Day 47 - The Minimalists

Inspiration & Joy

A year and a half ago, I was driving home listening to "The Homestretch" on CBC radio when guest-host Frank Rackow interviewed “The Minimalists”. Joshua Fields Millburn and Ryan Nicodemus are two, thirty-something, single males who identified “lingering discontent” in their lives, despite having everything that should have made them happy. They left their six-figure incomes and extravagant lifestyles to pursue minimalism. Ryan said that minimalism is not about deprivation, but about “making room for life’s most important things” through taking back control. Joshua said, “I’m not against consumption, I’m against compulsory consumption. […] I own things that add value to my life. [I have to] be deliberate about how I’m living my life.” 

“Minimalists don’t focus on having less, less, less; rather, [they] focus on making room for more: more time, more passion, more experiences, more growth, more contribution, more contentment. More freedom. Clearing the clutter from life’s path helps us make that room.” (http://www.theminimalists.com)

As I drove home, I thought about how this thing called minimalism could work in my life. I certainly resonated with the lingering discontent, and I felt overwhelmed by all of the “things” I had to look after. However, by the time I arrived home to pets, kids, dogs and clutter—it felt impossible for me to consider minimalism. I began to stack up excuses about why I couldn’t do it. But still, I ordered, and read the book, “Everything that Remains,” by Millburn and Nicodemus. 

Purging is a favourite activity for me. However, when I purge, eventually I tend to purchase. Purge and purchase, ad nauseum.
Frank Rackow asked The Minimalists, “Is this “living with less” so that more can live with something?” That is it for me. If I have more—way more—than what I need, then by reason, a lot of people live with less than what they need. How can I deliberately live like that?

 I would like to embrace the minimalism mantra, “Addition by subtraction,” but something keeps getting in my way. 

Me. 

Millburn writes, “When I got rid of the majority of my possessions, I was forced to confront my darker side, compelled to ask questions I wasn’t prepared for: When did I give so much meaning to material possessions? What is truly important in life? Why am I discontented? Who is the person I want to become? How will I define my own success?”

Surrounding myself by busy and full creates the façade of success, and let’s face it, appearing to have it all, and keep it all together is viewed upon favourably by society. “We are led to believe that if we could only look perfect and lead perfect lives, we'd no longer feel inadequate” (Brenè Brown). Having more makes me feel something, but not what I thought it would. Within the ambitious life that has been constructed around me—I have lost myself. 

“Understand, every moth is drawn to light, even when that light is a flame, hot and burning. Flickering, the fire tantalizing the drab creature with its blueish-white illumination. But when the moth flies too close to the flame, we all know what happens: it gets burned, incinerated by the very thing that drew it near” (Everything That Remains).

Day 48 - Brené Brown

Inspiration and Joy

In the fall of 2011, I attended a psychologist-facilitated Book Club. The book that we studied to “kick off” what would become a years long supportive tool, was “The Gifts of Imperfection: Let Go of Who You Think You're Supposed to Be and Embrace Who You Are”, by Brené Brown. 

I had found a superhero—in every day clothing.

The book—I swear—was written with me in mind. Hustling for worthiness, and perfecting my life before revealing it to the world had become the way I lived, and struggled to live. Brené Brown writes, “Each day we face a barrage of images and messages from society and the media telling us who, what, and how we should be. We are led to believe that if we could only look perfect and lead perfect lives, we'd no longer feel inadequate.”

Perfection had been rewarded for me from a very early age. When I came home with a good test score, I couldn’t wait to tell my dad about it.

“Dad, I got 17 out of 20 on my math test,” I’d said with pride. 

“What happened to the other three questions?” he asked. 

I tried harder. In post-secondary school I achieved success beyond even my dreams. My dad was no longer around to see it--he had left us in my early teens. 

Of course I told my mom too, but her supportive response has not stuck in my memory. Life is like that, our own failings, as well as those perceived by others stick with us. My husband Ward worked for a lengthy period with a family whose mother died because of medical error, a painful tragedy. One of the daughters told him, “Long after I’ve forgotten what they [doctors] said to me, I remember how it made me feel.”

When I started working as a Respiratory Therapist at nineteen, I worked hard, and signed up for all kinds of unpaid “volunteer” opportunities to train, or to teach—to perfect my skills. I enjoyed my job, and my work ethic paid off. The harder I worked, the more work I was given. I received promotions and opportunities to work in a variety of areas in my sixteen years in healthcare. 

