Ready or not, I will write about simplicity.

But are you ready to read words on simplicity by a woman who lives in a 7-bedroom farmhouse on four-and-a-half acres?

Because even if I explain that three of those bedrooms are on the third floor. That they don’t all have closets. That the ceilings slope against the eaves of the roof so that it is hard even to stand up in places; even then, I am describing abundance and not simplicity, aren’t I?

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Here is where you might expect me to say that simplicity is a matter of the heart. It’s what’s on the inside that counts!

I am not going to say that.

True simplicity does reach all the way into our hearts, but it is also very much about our stuff. Our houses. Our land. Our clothes and cars and gadgets and machines. Our credit cards and bank accounts and pantries. The number of bedrooms, the size of our kitchens, the bins stuffed with toys.

All of it.

Why did Jesus tell so many, so often to get rid of their belongings? To store up a very different kind of treasure?

He wanted us to live like flowers. Like birds. Free of everything that would weigh us down.

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It isn’t only my freedom at stake.

I recently found an old shirt in my closet. The label said Made in Bangladesh. I remembered the garment factory fire. I remembered how only a few months later, another garment factory collapsed. I wondered if the hands that had made this shirt were still alive, still sewing clothing for western consumers hungry for bargains. How had those hands suffered?

My desire for stuff, and the choices I make when I spend money have far-reaching implications.

You know this. I know this. But who has the time, the energy, the knowledge to make only perfect choices?

It’s all so complicated. So hopelessly complicated. When what I want is peace. What I want is simplicity.

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Of course, there is one easy answer. One simple way to begin: live with less.

Don’t buy it (even though it’s cheap). Give it away (even though I might need it some other day). Let it go (though I wonder who I am without this possession).

I think about letting go, and I suddenly remember something important. How could I have forgotten? It was letting go that led me here. Here, to this abundance of bedrooms and growing gardens.

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I let go of a career. I gave away the dream that had fueled my living for so long. I cast my bread upon the waters and what came back was the bread I longed to eat. The bread I could break over and over and give away: seven bedrooms (every one of which will be full this weekend) and ground to cultivate (food to eat, food to share) and words of life (my book coming to you next February).

So much wisdom on living in simplicity begins with giving stuff away. Clean out your closet, purge the toy bin, carry it all to the thrift store. Feel yourself breathe.

But I never understood. I am not a born minimalist. I like stacks of books (the more the better), I like pretty bits and bobs with sentimental value. I like knowing I can throw a party for a crowd with the contents of those three drawers.

Giving things away also felt like cheating. Isn’t it much harder to stop accumulating things than to give them away once I have?

But giving things away is like a muscle in need of exercise.

Give away the clothes, the toys, some books.

Give away the car, the job, the dream. Break the bread. Spill the oil. Keep giving until you wake up one morning and realize you have given away your life.

Because that is the morning you begin to live.

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