Last week on a flight home, I finished Goodbye, Things: The New Japanese Minimalism by Fumio Sasaki. I’ve read a few books on minimalism, but this one is different.
Sasaki is what I would call a radical minimalist. He started by de-cluttering but eventually pushed himself to reduce, for example, to a single, small towel. He likes the way the inconvenience makes him conscious of what a pleasure a full-sized towel is.
He has so few things that he was able to pack all of his belongings for a move in 30 minutes.
He loves the fact that having so few things removes fear: his fear of things being stolen, his fear of his things getting broken, his fear of his things falling on him in an earthquake.
He’s not an anti-materialist. He’s a huge fan of Steve Jobs and Apple products. He sees that these material items actually replace many, many things, making more simplicity possible. And he finds Apple products to embody an inspiring, minimalist aesthetic, one that calms his mind.
Sasaki’s minimalism has become a kind of spiritual practice. His minimalism led him to Zen and meditation, and he has created his own daily ritual of cleaning.
Having so few things de-clutters his mind, too, he says. He finds that he has many fewer pulls on his attention.
Lastly, he found that making the leap to get rid of his collections also helped him become aware of his ego. He started to see how he had constructed his identity through stacks of books and cameras, collections he created, he realized, to impress people. Shedding things gets him, and all of us, back to our simple, true self.
Ultimately, he finds that he is able to be present now much more than before.
All of this has led me to look at minimalism now, too, in this deeper way — getting to a place where I’m ok with a little inconvenience if my needs can be met by fewer things. I’m beginning the process of shedding the obvious things — my own piles of excess books and games and clothes, for example (I like Leo Babauta‘s idea of having only as many books as you can read in one year).
But I’m starting to look at the conveniences to. I don’t need an iPhone and and iPad. It’s more convenient to read on that iPad, but its also just another thing that has to have its own place, has to be charged, has to be updated, has to be fixed. Is it really “convenient”?
Can I get to a place where I can pack for a move in 30 minutes? Probably not, but the idea is certainly making me think differently about my “stuff.” This radical minimalism is the modern version of “two robes and one bowl,” the traditional possessions for a Zen monk. What would it feel like to be that free?
Patrick O'Kelley 