Parenting brought with it another opportunity for me to "study" ways to perfect my skills, so that my inadequacies could be disguised. 

“In a scarcity culture where “never enough” dominates and fear has become second nature, vulnerability is subversive. Uncomfortable. It’s even a little dangerous at times.  And, without question, putting ourselves out there means there’s a far greater risk of getting criticized and failing. But when we step back and examine our lives, we will find that nothing is as uncomfortable or dangerous as standing on the outside of our lives and wondering what it would be like if we had the courage to show up and let ourselves be seen. [...]

And the thing is, vulnerability is not about fear or grief or disappointment. It's the birthplace of everything we're hungry for—joy, faith, love, spirituality….” (Brenè Brown).

I want to be courageous.

Day 49 - My Mom

I have been inspired by my mom. And, joy is but one emotion that I have experienced in her presence. 

I grew up surrounded by music. Often with my mom playing the piano and singing. Though everyone was blessed in my family with musicality…I was not. Perhaps I can sing, but not always on key, or on the right notes. Nonetheless, I have music in me.

In my teens, my mom sang with a trio. I can’t quite remember if they had accompaniment, but let’s say they didn’t. My mom sang the high notes, the ones up above the lines on sheet music. She has a crystal clear voice that evokes emotion. Though I may not have been blessed with pitch or tone or rhythm, I can hear the notes glide through the space that separates us, and I am changed. Thank you for that gift Mom. I love you.

My sister Tobi, my mom, and me in Morocco.

Final Fifty Days

“Often, if there's something that I want to do, but somehow can't get myself to do, it's because I don't have clarity. This lack of clarity often arises from a feeling of ambivalence - I want to do something, but I don't want to do it; or I want one thing, but I also want something else that conflicts with it.”

Gretchen Rubin

My loonie idea is over, but I am not.

I am not required to tell you why I quit. It is nobody’s business, but everyone’s concern. 

Today is November 26^th. FIFTY days remain until my 50^th birthday. 

That is what I have been walking toward this whole time. As I walked, I heard stories, and people told me things because they related to the words that I put on the page. I have felt inspired by those I’ve met or read about; I’ve felt motivated by an inner desire; I’ve felt hope in a world of inequity, disadvantage, and terror. While I moved through the months toward my goal—to spend an average of a loonie a day for 365 days, while raising funds for Canadian Humanitarian—I forgot that I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder—SAD.

SAD is a type of depression that is related to a reduced level of sunlight—it begins and ends at about the same time every year. Most people with SAD have symptoms that start in the fall and continue into the winter months; their energy is sapped, and moodiness prevails. Females are more likely to develop SAD than males, as are those with depression or bipolar disorder. 

As soon as the darkness descended, I lost my clarity of purpose—and while I wanted to be the change, I also needed to withdraw. Retreating allows me to manage my resources, and give myself the “treatment” I need during this season, which includes light brite (as Yohannes calls it), walking, exercise and sleep. 

However, since “quitting” One Loonie Idea, I have been in the presence of some amazing people.

Craig Keilberger & The Kenyan Boys Choir — Free the Children

We Day Calgary 2015

Memorial service for our friend Jan Tollefson — Add Your Light

Dick & Deb Northcott — Canadian Humanitarian (CH)

Andrew Allen — Canadian Musician and CH advocate

A few things happened to me in the presence of these people. 

1) I heard stories. 

2) And I felt sad for the “story” that is happening in my life right now. 

3) But I found hope inside the truth-telling. Everyone told me that life is hard, and that the world is NOT fair. Each person shared stories of suffering—true stories—that resulted in CHANGE, even though the immediate change did not look like success. 

When we choose to be agents of change, we cannot control the outcome. Bummer. I wanted to choreograph a sequence of events that led to some grand finale. 

Within this season of my life, I am moved by people who are inspired to make a difference. Their actions create joy within me, which is an amazing feeling. 

For the next fifty days, I am going to do something simple and I want you to join me. I am going to jot a note, share a story, or post a photo or video of someone who has inspired me. And then, I am going to put a coin into my recently made “Joy Jar”. That’s it. If you are inspired too—put a coin into your own Joy Jar. At the end of fifty days, I am going to donate the money to a charity. It would be great if you could do that too, but it would also be great if you just experience joy alongside of me. 

"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has." Margaret Mead

One Loonie Idea - Unplugged

I am done. 

When I began One Loonie Idea on January 15th, it was because I wanted to mark my last year in the fifth decade of my life with something. I imagined myself as an agent of change. 

