Once I read somewhere I can’t remember where that balance is the image of a tight-rope-walker — the only way she stays on her rope, alive, is by leaning too far one way, and then leaning too far the other way. 

Whatever ‘too far’ means.

Balance, then, is not never leaning too far one way. It is, in fact, leaning too far, just never only one way.

I used to think that if I listened to music too often I would become uncomfortable with silence. If I became accustomed to over-stimulation, music was the culprit. Then, sport at a high level taught me what more embodied movement is currently teaching me: music is a powerful tool that I can use to align my nervous system with the task at hand. I’ve since adjusted my crippling fear of too much music to one of too much noise. Noise being inherently superfluous; music being purposeful – like how “Vinyasa” means “to place in a special way.”

Balance. One way. Then. The other way. Minimize noise, maximize music. But make it good music.

It should be noted that I have not done any extensive research on minimalism. I have come to think of it as this third dimension’s poetry — nothing exists on the page, in the stanza, which wasn’t specifically chosen to be exactly where it is. It is thoughtful. It is fluid. And the whole has a pace that aligns with the meanings of its parts and their sum.

What a sweet miracle it is to choose and be chosen.

Something I’m clumsily navigating at the moment is the obstacles henceforth known as Other People’s Ideas. They are the worst kind of ideas because they are for good artists. We know that good artists copy. We who aim to be great artists who make great art must resist the urge to copy. We must steal; we must choose which ideas to make our own. Minimalism, here, is to take ownership only of the things whose weight one chooses to bear, those ideas with worthy implications.

I believe minimalism may be the most essential form of ‘trying to.’ I believe its magic lies in the trying to shed unfit layers, set free old ideas; it is in the mere attempt to let go that I have found myself so already full of so much goodness, an infinite well of valuable resources.

Minimalism, for me, is inextricably tied to quiet and awareness and breath:

It is yoga and pilates in a space where I feel especially beautiful.

It is an accessory that really excites me, small and important.

It is roasting my own nuts and seeds, pouring them over a cold bed of dressed cabbage and listening to them crackle, whisper and laugh. It is the wondering what they might be trying to tell me.

It is finding someone’s forgotten keyboard in the closet, bringing it to life, and learning to play a song that reminds me of my grandmother. It is curiosity as a practice.

It is walking instead of driving; Auckland’s unpredictable winter weather a teacher, temporality the lesson.

It is cleaning up after myself, taking the time to look after this borrowed space.

It is compassion as a physical feeling, a tingle in my collarbones.

It is reading.

It is cooking. Sometimes, it is writing a menu for myself to browse before I start cooking.

It is taking the bus to the market on Saturday morning. It is feasting my eyes and delighting in this kind of feast, letting go of the desire to afford it all because if I needed it all, I would be able to afford it all — I couldn’t possibly have it all. It is abundance and ease. And it is saying, actually saying, “I am proud of you,” to myself as I try to re-imagine my relationship with food after my days as a collegiate athlete.

It is an americano at a café where they know my name and I know theirs.

It is feeling the weight of things, living into the heaviness of my feet and the buoyancy of my head. It is asking less of myself. It is planning less for my days. It is taking what she has to give and nothing more.

I am somewhat forcing myself into minimalism — a life void of extras, as much as I can. Of course, my privilege affords me many, many extras. I have a smartphone and an international plan for which my mother still pays. I have my savings tucked away in my US bank account just in case I spend all this week’s income on concert tickets and coffee and that scarf from the pre-loved pop-up shop down the road. You would cackle in my face if you saw the house in which I stay, a perfect stranger’s perfect palace, a fortune I stumbled upon through friends of friends. 

But everyone needs a buffer zone, a place between where they come from, and where they are going. My version of minimalism is a trying to — it’s always a both/and; never an either/or. My minimalism is not over-indulgence and it is also not a denial of enjoyment. Guilt has no place in my minimalism because guilt is superfluous. And unhelpful. And not part of my poem.

xx

Until You Know Better

Make up a story for what the birds might be singing about.

Cook a meal and make it look pretty. Just because.

Start a pile for clothes that don’t excite you anymore — if you come across the pile 2 months down the road and find that you forgot you even had that shirt, donate it! If you find that you were driving yourself mad looking for that shirt, now you found it! Yay!

Pay for your coffee with some change you find laying around because coins weigh too much and they basically aren’t real money so you’ll feel like you got a free coffee.

Great Artists Steal

My dad empties the last, warm bit of kind-of-beer-mostly-backwash from his can onto the ground, turns my way, grins, and declares, “For the Gods!” This is generosity. This is abundance. This is joy. This is minimalism. (ish).