"Everything I owned fit into an 8kg carry-on bag. Two years later, I had half a container of furniture. Now, I’m letting it all go again." In this moving reflection,...
Life, death, love, sorrow, joy, excitement... this thing we call life is one hell of a rollercoaster. But what does it mean to live close to life? It’s something I’ve been reflecting on lately—a blue butterfly kind of thought that kept landing on my shoulder until I finally had to sit down and write it out.
There was a time when I lived like an extreme minimalist. Everything I owned fit into an 8kg carry-on bag. No secret storage, no furniture stashed away. Just me, my laptop, my yoga mat, and whatever else could squeeze into that tiny metal frame at the airport gate.
Over two years, I lived in Thailand, Bali, France, and Sweden. You learn to be resourceful when you only have two outfits. The clean one wins. When your attention shifts away from owning things, your focus moves from stuff to soul—from collecting objects to collecting waterfalls, conversations, and moments.
Reflection: When was the last time you felt overwhelmed by choice? What would shift if you had fewer, better options?
Fast forward six years, and I found myself in a "furniture season." Living in South Africa, married, with three dogs and—at one point—half a container of stuff. We were playing house, buying sofas, and finally doing what my friends had done ten years earlier. It felt like a spiritual milestone, proof that my career amounted to something.
But here is the thing about furniture: you buy it thinking it will elevate your life, but if you aren’t careful, that sofa ends up owning you. You pay to store it. You cling to the memories attached to it. It sits in a container collecting dust while you pay thousands just to keep it "for later."
When we finally built our own little farmhouse, I thought I’d want the marble countertops and the designer velvet chairs. But when the time came, I didn't want any of it. I found I craved stories more than stuff. We filled our home with second-hand treasures and DIY revamps instead. It turns out, I love my disco-mirrored epoxy basin more than any showroom piece.
Another thing that shapes us: mortality. When my father passed away three years ago, I found myself thinking about death often. It is a taboo subject, yet it is as natural as birth. I’ve realized that the closer I get to death, the closer I come to life. Understanding its fleetingness reminds us that nothing is guaranteed—not our homes, not our time, not even our people.
Death is a powerful teacher. It stops us from sleepwalking and starts us really living.
Sometimes we live close to life, and sometimes we float far from it. We follow an invisible curve, like a painting in motion. But certain moments jolt us awake—loss, love, music, soul-stirring beauty—and suddenly, we’re back in the pulse of it all.
I’m not anti-furniture; I’m pro-aliveness. Right now, I’m at a crossroads again. What I used to want, I no longer crave. My soul wants travel, art supplies, and movement. It wants Thailand—the motherland—and a simpler life. I’m listening to that whisper.
Are you living close to life, or drifting? What pulls you closer to your pulse?
