The Lightness of Enough
That was just what you did.
You bought a home. You filled it with things. You maintained those things. And then, apparently, you bought more things.
I don’t think that way anymore.
And I don’t think there was one particular day when I suddenly decided I didn’t need any of it. It happened gradually.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking about where I was eventually going to settle.
Actually, I stopped thinking that I needed to settle at all.
Now I can walk into a beautiful house for a pet sit and think, Wow, this is really nice.
And then I live there.
For two weeks. A month. Sometimes longer.
I sit on the porch. I drink my tea. I watch the birds. I use the kitchen. I enjoy the view. For that little period of time, it’s home.
And then I leave.
And I’m perfectly okay with leaving.
Maybe that’s the part that surprises people.
Because I don’t walk away thinking, Oh, I wish this were mine.
I walk away thinking, That was really nice.
And then there’s almost this little feeling of relief because I don’t own it.
The roof isn’t mine.
The refrigerator isn’t mine.
The taxes aren’t mine.
The lawn isn’t mine.
Whatever breaks next isn’t mine either.
I got to enjoy all the good parts, and then I got to leave.
There’s something pretty wonderful about that.
I don’t have to own something to appreciate it.
And I think that’s one of the biggest things that has changed for me.
For a lot of my life, I probably thought happiness was supposed to be attached to something permanent.
Now so much of what makes me happy is temporary.
A pet sit.
A cruise cabin.
A hotel room.
A little apartment somewhere.
A porch in the woods in Kentucky.
They’re all home.
Just not forever.
And I’m perfectly fine with that.
Actually, I think I like knowing that they’re not forever.
Because when one thing ends, there’s something else coming.
Another house.
Another ship.
Another place.
Another conversation.
Another story.
I’ve realized that I really like that feeling.
Some people might find that unsettling. They want to know where they’re going to be six months from now or a year from now.
I don’t necessarily need that anymore.
I know this is going to end.
And rather than making me sad, it usually makes me wonder what’s next.
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I’ve also always been pretty content.
I like my own company.
I don’t need to have something going on every minute of every day. I don’t need a calendar filled with people and activities.
Actually, I don’t want one.
Give me my tea in the morning.
A book.
A walk.
A movie.
A conversation.
A cat sleeping somewhere nearby.
Birds outside.
I’m good.
I can sit by myself for hours and never feel lonely.
I think there’s a difference between being alone and being lonely, and I’ve never had much trouble being alone.
I like quiet.
I think I need quiet.
And maybe that’s part of why this lifestyle works so well for me.
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I’ve also figured out that too much of a good thing is still too much.
I love Disney.
I don’t want to go to Disney every day.
I love cruising.
But if I cruised every single day of the year, at some point I would probably want to get off the ship and sit on a porch somewhere.
I love creating things. I love taking pictures. I love making videos. I love writing down stories.
But I don’t want every single thing I do to become content.
Sometimes I just want to do it.
I don’t need a picture of every meal.
I don’t need a video of every place.
I don’t need proof that I was there.
I was there.
I remember it.
That’s enough.
And I think retirement has given me permission to do more of that.
Not everything has to be productive.
Not everything has to turn into something.
Sometimes you can just enjoy your day.
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And then there are the things.
Possessions.
I don’t think possessions are bad. I had plenty of them.
But things come with jobs.
You have to store them.
Clean them.
Fix them.
Insure them.
Organize them.
Replace them.
Move them.
And the more things you have, the more things you have to think about.
At some point I realized that I really didn’t want more.
Because more wasn’t just more stuff.
More was more responsibility.
And I didn’t want the responsibility that came with it.
That’s probably why I look at wealth very differently now.
Having more time feels wealthy to me.
Having freedom feels wealthy.
Being able to leave somewhere without worrying about everything I’m leaving behind feels wealthy.
Having very little that I have to take care of feels wealthy.
So when I say less is more, I don’t mean I’m sacrificing something.
It doesn’t feel like sacrifice at all.
I simply don’t want what comes attached to more anymore.
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People sometimes wonder how we travel the way we do without having a home base.
But I do have a home.
It’s just not an address.
Home is whatever I bring with me.
My routines come with me.
My books come with me.
My tea comes with me.
Roger comes with me.
I come with me.
And somehow I create this little bubble wherever I am.
It can be a cruise cabin.
It can be somebody else’s house.
It can be a hotel room.
It can be a little apartment halfway around the world.
The scenery changes, but my little bubble really doesn’t.
And I’m comfortable inside it.
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I think one of the biggest changes I’ve noticed is what happens when I see a beautiful house or a beautiful neighborhood.
Years ago, I might have looked at it and wondered what it would be like to live there.
Maybe there was even a tiny bit of, Wouldn’t it have been nice if…
I don’t do that anymore.
I can look at a beautiful house and think it’s beautiful without wanting it.
I can stay somewhere wonderful and not wish I could stay forever.
I can enjoy something temporary without thinking temporary somehow makes it less.
Maybe it actually makes me appreciate it more.
Because I know I’m leaving.
So I notice it.
I enjoy it.
And then when it’s time, I go.
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I’ve learned the same thing in a different way with people.
I don’t have to carry everybody else’s mood.
That took some learning.
If somebody I love is having a bad day, I can love them and still have a good day.
I can care about what they’re going through without making it mine.
That doesn’t mean I don’t care.
It means I’ve learned that my peace doesn’t have to disappear because somebody else’s has.
And that has made life lighter too.
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At this stage of my life, I don’t find myself wanting more.
I think what I want is enough.
Enough adventure.
Enough quiet.
Enough money.
Enough health to keep walking and seeing things.
Enough time.
Enough people I love.
Enough things to look forward to.
And enough space in between all of it to just be.
Maybe that’s what abundance looks like to me now.
Not having everything.
Having enough.
I don’t measure my life by what I own anymore.
I think I measure it more by how little I need in order to be happy.
And maybe that’s one of the best things retirement has given me.
Not just freedom from going to work every day.
Freedom from thinking I need something else in order to be content.
Because wherever I go, there I am.
My tea.
My books.
My routines.
My little bubble.
And sooner or later, another door opens, another ship sails, another house becomes home for a little while, and another story starts.
At 67, I still have goals, I still have things I want to do and places I want to see. But I've realized that deciding enough is enough can be a goal too.
That’s enough for me.