The changes that have occurred over these eight or nine months, are not the same ones that I envisioned going in. I wanted to be a catalyst for something magnificent. Dont’ we all. 

I love the quote by Roosevelt above. He also says that “with self discipline most anything is possible”. So, am I to assume that I have failed in this goal because I did not have self discipline? Yes. 

Of course, there is more. 

Thank you for supporting me along this journey. It has been eye-opening. My biggest support came from Yohannes. He encouraged me along the way. He checked in with me to see how many loonies I had left. He challenged me if he saw a Starbucks cup in the van. But most of all, he gave me the quiet feeling that no matter how it was going, it was okay. Super amazing kid!

Yohannes, and me in our kitchen in Ethiopia. 2006

“Often, if there's something that I want to do, but somehow can't get myself to do, it's because I don't have clarity. This lack of clarity often arises from a feeling of ambivalence - I want to do something, but I don't want to do it; or I want one thing, but I also want something else that conflicts with it.”

Gretchen Rubin

Loonie Idea - Week 35

New to ONE LOONEY IDEA - read below

In 2006, we began a relationship with Ethiopia that we cannot turn our backs on.  

In Ethiopia, the majority of people build a life with less than a dollar a day. 

A dollar a day does not buy basic necessities.

We all have challenges. At this point in my life I am living with abundance. It doesn’t feel good to continue to accrue treasures when so many live with scarcity. I want to choose something different. 

Impulsivity is a choice of the privileged. But, the privileged have a responsibility.  

My goal through this year has been to spend an average of a loonie a day on not-essential items. It is hard, and I am not managing to succeed on a daily basis. However, it provides me a lot of food for thought. 

PLEASE consider pledging your support to me, through financially supporting the work of Canadian Humanitarian in Ethiopia. My original goal was to get FIFTY people to pledge a dollar a day for the 365 days of this challenge. But, give what you feel you can toward my campaign—no amount is too small, every dollar makes a difference in the life of another—or continue to make a difference through your own chosen channels. The link to my personal pledge page is below.

http://canadianhumanitarian.com/shop/donation/wendys-year-long-challenge/

Betam amisegnalo. 

Laurèn in Ethiopia, in 2013

Faven in Ethiopia, in 2013

Yohannes in Ethiopia, in 2013

Health and Well-Being

October, 2013 — Ethiopia

Our bus pulled into the small village of Turge, in the woreda (community) of Shashemene. The cacti grew large, and stretched like fingers from the earth up toward the sky, providing natural barriers between properties. The plot of land where we parked, boasted a large grassy area underneath expansive trees, where people from miles around had congregated. Some came to bear-witness, and others waited to bring their “third-world” concerns to a team of health care specialists—volunteers who, in their places of employment in Canada, solved and treated complex problems on a daily basis, and made innumerable differences to the quality of life of their patients. 

This would be the last rural community we visited in the two weeks our family volunteered with Canadian Humanitarian (CH). Traveling with CH founders Dick and Deb Northcott granted us “celebrity” status, and the locals awaited and then cheered our arrival. Canadian Humanitarian had been working in the area for several years, assisting with a community development program. Their advisor role changed in 2013, and they were asked to assume responsibility for the programs in three areas of Shashemene. Our main function, over five days, was to do intake medicals for students and guardian families of the programs.

We were fortunate to have on our trip, two nurses, one pharmacist, and five physicians: two general practitioners, an emergency doctor, a pediatrician, and a respirologist—all over-qualified, and with the exception of a couple of them, all under-trained in the medicine they could offer here. 

Our team carried several hockey bags filled with medical supplies to temporary clinic rooms. We would run five clinics between two buildings. There was no electricity or running water, and the bathroom—utilized by several of us volunteers battling gastrointestinal “flare-up”—consisted of a straw hut with a hole in the ground. 

The largest room—divided into clinic and pharmacy—was where Ward and I worked. It had a packed dirt floor, a doorway and a shuttered window for light. The walls didn’t quite reach the ground, and exposed sticks and branches could be seen secured into the dirt. They created a misshapen frame for the hut, upon which a combination of leaves, mud and water was plastered to create shelter and protection. 

