For years I’ve struggled with a mild internal conflict. Maybe like me, you see yourself as someone who is drawn to minimalism. There is something so appealing about clean lines, uncluttered spaces, and carefully selected objets de art. But then I turn and look at my own abode and realize that my heart is just not here for an austere existence.
I like to keep things tidy, but try to take my 10 year collection of Architecture Digest away from me and see how long you live. I kid! But seriously, I’m not really a minimalist. However, I’m not a maximalist either. I don’t want to feel closed in by mountains of belongings.
Accruing useless and cheap stuff isn’t doing any of us any good. I feel best in a place that feels cozy and manageable, surrounded by items that mean something to me, that speak to my soul, like my collection of pottery from artisans local and global. I live in a small house on the side of a mountain. It’s just the right size for living and loving. It’s a home full of books, and jars of beans. Plants and indie magazines. Big art and little candles. It’s lived in and full of shadows and light.
If this kind of living speaks to you, you might be an omnimalist. (My Mac doesn’t believe we exist; it auto-corrected omnimalist to minimalist repeatedly until I had to quietly yell at Siri to knock it off.)
Yes, it’s a made up word. But here we are.
