For four months, while living in my little shack, I had two towels. This allowed me to still shower while one was being washed. This made the towel part of my life very simple: use it, hang it in the sun to dry, use it again. Once a week, take it to be washed and repeat with Towel #2.
Two weeks ago, I moved into a beautiful house complete with a closet full of towels. Kind of the way things are in my home in the US. This morning, I find myself starting my day with the familiar task of foldding towels. Several towels. A stack of them, actually.
Towels which I plucked from the dryer (I don't have a clotheslines, here) and all towels which I used personally in the last few days.
As I carried the stack into its closet, all pretty and plump, I allowed myself to really feel the contrast. Not to judge it, just to feel it.
Also, to pay attention to its exchange rate.
How much do towels give to my life in terms of service and comfort?
How much time do they ask from me - or rather, how much time am I feeling good about giving them?
I am grateful for the opportunity to experience these questions and to find my own, authentic answers to them.
Not the answers of "the more the better" nor "minimalism in the correct way," but my own answers, my own sweet spot.
The spot where I experience no lack or inconvenience, nor do I find myself trading my life minutes for "object tending," objects that will never love me back.
Certainly not the way going to watch the sunset will love me back, or taking a walk, or painting, or just sitting quietly and feeling deeply grateful for my life.
It's a dance and I am loving taking these dance lessons.
SCARED OF THE SACRED