The community gathered

The washroom

A boy peeking into our clinic, through the sticks exposed near the ground

The dark room had a table, and two plastic chairs. Everything else we brought with us: stethoscope, otoscope (mainly for its light), wound dressings, paper gowns, pads of paper, hand wipes, gloves, plastic table cloths, eye glasses, alcohol swabs, and medicines. The pharmacist set up on the ground, and used her backpack as a stool. We had a translator with us named Ahmed (Ah-ha-med). He wore jeans, a t-shirt, a baseball cap, and runners. He told me bits of his story throughout the day. Working as a nurse helped him support his big family, who suffered the effects of poverty. Although Ahmed wanted to find a lovely woman, get married, and have a family, he pledged his support to his parents and siblings. He considered his life a service to them. I was humbled to work alongside of him. 

Outside the dark clinic rooms, the sun shone, and benches were set up like pews in a sanctuary, facing the larger hut. There sat the Foresight Fathers, Provident Mothers, and their families. The CH programs supported them in small business development, farming and community service. Deb had a pad of paper and a translator; she acted as triage, and determined which medical team to send the family to, based on their chief complaint. 

Our first family, consisted of mother, father, and six children. They crowded into the room. We assessed the father first, and then the children, youngest to oldest, and the mother last. As the babies finished their exams, they were passed through the door to waiting hands, ready to hold them, or watch them run and tumble through the grasses with our children, Faven, Laurèn and Yohannes. Every family member, covered in raised and scaly bumps, had been “food” for scabies mites. Completely treatable with medicated cream. However, without a way to eradicate the mites from their homes, treatment would be ineffective. Still, we sent the mother home with enough cream for everyone to be treated. The problems of diarrhea and malnutrition would not be solved today, but with steady support over the coming years, this community would feel a change. 

In the midst of the hours-long clinic, a donkey cart arrived. A large woman lay in the back, on top of a mattress. There was no donkey; the cart had been pulled for many miles by a group of men. I am not sure why the “patient” was assigned to Ward—a lung specialist, with internal medicine training—perhaps ours was the only room open at the moment of her arrival. 

Two people helped her into our room, and laid her down on the table. A woman, a friend or sister, stayed with her the whole time. At thirty years of age, the woman had already suffered the loss of two of her five children, as well as her husband; the most recent child died just months ago. Her list of symptoms was long. She found herself unable to get out of bed, felt too tired to care for her children, had aches throughout her body, and found the sun too bright to bear. Ward did a thorough examination, listening to her breathing, her heart, testing her reflexes, and asking several questions. He was slow and methodical; caring and attentive. His prescriptive treatment consisted of listening, and the tried-and-true therapy of “laying on of hands”. I stood back and looked at her, and made my diagnosis. When I worked in the hospital, we used the term “failure to thrive” to describe babies and children that would not get healthy despite good medical care. This woman had suffered losses beyond what her heart could absorb. We had nothing in our duffle bag to help her. 

Some of our family members had suffered losses too.

Between mid-2013, and mid-2014 our family of five spent over $18,000.00 on psychology services that included: counselling for every member, couples therapy, parenting seminars, and psychology-facilitated book clubs. 

How could any “regular” family need this much mental health support? 

How could any sane adult justify the cost? Truthfully, we didn’t tally up the “cost” of it until the end of the year. We just met the needs of our family during chaos in the best way we could. When we saw the numbers we experienced jaw-dropping shock too. 

Most people who know us see the strength that Ward and I possess, the forethought of planning ahead, the organizational skills of a mother who is detail-oriented, the calm pragmatics of a thoughtful father, and two parents who believe that their kids deserve every opportunity to become independent, loving adults, who are happy. 

Our family looks too good. But, what cannot be seen is:

~ the struggle of a mother who takes most everything personally, and then doubles her efforts,

~ a father who has difficulty with intense emotions, and wraps himself in pursuits that make him feel comfortable, and worthwhile,  

~ a child who sees demons, where angels exist, and fights or flees,

~ a family who regularly suffers verbal abuse from a child,

~ a couple who struggles to maintain a connection, or quality relationship,

~ and, the amount of energy it takes to function in this environment. 

In this loonie year, I’ve stopped to ask myself, how much is the health and well-being of our family worth? According to the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health, mental illness is the leading cause of disability in Canada, but these illnesses receive less than 6% of health care dollars.

How many people with severe mental health issues or disorders are helped from traditional counselling? I can’t find a statistic on this, however what I can find is that “management of symptoms is possible through a combination of medications, therapy and personal work, [but] they can’t make the disorder disappear altogether.” (outofhtefog.net)

Just as the woman in Ethiopia came to see Ward, hoping for a "cure" for her mental and physical ailments, we go to counselling hoping for the same thing. If only we try harder, and apply more bandages, things will start to feel better.

