Learning to Live with Less: On Necessity, Consumption, and Minimalism

It came to me in an instant—the sobering realization that I had a wardrobe full of unnecessary clothes. It had taken almost 30 years, but there I was, stunned and appalled as I realized, definitively,  that I had a problem prioritising. All this stuff! All this money spent! All this waste!

So what did I do? I called my brother.

My brother is, let’s say, a financial guru. (Technically he’s a financial advisor.) He talked me through my consumer-freak-out, and gave me an important lesson: “Hilary, first take care of your needs, and then be thoughtful about your wants.” 
 
It stuck. I thought, “He’s right!” (Note: my brother is four years younger than I am, ugh, but he’s right). I wanted to make a change. I wanted to change my consumption habits, and really, my way of life. I wanted to focus on the essentials, and eliminate the rest, more or less. Really, I wanted to be able to appreciate the things that money can’t buy. 
 
And, well, wouldn’t you know it, as luck would have it, a few days after this consumer-freak-out and subsequent epiphany, I learned I would be moving to Beaver Creek. Surely this town, ok, village, of 80 residents and no stores would prove a great (more like fantastic, perfect, ideal!) spot to make some changes? 
 
But the changes had to begin immediately. We were moving our possessions in a 12-foot U-Haul. I had to decide what I’d need in Beaver Creek. I had to cull. And cull and cull. 
 
It was daunting. For years, I’d been what you’d call, ahem, a “serial shopper”. I’d shopped for things I wanted. I’d often say to a friend, “But I needsomething to wear to that dinner I’m going to.”. Inevitably, they’d remind me that I already had something to wear, but forget it, I needed that new, fresh-off-the-rack, never-been-worn-outfit. Wanted.
 
I couldn’t do it on my own and so enlisted the help of a friend. A great friend — I mean, if that’s not the sign of a great friend, I don’t know what is. The process was quite something. Tamara questioned me on every single thing I owned. Keep? Sell? Donate? Keep? Sell? Donate? I had piles of clothes. Piles, and piles, and piles! They covered every couch, chair, and coffee table, they flowed onto the floor and obscured door frames, cupboards, windows and paintings.

Bags upon bags were donated, and even more bags upon bags were consigned. While the fact that clothes were both donated and consigned is surely positive, I’m ashamed to say that a lot of these pieces still had price-tags intact. They’d been bought on a whim and never worn. I walked out of the consignment stores with more than $600 in my pocket, but with the guilty awareness that so much of what I’d just left behind I should never have purchased in the first place.
 
The process of scrutinizing my buying habits and coming to terms with my heaps of frivolous purchases made the move to a remote community all the more significant. I was embracing not only minimalism, but also isolation and solitude. Here’s what I’ve been coming to terms with:
 
1.     It’s not about what you want, it’s about what you need. 

In an effort to keep up with the Joneses (or the Kardashians, if they’re your type), it’s easy to manipulate want so that it becomes need. I can quite easily convince myself I need a new outfit because “It’s been a hard week” or “It’s been a great week” or “I need something new” or “Everyone else has one.” The list goes on.
 
I was lucky to grow up with my needs met. I was free to devote my after-school job paycheques to things I wanted. Things like a new pair of Miss Sixty jeans, or later on, the first-generation iPod. And then...and then... There was always something! Always another item demanding my attention and my paycheque. This pattern carried on into young adulthood, when, like so many Vancouverites in their early 20s, I still lived with my parents. Not needing to worry about rent or groceries, my paycheques went to even bigger frivolities. When I eventually moved out it was hard to slow the want train. Though I managed the needs (rent, groceries, transportation) and never accumulated debt, I always found a way to feed the wants. 
 
And then the light bulb. The eureka moment. I suddenly realized what I, of course, deep down, had known all along. I was late to the game, but I saw that, my God, those $600 shoes (etc.) just set me $600 further back from a down payment on a house.  
 
In light of my decision to focus on need rather than want, the move to Beaver Creek has been cathartic. Sure, I could have taken every single ridiculous purse and the umpteen pairs of jeans and the dresses I’d never worn, but what good would these do me here? My decision to shift to frugality came to a head just as I decided to move to a place 2,840 kilometres from the nearest Aritzia. Convenient, right?
 
