One night, a couple of years ago, my phone was stolen during a night out with my friends. Trying in vain to track its location the following day, I was overwhelmed with a feeling that a piece of me was missing.
An actual blank page needn’t announce itself—it’s merely blank. Likewise for a simple life—it’s simple not because it reports to be, but because of what’s there, and what isn’t.
18 months ago, I didn’t know what minimalism was. Sure, I’d experienced minimal music, visual art, and fashion, or perhaps I’d used the term a few times in a work context.
I’m a guitar hoarder from the Baby Boom generation. I grew up in the Beatles era when everyone played guitar and formed garage bands, trying to sound like the Ventures, Rolling Stones, or The Who.
As the day begins to wind down with the sun giving off its last light, I finish up what I’m doing and leave it on the desk for another day.
Earlier this month, I re-downloaded Instagram to upload a video of my daughter. I soon regretted it.
An actual blank page needn’t announce itself—it’s merely blank. Likewise for a simple life—it’s simple not because it reports to be, but because of what’s there, and what isn’t.
One night, a couple of years ago, my phone was stolen during a night out with my friends. Trying in vain to track its location the following day, I was overwhelmed with a feeling that a piece of me was missing.
18 months ago, I didn’t know what minimalism was. Sure, I’d experienced minimal music, visual art, and fashion, or perhaps I’d used the term a few times in a work context.