Psychology services is but one area that we spend money on health and well-being that is outside the normal medical model. It is difficult to discern that which makes a difference.

What will contribute most to the “experience of  joy, contentment, or positive well-being, that [makes] one’s life good, meaningful, and worthwhile” (Sonja Lyubomirsky)? 

 I don’t know. 

What if I lived in Ethiopia? Who would load me into a donkey cart and pull me along dirt roads in the heat of the day to see a physician—in the hopes that his remedy would change my life? 

If I sit and think about who would take the time to load me into the cart, and then pull me for hours, all the while tending to my wounds and heart aches, I have my answer. 

A woman brought her sick husband to the clinic.

An elderly woman that Ward and I assessed.

Ward, with two of the other volunteers.

Loonie Idea: Week 28

New to ONELOONEY IDEA - read below

In 2006, we began a relationship with Ethiopia that we cannot turn our backs on.  

In Ethiopia, the majority of people build a life with less than a dollar a day. 

A dollar a day does not buy basic necessities.

We all have challenges. At this point in my life I am living with abundance. It doesn’t feel good to continue to accrue treasures when so many live with scarcity. I want to choose something different. 

Impulsivity is a choice of the privileged. But, the privileged have a responsibility.  

PLEASE consider pledging your support to me, through financially supporting the work of Canadian Humanitarian in Ethiopia. My original goal was to get FIFTY people to pledge a dollar a day for the 365 days of this challenge. But, give what you feel you can toward my campaign—no amount is too small, every dollar makes a difference in the life of another—or continue to make a difference through your own chosen channels. The link to my personal pledge page is below.

http://canadianhumanitarian.com/shop/donation/wendys-year-long-challenge/

Betam amisegnalo. 

                   How Much?

Ethiopia 2006

Our adoption group—twenty-eight of us—visited the orphanage where Yohannes (and the other adopted kids) had lived. There, the orphanage director told us that Yohannes had a sister. We were surprised—to say the least. We had the opportunity to go and meet her, and give Yohannes a chance to see her one more time. Kristin and Fraser were on that trip with us. We were scheduled for a shopping tour of Addis Ababa afterward.

We stopped and got out at the Kechene Women’s Pottery Centre, a hand-sculpted mud hut with a pale tin roof. The air was thick with smoke by mid-afternoon; the diesel cars and coal stoves exhaled with such alarming regularity that the sun struggled to seep through the haze. As the others proceeded, I stood, engulfed. The spit in my mouth evaporated. My body shuddered. The adoption. The heat. The dust. The orphanage. The sister. The pottery. Time stopped.

I dragged my feet through the red earth, and swung the chain-link gate aside. My whole body cried, and yet no tears fell. As the others neared the studio, a chorus of excited voices hung upon the smog as if infused with hot air. My gaze shifted and settled upon a row of massive pots sprawling across a carpet of dirt, and absorbing the sun’s rays. The pots were a mesmerizing shade, not the colour of sunsets or burning embers, or the mixed tone of a blood orange, or the soft shade of an apricot, but the shade of sandstone, woven like cinnamon threads through the rocky edges of the Grand Canyon. The cavernous rim and deep belly of the pot looked comforting and I longed to slip inside and collapse against its sloped curve.

I wanted to forget the story of a sister that had eroded my fantasy adoption tale. 

I felt a hand on my shoulder as one of our drivers guided me forward. I moved toward the entrance, and the chorus of voices suspended in hot air popped and drifted around the corner. I followed the din. 

The entry was cave-like and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Women sat on either side of me in the dimly lit hall. Their knees hugged a round table as they worked and wedged the clay. I stared at them for longer than was polite. Each was silent and unsmiling, caressing and shaping their art with mud-covered hands. I willed them to take their piece of earth and cast a new mold for the story that had been fired into my mind. I forced myself to pull away, and left them in the dank vestibule and went inside to the showroom to find Ward and the kids. 

After we filled our bags with mementos and gifts, we went back to the van. Our family was quiet on the drive, as our companions talked about the treasures they had found. Everyone was excited to have this day of shopping. We had been looking forward to it too, but that was before we had learned of Faven. Now we were laden with this story that we would have to carry for our son. 

