A small branch with drooping maple leaves outside of Belleville, Wisconsin.

A friend caught me by surprise this week. He asked if selling all of my “things” made me sad. I didn’t really think about it until he asked me that question.

Up until then I forgot my “things” had memories associated with them. Though most of those memories were drab, some were good, and a few were bad. But every single item I owned waiting to be purchased by some random, faceless bargain hunter would result in a flashback to another time if I really gave it some thought.

I sold everything I owned; my “empire of dirt” as Johnny Cash once crooned. I sold a wooden checker board, which I once used to teach my nephew how to play the game. I must have beat him two dozen times before he finally beat me…and then refused to play again because the little bugger wanted to retire as the reigning champion. Someone bought that checker board for $2.00.

I also sold a book called Getting Things Done: The Art of Stress-Free Productivity…which I never read. I sold an ugly blanket for 50 cents. Every night my cat climbed into bed and slept on it at my feet. He found more use for it than I ever did. I also sold a small sewing kit. Someone gave me a George Washington quarter for it. The only time I ever used it was to stitch together rows of popcorn and cranberries for my Christmas tree; a beautiful evergreen I shared with my X our first Christmas together.

Some items sold for considerably more, and many for much less. Surprisingly even the most worthless linen I offered for sale found a new home; including a permanently stained dish towel used to wipe up Kool-Aid my niece spilled on the floor. That’s when I realized that many of the items being snatched up by the vultures at my sale had (in some way) more value to me than they would ever have to them…unless of course they managed to make their own memories with them.

I now own very little more than my camera gear, my clothes, and my cat. And even my cat would take issue with the notion that he is the one who is “owned.” Everything else still in my house is either spoken for or will soon be headed to Goodwill.

That said, there are some very good reasons why I’m selling it all. True, the cash will be helpful as I am working on the road trying to build a new business. Also, I can’t take very many “things” with me. But more importantly, I am also seeking a new spiritual peace with the notion of living a spartan life. Minimalism, much like the art form I often try to capture with my camera, is akin to the existence I crave. I hope to shun illusion, decorativeness, and emotional subjectivity in favor of simplicity, candor, and cleanliness. The benefits are obvious.

Consider the true cost of “things.” Things cost money. And once you own things, things need to be repaired, and cleaned, and moved, and removed, and cleaned again. Things scratch your other things every time you move them. Many things collect dust and are never used, regardless of how good your intentions were when you bought them. Things wear out, and some things need still other things to work. Things require storage, and the more things you have the more storage you need. Which means the true cost of things is not necessarily measured only by how much they originally cost when you bought them, but how you bought them and the money you need to store, keep, and maintain them. The more things you have, the more time, energy, and money you need to keep them…even if you never, ever use them. And therein lays the impetus for minimalism.

Yes, all of the things I sold had a memory or two associated with them, but those memories are etched in my soul, not on their fading veneer of things. But selling my things still makes me sad.