The Accidental Minimalist

Let's get this straight: I'm not a minimalist. I admire them; the mentality, the worldly consciousness, the material disillusionment. Some of my most-loved people are minimalists --in loose senses of the term. However, I've never felt the conviction to become one (yet?). Maybe because I've spent most of my adult life as a houseguest, or maybe because I've been through the extreme act of purging all my "stuff" via travel, but I've never felt like I've had enough stuff to be concerned with ridding myself of it. 

Speaking of transient: a few film photographs I developed recently

However, plenty of stuff is always moving through my life. From paints and markers to people and places. I have to deal with a lot of stuff in a more mobile sense. And one of the "things" I'm always dealing with is the thing of losing things. Things like the natural losses of a transient adult: the family home, childhood friends, favorite, continent-specific foods, etc, etc.

I was thinking recently about this transient trail of things I leave behind me. I've become very interested not as the minimalists are in getting rid of stuff and not dealing with stuff,  but in how we rid ourselves of these things. Where do those things go, and to what use (or disuse)? Waste, loss, theft, gifts. I sometimes think it's more important to approach the subject of how we deal with things rather than not dealing with them at all. Enough with these binal theories. As you know, I'm not one for philosophy; a woman of action, a girl who likes sweaters.

One of my friends messaged me this morning;

darling, you've forgotten your makeup bag at my place.

Is there a word for people who become minimalists through no fault of their own? I would be that word.

I have the tendency to lose a lot of things which I really like.  Because they're things which I really like, I'm inclined to believe that maybe I'm leaving them there because of some subconscious force. Maybe they shouldn't travel with me further; maybe they have their own purpose to act out in someone else's life; perhaps where I left them was where they belong.

1. The dress (and the nice black bra)

I know exactly where I left them: bundled up in a towel in the showers of a hostel in the Paris suburb. I have the feeling they never really belonged with me. We fell into each other like summer lovers do; quickly and suspiciously easily. Is it ironic that I don't wear bras anymore? Maybe I never really got over that loss. 

2. The ear cuffs

They were my favorite accessory for a while. All the punk-y, pierced, statement and none of the commitment. I've lost several: on a night out, on the train, on my friend's window sill. In my mind, they're all still there. My ear cuff, rolling along eternally on Dutch transit.

3. The rings

My fingers are never still, every lost ring is evidence. 

4.  The running pants

I'm not sure where I left them, but whenever I leave America after a holiday I always leave a huge pile of clothes. Hand-me-downs, second-hand, my-grandmother-thought-of-me-but-doesn't-know-my-style. I'm sure I left them there, and who knows, they may be around when I visit again. My mother doesn't easily throw things away. 

5. Dark-wash jeans

As a principle I always own a pair of dark, well-fitting denim jeans. In case I ever need to move up in the world. Ironically, I left them with my older sister; the one family member who has actively climbed the social ladder. I like to think my jeans moved up without me. 

So I'm left without well-fitting bras, fake jewelry,  nondescript running pants and my classy jeans. And I'm sure many things I don't remember. Little cloth-and-fake-gold memorials, always on the move, from hand to trash to lost-and-possibly-found. Pants, dresses, bras, home, country, family. I'm just left wondering: how much can we define ourselves by the things we leave behind?