Frugality hasn’t come easy to me, and it’s still something I struggle with. Trust me, I spent 30 minutes on Amazon the other day simply seeing what might ship to Beaver Creek. But, in a place as beautiful as remote Yukon, why yearn for something I don’t need or can’t have? 

2.     Our “stuff” has an impact on the environment.

The Yukon is huge, and it’s sparsely populated. It has a population of 35,875. And 25,085 of those people live in Whitehorse. I’m no mathematician, but it looks like +/- 10,000 people are spread across some 450,000 square kilometres of wilderness. The vastness of the place struck me as I drove the 6 hours to Beaver Creek from Whitehorse on my first day as a ‘Yukoner’. 
 
When we talk about the environment, the word ‘footprint’ is often tossed around. Our ecological footprint is an indication of the amount of nature we use compared to the amount of nature we have. It’s important to consider our footprint. In doing so, we can think about our energy use, our transportation and travel habits, our diet, and our material consumption. 
 
When I walk out my front door in Beaver Creek, I’m surrounded by snow. I almost forget what grass looks like. (It’s winter. Up north winter means white. Unlike in Vancouver when winter means greener greens. Okay, I digress.) When I walk in the snow, I see every footprint I make. The crisp outline of my boot reminds me where I’ve been, and after days without snow, I can still see my footprint, intact. In Vancouver, I don’t notice my footprint. I know I have one, but on concrete surrounded by hundreds and thousands of people and shops and dogs and cars and bicycles and busses and, and, and...my footprints just feel so, so... irrelevant? No. They’re not irrelevant. Just less noticeable. 
 
My very obvious, very visible footprint in the snow makes me think about my ecological footprint. Every time I purchase something, I contribute to that footprint. We often think of plastic water bottles having a big impact, and sure, they do. Urban centres are looking to make changes that way. Straws are being banned and single use water bottles may soon disappear also. So, we do well to keep our Swell Bottles in tow. But, what about the impact of fast fashion? 
 
According to the Copenhagen Fashion Summit, 92 million tons of solid waste in landfills a year can be traced back to textiles. I contribute to that every time I make a purchase. Something for me to reflect on as I peruse Amazon. 92 million tons. 

3.     There are strings attached to ‘minimalism’

Beaver Creek is like the good friend holding me back from heading into Nordstrom. You bet I might still want an Acne Studios Shearling Aviator Jacket, but the sheer ridiculousness of me wearing something like that here helps force me to see my frivolousness. 
 
The word minimalism is one that comes up often these days. Think of Marie Kondo’s The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up. This million-copy bestseller is one of the things that’s made minimalism trendy. It’s associated with sophistication, and it can even be tied to class. I listened to a CBC The Current’s Anna Maria Tremonti talk to Cait Flanders, Colin Wright and Kyle Chayka about minimalism. Cait bought nothing for a year; Colin gave up all his belongings; and Kyle? Well, Kyle had a problem with minimalism.
 
At the end of the interview, Kyle said, “You know minimalism is maybe one solution of a different way to think about yourself, but maybe instead, we should have more sustainable social structures.” I had to think about this. Minimalism has its problems. It’s for those who have choice. It’s a luxury of sorts. My purge was self-imposed. I can afford to get rid of what I don’t need. And I can also afford to buy something new, if it’s what I want. It’s a sobering thought. A reminder of privilege. Of taking our western-based, economically mobile place in the world for granted.
 
In so many places in the world need is the driver. There is no train, let alone a want train. There is no internet, let alone Amazon.

Last Friday, I played radio bingo. Yeah, a new one for me, too. I’d never heard of such a thing before I moved to Beaver Creek. Besides maybe in grade school, I’d never even played bingo. But radio bingo is what lots of people in the Yukon do on a Friday night. The stakes are high ($20,000!) and the games are intense (only 30 seconds between each call!).
 
I tuned in to the radio station, and sat with my first book laid open, dabber in hand. I was ready. The numbers started firing off—under the B! Under the O! Under the N! I struggled to keep up. 12 spots to fill and I heard a faint ringing on the radio. The announcer informed listeners to stay tuned: someone had called in. There was a potential winner for the first game.
 
Turns out, the winner was from Beaver Creek. But it wasn’t me. I’d played the game wrong. I’d played the game without realizing I should be looking at all my books at once. I was trying to keep it simple. One thing at a time, I thought. You know, minimalism. Well, here’s to learning!