Our large group would not be safe at the market, so instead we went to Churchill Road, an area for tourists. The van doors opened, and peddlers and beggars glommed to us like dust to sweat. I held Yohannes tight to my chest and followed the group to the tin stalls, which sat in long rows, side-by-side-by-side. An odorous trickle of water flowed past the vendors and disappeared down the road. I stepped over it, and instinctively stopped breathing through my nose. I meandered near the periphery, not wishing to engage in the bartering required. Ward was more at ease negotiating prices for our trinkets. I walked along the edges of the shacks, amidst the disabled and disadvantaged. Each pulled at my t-shirt, and moved their hands through the air, picking up bits of imagined food and popping it into their mouths. As if we played charades, I found myself guessing, “Megeb? (food)” and their eyebrows rose in assent, and hope. My heart strained as I shook my head and replied, “Yikurta(sorry)”. I hid behind dark sunglasses, and used Yohannes as a shield.

“Ferenge, ferenge . . . come,” the vendors chanted. 

“How many scarves should we take back?” Ward called.

“A dozen?” I answered. How many of these children would fit in our house?

“Is 60 birr a good price?”  Ward asked. 

I simply lifted my shoulders. 

“Good price for you . . . Konjo (beautiful),” the vendor called out, waving to me. 

“Honey, do you want a traditional dress? This one or this one?” Ward called.

I walked over to have a look, “Sen-teh-no? (How much?)” I asked the vendor.

“Fie hundred,” he answered.

“Bezu (too much), I replied.

“Good price for you missus. Three hundred,” he countered.

Three hundred was about $35.00; we could easily pay that. However, the vendor most certainly created an inflated price for us ferenges (foreigners); Ward, looking for a fairprice and not wanting to be duped, continued the negotiation. I walked off, and left him to it. Given the desperation of the environment, the bartering felt ugly to me. If only I could have played “Robin Hood”, and redistributed money from the rich to the poor. But, I knew that once the money ran out, the desperation would return. Moreover, I would only feel good for a minute, because as soon as I handed a dollar to one person, I would turn and see another, and another, in need. 

Yohannes and I continued to meander. The flies buzzed all around us, I waved my arm sporadically to keep them from landing. The children who had gathered to gawk at us—a white-skinned, white-haired woman carrying a brown boy—had flies sitting in the corners of their eyes. I stared at them. How will you survive? What can I do to make a difference?

“Shinti!” Yohannes exclaimed with urgency, and we scampered off in search of a bathroom.

How much do I have in my life? BEZU. Too. Damn. Much.

I can no longer breath amidst the debris of consumerism scattered across our living like confetti. “Excess consumption is practically an American religion,” wrote Lisa Mclaughlin in TIME magazine.

My Loonie Idea has fallen to the sidelines because implementing it FOR my family has been impossible. And, instead of plundering on, I have used them as an excuse to continue my (our) thriftless habits. Starting a NEW habit is hard and requires dedication, but leaving an OLD habit demands sacrifice. 

I know what you’re thinking… “You’re halfway through this loonie thing, and you JUST learned that.”  I get it. But, here is the thing, I really, really wanted my kids and my husband to embrace this quest of MINE, not simply because it is one of the best ideas I have ever had, but because I believe it will change lives. Our “homes are full of stuff, but [our] lives are littered with unfulfilled promises,” says Peter Walsh. 

De-cluttering is the new decorating scheme.  

The man at the market—the one with whom Ward and I negotiated a price for some dresses—he’s living every day with the hope that he will sell enough to support himself and his family. When extravagance is not an option, every item, every action has a living purpose. Laurèn and Yohannes learned in school recently that our basic needs include: food (including water), shelter, and clothing. 

Food. 

Shelter. 

Clothing. 

Travelling reminds me that I am taking my life for granted. As the “manager of merchandise” in our home, I have the arduous task of being the steward of our stuff. My care-taking capacity is undermined by the desires of the people I love—and my eagerness to see them happy—as well as the ease of purchase, given our abundance. Our over-consumption may not DIRECTLY affect someone else, however, keeping what we NEED and donating the excess can provide for others. But the habit change requires more than just reducing, it also means REFUSING TO GET MORE STUFF. This is where the rubber meets the road. The loonies saved can roll toward supporting great work elsewhere in the world. 

The things I own do not make me happy. But, I am spending so much time taking care of, and organizing all of our things, I have no time or energy for the things that do make me happy: my kids, my husband, my family, and my friends. I am sinking in a quicksand of my own making.

“A seed planted, and not watered is a neglected promise.” Wendy Flemons