It's become such a habit for me to say yes to every social invitation that comes my way, that it feels awkward and uncomfortable to turn things down. The sense of obligation weighs on me, so much so that it becomes a running inner monologue: What will Soandso think if I miss her show? Will other Soandso stop inviting/casting/calling me if I don't agree to do this thing? And what about the Soandsos who came to my last show/party/whatever? Don't I owe them this?

The short answer is: no. Unless Soandso gave me a kidney or her firstborn kitten, I don't really owe her anything. Relationships are not about owing; they are about connection. And I'd so much rather connect over a cup of tea, or on a long walk, or around my dining room table with people I actually care about -- and who actually care about me -- than sit through another production of Show I Don't Even Like.

A great man once wrote, "We lose things, and then we choose things." I'm not one to quarrel with genius, but I'd suggest that it also works the other way around: We choose things, and then we lose things. By making choices, we are often actively saying no to something or someone else. Sometimes, that feels like a loss; sometimes, it feels like freedom.

By minimizing obligation, I'm now free to spend my time in a more thoughtful and authentic way. Saying no more often means that when I say yes, I actually mean it. It means I have the bandwidth to actually show up -- not just physically, but mentally and emotionally, as well. It means being fully present for the dear friends, thoughtful commitments, and exciting spur-of-the-moment invitations that come my way.

And best of all, it means I get to actually enjoy them...no obligation required.

time.

Minimalism isn't just about taking stock of physical stuff; it also forces an examination of the mental, emotional, and spiritual clutter we carry around with us every day. In my case, that kind of clutter has always found its way onto my calendar.

Do you remember the high school yearbook process at the end of senior year? Everyone had to submit a list of their activities for grades 9-12 to be displayed next to their name and photo in the book.  Most (normal) people had a list that looked like this: Jane Doe -- soccer 9-12, band 9-10, tutoring 12. But not me. My list was massive. The damn thing took up nearly half a page, and read more like an obituary than a list of high school achievements. She will be remembered fondly for her participation in the Jr. Miss pageant, and her contributions to the 9th grade orchestra.

Gag. I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.

But, you guys, I was proud of my list. I went so far as to submit a revision when I realized I'd left something off. No one in my homeroom was allowed to have a list longer than mine. I WAS QUEEN OF PAGE 37! LONG LIVE THE QUEEN!

And, sadly, the queen did indeed live a long, long time. In the nearly two decades that followed, I accumulated commitments at a frenetic pace. I prided myself on never having a "free" day or night, and was usually booked out a solid 2-3 months in advance. My over-achiever schedule worked out just fine 80% of the time, but every few months I'd face a major crash, and would be forced to take a couple of sick days to recharge and start again. Come to think of it, I got sick a lot. I never gave anything 100% of my energy or focus. And, worst of all, I started hating the extracurriculars I used to enjoy.

In short, I had the same problem on my calendar that I had in my closet.

And so, it was time to minimize. Just as Scott and I had examined our possessions, I started examining my commitments. What was a necessity? Well, my job, for one. My volunteer commitment to the Big Sister program. And the two choreography projects I already agreed to for 2014. Those are all set in stone. But everything else? Pretty much optional.

Slowly, I began to delete things from my calendar. I decided not to attend a training I was considering, and instead penciled it in for later this year. I began to turn down social invitations and scale back on the number of shows I attend. I spent some time thoughtfully considering my lessons, classes, and other recurring activities. I'm not gonna lie -- I made some tough decisions in the process. But guess what? For the first time in my life, I now have "free time." And it turns out that "free time" is actually "awesome time." Free time means cooking dinner with your husband, and sipping cider on your porch as the sun sets. Free time means trying a new yoga class with a friend, or an afternoon nap with your cat. Free time allows you to be spontaneous; when a cool person you'd like to get to know better posts a last-minute invite on Facebook, it means you get to claim her spare ticket. It frees you up to revise some prose poetry, or read a detective novel, or do your laundry before it spills out of the bin and onto the floor. But most importantly, it gives you time and space to think about how you'd ideally like to be using your time and space.

For me, it meant putting theatre on the back burner for a while, and directing my energy to other things. Horseback riding, for one. I was devastated when my parents made me give up riding as a kid (it's not a cheap hobby), and swore that one day I would get back into the literal saddle. Now, with my newfound abundance of free time, I've been able to do just that. I'm into my third week of training at a local stable, and it's incredibly fulfilling. I'm so happy I have the time to explore this particular passion once a week. But you know what else is fulfilling? Coming home after work, realizing it's a beautiful night, and deciding to throw on your chucks and go for a walk with your husband. Because you can.

I did that tonight, you guys. And it was so much better than anything in my high school yearbook.