I'm kind of ashamed to say this. I'd imagine this is kind of like what it's like in any addiction group meeting. You all know why I'm here. I have an attachment to stuff. I have a tendency to want to hang on to the things I've gotten in life, no matter the weight they add or the utility they have, whether it's a nicknack given to me by someone I lost contact with long ago, a book I read, a broken chair I want to fix or camera equipment I want to repurpose or shells from the beach in Mexico.
I think it's partly only natural - we all want to hang on: to the people who pass through our lives, to the dreams we had when we were five, to the ideals we grew up believing in. But this is something a little bit more of a problem than that. This attachment to stuff is hereditary, passed on to me by both nature and nurture and supported by more rationalizations than should be legal to muster in one sitting. I think about how bad waste is for the environment, how much potential something may have if only, why I got something in the first place. If my life were a song "But I had plans for that / I just haven't had time yet / I have to hold on to it" would probably be the chorus, or at least part of it.
And I love my space, having a lot of it all to myself. I need my space to keep my hands busy and I need to keep my hands busy to keep my thoughts in line.
So why then do I have this notion, this crazy dream, of living in a tiny home? I picture myself in this 5' by 8' box, sometimes set up in someone's back yard, sometimes in some strange city or in some beautiful park, the world as my backyard, only in head, that 5' X 8' box is like Hermoine's magical bag, a space that can somehow fold in on itself to hold everything I need. I've spent the last two years obsessively reading every tiny home story, watching every tiny home video, googling every tiny home search I can think of, wondering: Could I do it? How do I do it? What do I do to do it?
Most likely, it's insanity, is what it is, just a pure and simple mid-life crisis. Except it's not just me. Everywhere I look, everywhere I turn, the tiny home craze seems to be spreading. A friend bought a van to renovate. Another friend built his own home in a box trailer. A photographer I know has been living in her teardrop for the last year, touring the country. Tiny home shows have popped up on HGTV. It's become mainstream.
Why?
Is it because we're all feeling a little bit more squeezed for money? Is it a sign of the shrinking American Dream and the growing inequality in the country and in the world? Is it a desire to create a smaller environmental footprint, especially as our natural areas and planet is under attack by our government? Is it the loss of our close community connections and an extension of our international reach, thanks to the Internet and social media, a sign of growing disconnect and an effect of hyper mobility? Is it just because we can, thanks to remote worker technology? Is it just the psychological benefits of simplicity? Is it because deep down we know we don't need all this stuff? Or that we want to prove to ourselves that we're not just mere materialistic, superficial consumers in the economic cog? Is it hard wired into our DNA still to be more mobile, to always be searching and running? Or do we each have our own reason for our mini-sized pipe dreams? Maybe it's a goal that just seems attainable in the same way owning a house in downtown Austin is nearly impossible. Maybe it's just something to hold on to as our generation confronts a grim future. Maybe it's a desire to get back to what matters. Is it because we just want something that's ours? Maybe it's driven by the fear of the unknown: I don't know what else is going to happen but at least, at least, I have these four walls to live in, if necessary.
At any rate, I am now at least one step closer to taking the tiny plunge: The other day I purchased the tiny house of my dreams, right as I'm getting ready to sell the cursed house I love, with its open floor plan, garage space, art studio, huge fenced in back yard, sliding barn doors, multiple gardens, working kitchen, walk-in closet, bath tub and master bedroom — and it's new-found habit of flooding from increasingly common extreme weather events, a habit that keeps any seeds from taking root, any semblance of permanency from forming.
It hurts, having a house that really feels like home and having to leave it. But I know it's the smart thing to do, the logical thing to do, the thing that everyone else tells me they would do, even though I'm not them and they don't have my life, my feelings, my emotions, my experiences. The time has come and things must be done. If you're going to have to downsize anyway, you might as well downsize big, right?
The home I bought weighs less than 1,000 pounds, though I've got some weighty dreams for it. I wanted it lightweight enough to haul easily with a small SUV, which I don't yet own. I wanted it as a back up plan in case things go terrible wrong. (One thing about surviving two flashfloods: You know that at any time, everything can go terribly wrong.) I figure if I don't live in it, hopefully I'll road trip in it and camp in it and just get out of the city in it, make great memories because of it. But just in case I do live in it, I've got to fix it up. I think it just feels good to fix something up. Right now it's a 5' X 8' wooden house with a sky light in its roof, two 22 X 36 inch standard windows, another two windows covered in some kind of wavy plastic sheeting (I'm giving away my level of DIY expertise here) and a nice green door, all of it put together from scratch by a guy named Steve who likes music and carpentry and who is moving to California. It has a composting toilet (I haven't opened it yet), a small air conditioning unit, a space heater, a toaster oven, a removable dish that can serve as a sink, some corner shelves, and two fold-out shelves that serve as desks. It's a good space, a tiny space, but one that I can stand in, at least for a few minutes, and convince myself, maybe just momentarily, that it's all I really need. That, and an SUV, which gets larger by the minute. A storage unit, which also gets larger by the minute. A back yard, which gets larger by the minute.
Of course, maybe all this is just a distraction from reality more so than a new reality, the same way Trump's tweets are a distraction from what is really going on and aren't in themselves what is actually going on. I have to move, I have to downsize. How do I do that? What do I get rid of? Where does all this stuff go? I find myself echoing my mom: "But I might need that."
I just have to tell myself: Some times you have to let go of what's old to get anything new. And sometimes you have to think tiny to make big moves. It's time to make big moves.