I'm often ungrateful. Quick to complain when my body lets me down; when it's tired, aches, or can't reach its toes. Overlooking all that it does for me every day of my life - including staying alive. This incredible body that I take for granted lets me fly across our local rocky beaches, where others stumble and wince while searching for footholds.
At the ripe old age of 31 my joints ache and crackle. This afternoon I caught myself taking a slight detour to avoid five wobbly stone steps in the park. I get headaches and I feel tired most days. This is not what I want my health to be like in my thirties, let alone forties, fifties and onwards. Over the past few months I have been re-reading many of my favourite books and reading new favourites for the first time. I have been enjoying the summer, watching new chapters of my life open wide, and watching new chapters opening for those I love. I have felt ideas simmering away, ideas that are finally bursting to be let free.
When my wife and I began living together my understanding of minimalism was that it was very nice but something for other people. People who didn't want many things. I understood it as binary; either you were a natural minimalist, or you weren't. And I wasn't.