AND THIS LAMP

That's all I need.

Boiling a whole book down to a little screenplay using unfamiliar software is a little daunting, so I find myself taking breaks to think about other things. This afternoon I followed Hailey's recommendation to watch Minimalism on Netflix. Very glad I did.

I was reminded of a cotton camisole I found years ago at an antique store. A simple cotton garment, blousy, trimmed with rustic lace, probably from the late 1800s. It was pretty, but the reason I had to have it was because of the story it told me. Studying the neat, matching patches over the most threadbare spots, I pictured the woman who had repaired this one undergarment—possibly her ONLY undergarment—instead of tossing it out.

She'd probably made it. She valued it. And even if she'd bought it, maybe there were no stores for miles. Or she had no money. Even more importantly, she lived in a time when people were more materialistic.

Yes, materialistic. In Minimalism, one of the interview subjects made a brilliant observation. Modern Americans are arguably NOT materialistic. We don't care about things. We buy, then it goes out of style, a newer version is released, or it breaks. So we discard it.

A materialistic person actually cares for and cherishes their material goods.

There's a ponder for you.

One of the many lines of thought that have run through my head since I arrived here Monday night is my own relationship with stuff.

When Will went to school last summer, I sold our 3,000 square foot house and downsized enough to fit the remaining things into Brandon's cozy 1920s bungalow. It felt fantastic to lighten my load after an adulthood spent accumulating. I know some of that load got transferred to those of you who made it to my sale. Recycling, nothing wrong with that!

I'm a stuff person, it's in my nature. I have a giant jar that contains rocks described with the dates, places and people that give them significance, and I will definitely be picking one up here to add to the collection.

But in self-imposed cabin exile, away from any retail establishments, and with the email promise of creating "the perfect nude lip" seeming pretty silly right now, the urge to spend has disappeared.

I want to continue my journey toward living smaller, while living bigger at the same time. Brandon and I daydream about building a treehouse someday. The kind you pay for outright, then live in. Our priorities tend toward travel and time with people we care about, including each other. Can you imagine the possibilities if you just needed to sustain a tiny house, tree or otherwise?

Minimalism also touched on the dangers of being so connected to technology all the time. It's been a huge blessing and a small curse that this cabin has such good connectivity. My friends and family are my greatest wealth, and it's hard to resist the urge to communicate with you. I haven't felt the least bit lonely, that's for sure. But I may turn things off a little this weekend, so don't worry if you try to reach me and I don't answer. I'll write again on Monday. Or leave a message, and I'll get back to you, all old school.

By the way, if you're still reading, thank you for caring about my thoughts. Writing here has helped me feel successful every night as I wade into the unknown of screenwriting.

Love!