When Minimalists Splurge

Even minimalists splurge. Here’s a confession: There’s a complete set of 1962 Encyclopedia Britannica in my basement.

My husband dusts them fairly often. They’re arranged alphabetically on their custom bookshelf. Thanks to his care, the 32 tomes have aged surprisingly well: While the paper-thin pages are yellowed, their bindings remain intact.

Still, I can’t remember a time anyone in my family has ever opened one.

My husband happily inherited the encyclopedias from his grandmother when she downsized and, not surprisingly, the set has been the source of much debate in our marriage. Although we agreed to a mutually minimalist existence, our ownership of these Brittanicas convey the exact opposite of our values.

So why must we retain such a collectively archaic waste of space? In the internet age, honestly, what’s the point?

I broached the topic over dinner tonight. Below is the transcript of our conversation, word for word.

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Me: “The encyclopedias downstairs. What is it about them? Why do you love them?”

Haig: “They remind me of my grandparents and their house and holidays and growing up and whatnot … and there they are all together in a concise package. They’re a piece of history.”

Me: “History?”

Haig: “Yeah. My childhood. And also they show how facts were distributed 60 years ago. It’s cool.”

Me (Nodding, pretending to understand): “You haven’t opened them once in two years. What’s your response?”

Haig: “I didn’t keep them to read every night. I keep them for the memories.”

Me: “Do you have plans to ever get rid of them?”

Haig: “I don’t know.”

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There was power in the way he expressed his inability to commit. The truth is, it’s not about the books; it never was. It’s about the feeling attached to them: For my husband, that feeling is nostalgia.

I let the discussion die. But soon after, I started thinking about ridiculous items I’ve willingly spared in my own decluttering sprees.

Like Haig, I, too, have held onto books: I’ve happily kept my favorite novels.

Owning hard copies in the age of digital downloads is complete nonsense; I fully admit this. But the truth is, I adore books. I love holding them between my hands. I relish the act of earmarking corners of particularly notable pages. I write in the margins; I star particularly witty verbiage. And while my love of novels may seem insane to some, it makes complete and utter sense to me.

I’m keeping them because – someday – I hope to turn my kids’ playroom into a library. I’ll have a desk with my laptop and a cozy chair, complete with a reading lamp that gives off just the right amount of light. I’ll line the walls with bookshelves, then I’ll fill them with my treasured novels.

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I’ll surround myself (literally!) with brilliance.

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Some girls plan their weddings; as a girl, I planned my library. Because by third grade, after I thoroughly devoured all the Nancy Drew books, I declared to anyone who’d listen that I, too, wanted to write.

I’ve kept other completely irrational items, too, like my pair of red leather chairs. They’re impractical: I have two kids, a dog and two cats with claws, after all. They weren’t cheap, either; indeed, my husband and I saved for two years before we bought them.

But we bought them despite the knowledge that wood chairs or plastic chairs or metal chairs or any chair less expensive than the ones we mindfully purchased would perform necessary chair-like functions equally well for the simple fact that I’ve always wanted a pair of red leather chairs.

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It was an irrational purchase thanks to an irrational dream. I knew it then and I know it now yet, still, I adore those chairs.

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This is why I’ve labeled us incremental minimalists. Despite our most mindful efforts, there are completely unnecessary objects in our home we’ve chosen to keep. We recognize that seemingly benign “stuff” holds an awful lot of emotional baggage yet we willingly lug such baggage around when it adds value to our lives.

There’s nothing wrong with splurge purchases when they add lasting joy; similarly, there’s nothing wrong with attachments to “stuff” if attachments add true value.

The key is mindful choices as opposed to mindless consumption.

My family and I? We continue on the journey.