25 pieces & the search for enough

I read this morning about a woman who narrowed her wardrobe to 25 pieces – things she wore the most, anyway, so she decided to make the commitment and give the rest away. I looked at the picture list of what she owns, intrigued by minimalist methods, and thought: No wonder she could make that choice – look at those clothes! In my mind, they're each timeless / classic / never-go-out-of-style pieces that mix cozy and stylish. All the colors go together, so she has endless pairing possibilities. Maybe I'll go buy those 25 pieces and I'll be happy with my life.

The time of my life was the summer we hiked the JMT and climbed Longs Peak, when I wore the same two outfits for 2.5 months: one for hiking, camping, climbing and one for visiting friends across the U.S. I loved the simplicity and the comfort.

But reading about this woman, I have my doubts. And, naturally, those doubts have stewed all morning. What would I need in my closet to feel like it's enough? It's not a random thought. I had several frustrating mornings this week trying to decide what to wear. And a day last week when I changed over lunch because I decided what I'd chosen for work was a mistake. The timing bothers me because I just added clothes to my closet in December, thanks to a few gifts and a shopping trip in a friend's closet. You'd think I should see endless possibilities.

Perhaps it's true – too many choices ruins your life. Fear of missing out. If I choose the same sweater twice in the same week, people will notice. It's as if they stood in my closet with me and saw all the possibilities and wonder how I could end up in the same tired outfit. (We all can agree that's absurd.)

Psychology probably explains it. Decision fatigue impedes my ability to feel satisfied with whatever I wear. But it isn't just clothes. It includes the food I eat, the way I spend my money, how I fill my time. So really the question I've pondered all morning is the same I've pondered all week: How does it change my perspective when I believe what I have is enough. No matter what it is or how many. Adding or subtracting won't change anything because it's an internal choice to be satisfied.

I feel the difference when I say I want nothing like I'm trying to convince myself, laying on guilt with, 'Geez, are you really so unsatisfied?' Lately, I've remembered that more isn't better – different isn't better. Real is better. Spending the day doing things that I enjoy: being alone & quiet, reading, cooking for others, writing, working, running, yoga, keeping up with my people – feeling content, which leads to feeling creative and free. I start my day knowing it is unlikely to progress as planned, but what happens is enough for me.

I am not what I wear, but my closet – my choices – they all reveal the level of satisfaction and respect I have for life. That's why I try to avoid random trends, I don't often buy new, and I don't follow impulses. I was reading this week about forward motion in faith. Adding self-control and godliness to virtue isn't the way to redemption (which comes before & without work), but it is a sign of it. Patience and serenity make up my progress list right now. I want the kind of stillness in my soul that feels as weightless as it sounds but is neither weak nor fragile. The kind of steadfastness contained in knowledge of God, who gives and never runs out and promises to provide for me even more than the birds or flowers.

And I guess today that feels like finding all the places I hide my worries – my closet, my pantry, my budget sheet – and embracing the answer I get when I ask How much is enough?


*The photo is completely unrelated. I found it on my computer recently and I just love it. I don't know why. I miss my camera.

Beyond talent

I've acquired an unexpected number of shoes the past several years. I used to wear a trusty pair of Converse – through high school, through college. I owned a pair of nicer shoes for the days I dressed up for work or church, but I patted myself on the back for being so low maintenance. Then I started running, and I bought minimalist shoes because my toes fell asleep in the cushy ones. Then rock climbing and hiking. Then a pair for hiking into a climb. This year, for Christmas, Ben bought me my first pair of bike shoes.

At some point my Converse were thrown out and replaced, which is fine. That's another pat on the back for me: I attach very little to clothing. Clothing specifically, because if you asked me about books, I'd tell you it depends. Once I've read it, it's unlikely I can part with it. It's like an animal shelter director told me: You can think medically (logically) about a new animal when it's just come into the shelter, but God help you when you've learned its personality. Who can part with a kitten with a name and a temperament? Books are my kittens. If I've held onto it for years and never read it, I can make the logical decision.

Last year I replaced my first pair of minimalist running shoes (which were vibram five-fingers) to return to a regular-style shoe, figuring I could run more comfortably year-round because I could wear socks. I ran a few times one winter in five-fingers, and it felt like I could have lost of feet and never realized – running on ice blocks. But since Ben and I married, we like to run together, and he's basically immune to temperature changes, so I needed something more versatile.

And here's where I made a mistake.

I'm an amateur distance runner – never broken 10 miles, though I've run that comfortably a few times. I don't know a lot about shoes and feet and everything. I bought these shoes that hurt my feet. It was nearly a year ago that I started to notice my heel ached at work and I would roll onto the outside of my foot when I stood to avoid putting pressure on it. And I wore my running shoes to work (at the bookstore), wearing them for up to 8 hours, maybe running later. Anyway, the muscles in my lower legs and feet weren't ready for so much barefoot action. It took me months to realize it was a runner's injury and more months to figure out the right remedy.

I took a lot of time off until finally my foot started cooperating enough to run a half a mile each way to the park at the top of the hill to workout. 1 mile total – maybe three days a week – for a couple of months. That was in October, and it's when I started asking myself questions about consistency.

When I wore Converse, my only activity shoes were soccer cleats, the left one still tied up with a pink shoelace from the year on JV when the team vowed to practice using our non-dominant foot. No more extra touches on the ball to play it to the right foot for that shot – use your left. But using your left foot when your right-foot dominant is very similar to trying to write with your left hand when you're right-handed. 

I grew up competitive in everything, seeing every class, every job as a chance to be better than someone else. In my quest to add miles to my running record, I overdid it and got hurt. And now I'm back to square one. In December, I stepped it up to 2 miles three or four times a week. My feet feel great, and I'm tempted to go farther because I want to prove my progress. 

I want so many things out of life. Because they're things like run a marathon or climb Longs Peak, I think they're worthier aspirations than someone else's. I catch myself feeling wild, frenzied jealousy or earth-shattering depression as I compare my goals and progression to others'. I crave the next thing, rushing through moments to get to whatever landmark I think holds my happiness. When I realize it isn't there and I'm back at the beginning, I want to give up.

It's materialism: abiding by the American way, clamoring for things I think I deserve, wrinkling my nose at the work and slowness of discipline. I used to think the right things came quick and easy. Build a life on talent, and do fine. It never goes far enough. I get to the edge of my easy life and I want to go farther. It seems like I spend my days building, looking out at 'what if I did this?' and knowing it will take more building to get there.