Bright Little Things:

How a $16 Impulse Buy Reinforced Mindful Living

(Two dozen brightly colored wooden clothespins light up a gray day)

I’m not a shopper.

If you’ve followed me here or anywhere else on social media, you already know this: I won’t step foot in a grocery store, and my visits to any other retailer are few and far between. One of the unexpected blessings of the Covid era was the rise of curbside pickup, a convenience I still gratefully rely on. Please make no mistake, my cupboards and refrigerator are always full. I meal-plan every Thursday or Friday, place my order online, and every Sunday at 7 a.m., drive the easy ten minutes from Charlestown into Westerly, where a Walmart employee loads my trunk as I sip my coffee. Off I go.

I’ve written before about minimalism and consumerism. I believe that stuff sits squarely between me and the divine, but that’s a post for another day. (Check out my archived piece, Less is More, at: https://bit.ly/44fuJAb)

Yesterday, I published another thought on the topic: Minimalism isn’t sacrifice. It’s choosing memories over merchandise.

When we booked these two weeks in St. Augustine, the oldest city in America, we imagined warmer, lighter days than the ones we left behind in Rhode Island. While we did get one glorious beach day flirting with 80 degrees, the rest has been raw, gray, and somewhat unwelcoming. (And no, I don’t expect any sympathy from the New Englanders reading this.)

We’ve filled the time well enough: fierce Scrabble matches, long stretches of quiet fiction reading, and simmering pots of comforting soup inside Nelly’s warm aluminum shell. We ventured into downtown St. Augustine with its eclectic shops, colonial architecture, museums, forts, and beaches. We shared dinner with old friends and witnessed the city’s breathtaking Festival of Lights, with over three million white lights draped over buildings, bridges, and palms. The tradition dates back to the city’s early Spanish settlers, who placed simple white candles in their windows during Christmastime. (If any of my Charlestown Planning Commission friends are reading this, let’s say St. Augustine is decidedly not dark-sky compliant.)

We’ve filled the time well enough: fierce Scrabble matches, long stretches of quiet fiction reading, and simmering pots of comforting soup inside Nelly’s warm aluminum shell.

Back to my aversion to shopping.

With two weeks here and the obvious activities checked off, what are two minimalists to do? Yes, we appreciate finely crafted furniture (Todd’s been a master carpenter for decades), beautiful art, and quality clothing—but we don’t long to possess them. And that’s a blessing, because when we’re not living inside Nelly’s 125-square-foot world, we’re back home in our equally compact 400-square-foot vintage cottage.

Yesterday, when the rain finally moved out, we returned to the historic district with a single destination in mind: an antique shop promising some treasure hunting. Because if there’s one kind of shopping we do enjoy, it’s vintage and antique browsing. We even have a simple side hustle on Facebook Marketplace: selling camping gear, wicker furniture, mirrors, jewelry, storage boxes, cookware, license plates, tools…we even once sold a Rolex watch. The profits go into our little bumble fund, which we use to…well…bumble.

After circling the block twice (St. Augustine parking is a sport unto itself), we finally ducked into Antiques and Things, a delightful maze of vintage jewelry, glassware, linens, and records. A $15 lace christening gown caught my eye; I imagined it hanging in my new studio, but I passed, knowing the one I stitched decades ago is more beautiful.

Then something else stopped me. A burst of color. Two small packs of flat, slotted wooden clothespins—painted in bright yellows, greens, reds, and blues. $16 total. Into my hand they went.

In my mind’s eye, I saw a long clothesline strung across my new studio, these little clothespins holding photographs, artworks, notes, even the garments I’ll create on my sewing machine.

Then something else stopped me. A burst of color. Two small packs of flat, slotted wooden clothespins—painted in bright yellows, greens, reds, and blues. $16 total. Into my hand they went.

On the surface, the purchase seems trivial. Impulsive. Unnecessary.

But to me, those two dozen vibrant clothespins are a declaration:
I choose mindful living. I choose sustainability. I choose intention.
Full stop.

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