Small Living Journal

“If You Don’t Know Where You’re Going, Any Road Will Get You There.”

–The Cheshire Cat, Alice In Wonderland

Have you ever been traveling somewhere and been struck by an increasingly unsettling feeling that you somehow drifted off course?  And that you have no idea how to get yourself turned around but you have a feeling that the longer you wait to figure it out, the farther off course  you’re probably going to get?

Well, I spent the better  part of 10 years of my life feeling that way before I made a hard right turn and managed to get back on track.

I am probably the last person you would expect to find living in a tiny house.  I love spending time at home, and I’m not shy about liking my creature comforts.  Like, say, a few thousand books.

About three years ago, though, I came to the realization that there’s very little that’s “comfortable” about owning a 3,000+ square foot house accompanied with the corresponding mortgage, tax burden, upkeep and maintenance, and all the associated crap one tends to store inside one.  (And I swear possessions stored in a large house are capable of reproducing faster than extra-libidinous rabbits.)

At the time I was married.  My husband was a trust-fund baby and  quite financially successful in his own right.  He also did a substantial amount of entertaining at home as part of his job recruiting faculty for a fairly well-known business college.  A sprawling house in the Tucson foothills was one of the expected trappings of his social circle. (“Come work for us and you, too, can have a place like this!”)

I would be lying if I said there weren’t many days when I felt fortunate to be living in such a beautiful home. I especially adored the views of the mountains from my den windows.  But, man, was I glad I wasn’t the one footing the bill for the mortgage every month.  I paid a hefty enough price just trying prevent the damn thing from crumbling into the state of disrepair it seemed determined to crawl relentlessly toward.

Keeping up with the house involved a small army of support staff: a maid service; a landscape crew; a pool maintenance guy; a handyman service for minor monthly repairs; a carpet and upholstery cleaning service; an air-conditioning and heating service; two extermination services (one for insects and one for the Pack-Rat Liberation Movement that seemed determine to reclaim our place in the name of all thing furry); and a whole host of appliance repair men.  The house was big enough that it required three separate air conditioners to cool in the summers, and two heaters and three fireplaces to warm in the winter.  In order to stay on top of just the staff who helped us with the house required that I create a separate Rolodex of business cards.  I kid you not.  And our privacy was constantly being disturbed by some caretaker arriving to perform their ongoing duties.

I wasn’t working at the time but it felt like I had at least a half-time job just staying on top of everyone coming and going from our property.  And–get this– we were paying several thousands of dollars a month for the privilege of this experience.

Even before my divorce, I had been aware of the Small Home Movement.  Sometime around 2002, my mother had sent me a newspaper clipping of Jay Shafer and his wonderful little Tumbleweed Tiny Houses.  Periodically, I would pull up his website, look wistfully at pictures of tiny homes, and dream of a much simpler existence. I was also such a huge fan of Thoreau’s Walden back in college that I convinced my favorite professor to allow me to do a semester’s independent study on the house. (For about ten years, I even had a bonsai I raised from a maple seedling that came from Walden Pond.)

I dreamed of a similar tiny place in solitude of my very own.  I didn’t have the faintest idea how to get there, though.  I was just so hugely off-course from anything resembling that.

I was living in a place that was the absolute antithesis of a tiny home.  I was running in a social-circle which emphasized the gross display of wealth and viewed material consumption as a form of recreational activity.  Everyone was working hard at impressing one another with how successful they all were.  (Admittedly, everyone was running around so fast it didn’t seem like they actually enjoyed any of it.)  And even if I somehow managed to shed the house and convince my partner to embark on a lifetime of simplicity, there was still several moving trucks full of possessions that wouldn’t fit into a smaller place.

It certainly wasn’t due to our house alone, but there were many days when I fantasized about tucking a cat under each arm, walking out the front door, and never looking back.  In a particularly desperate moment, I convinced my husband to consider building me a “studio” in the 5 acres out back to be constructed along my more simplistic ideals.  Thankfully, the project never came to pass.  Hiding out back in a tiny house wasn’t going to fix the mess I’d made for myself.

Eventually, for reasons having to do with a lot more than just the materialistic lifestyle, my marriage deteriorated to the point that I chose to physically separate from my husband.  Moving into a 1,000 square foot rental property with all of my belongings helped me to come to terms with how much of the associated crap–material and otherwise– was actually mine rather than his. (Hey, they say recognizing you have a problem is the first step in the road to recovery…)

I don’t think anyone has a good divorce. For the record, mine sucked in many, many ways.   But it also gave me one priceless gift–a chance to rebuild my life in a way that made sense to me. And, while waiting for the end result of all the legal wrangling to be over, I had the time to really think about what it was I valued.

Here is what I came up with…  I cherished the time I didn’t have to spend in an office.  I wanted to spend a minimal amount of time earning a living. Instead, I wanted to spend as much of my limited remaining time on the planet enjoying friends and loved ones, nature, good books, good food and wine, and creative projects.  I didn’t want to have to worry about paying for and maintaining a bunch of junk I didn’t have the time or energy to use because I was too busy working to pay for it all.

I didn’t even want to keep the stuff I already owned and had aspirations of someday using.  Like, say, the ten different musical instruments I had dreamed of someday learning to play.  I decided to pick the things that were truly dear to me (like my cello) and focus on those, and free up the rest of the stuff to find homes where they could be better used.

After quite a bit of thinking and research, I finally settled on my tiny home in the form of a 550 square foot floating home which sits in the Columbia River outside of Portland.  A portion of my divorce settlement went into the initial purchase.  I also have returned to the workforce as a consultant, which has helped greatly with renovation costs on my place but also present challenges in terms of my free time.  I’m still actively working to find the right balance there.

I’m afraid there hasn’t been much in the way of  “simple living” going on during the past year in which I’ve been restoring my place.  (It was in need of some serious work when I bought it.)  However, the past year’s journey has also been immensely rewarding to me on an emotional and social level.

There are still many more challenges to be met like finishing my place and establishing the right work/life balance.  At this point, I just keep putting one foot in front of the other while keeping my eye on the course.

The road I’m on certainly seems to have a fair share of potholes.  But, at least now, I’m on the right road.

For more information on Stephanie and her tiny floating home, you can read the following at her blog, Coming Unmoored:

Gone crazy.  Back soon.  (Or maybe not.)

One Upon a Time, There Was Way Too Much Stuff

Moments of Clarity in Lowes

You can also follow her on Twitter.