That Which is Extremely Important

After my mother died, my dad lived alone in their giant house for a year.

One February day, he fell on ice in the driveway going to get the newspaper. He hit his head and ended up with a subdural hematoma. Thanks to brain surgery, he survived, but he was in a wheelchair in a nursing home for the rest of his life.

It’s a story about grace, actually.

My father was always so strong and stoic—those last six years, he learned how to let others care for him. He needed another human just to help him eat and go to the bathroom.

In the end, it was a miracle that he was plucked out of their home so we could clean it out. They had generations and generations of things in their garage and basement. We realized only later that it was a blessing he could not hover over us as we determined the fate of his woodworking tools, Duke Ellington records, my mom’s high heels and her jewelry. With him there, we never would have gotten the house cleaned out.

An auctioneer parked their giant box truck in the driveway, and his workers walked the loading ramp again and again, flipping pages on a clipboard as they catalogued my grandmother’s salt and pepper shaker collection, the wooden spinning wheel, my mother’s hoosier cabinet.

My learning: I don’t want to ever want to clean out a house like that again.

So, this week I started reading Essentialism: The Disciplined Pursuit of Less by Greg McKeown.

I was immediately drawn to the title as I saw it on the shelf.

What does it mean to focus on what is truly essential?

A maxim of the overall book: Less but better. What if we could have fewer things, and have it actually be better?

The author says essentialism is about making trade-offs. It's about not fitting everything in.

This means even meetings. And errands. And house projects.

It's about making trade-offs. I think I'm at a point in my life where I'm ready to stop packing it all in.

But what does that look like?

McKeown advises to sort through clothes and ask, “Do I love this? Do I look fabulous in it? Have I worn it frequently in the last year?” and if it’s not a yes to all three questions, setting them aside to be donated or sold.

What if we can ask about every things we have, everything on our to do list: “Do I love this? Does it bring joy or me to the world? Does this move my life forward?

And then keep it only if it’s a yes.

This kind of a process can be deeply empowering. Because it’s all about exploring what it looks like to be in control of our own choices.

In the end, my dad was not in control of his own choices. He could say no to the ice cream field trip, or whether he wanted to go listen to the Legendary Wicked Smart Horn Band fill the rec room on Sunday afternoon with notes. But that was about it. He couldn't decide what he wanted for lunch. He couldn't control another resident sneaking into his room to steal his eyeglasses. He couldn't decide when he wanted to see his grandchildren.

But during one of our visits, my son asked him, “Bapop, what is the favorite place you have ever lived?”

And my dad thought for a moment, and said, “Uh, this one I guess.”

We laughed at the simplicity of his answer. No, it wasn’t the farmhouse overlooking the pond. It wasn’t the other old house in Vermont with a well pump out front and an acre of raspberries in the back. It wasn’t the home with the great room where he shared the last 20 years with my mom. It was this one in the Veteran's Home, a tiny room with a half-wall divider and another veteran wheezing on the other side.

My dad's life had been whittled down to what is essential for someone who was 83 and in a wheelchair. All he needed at that point in his life was some regular food, water, a 17-inch TV set, and us coming to visit him now and then.

All of that brought him joy and moved his life forward.

What do you truly need in this life?

What do you deeply love? What brings you joy to you or the world? And what is moving your life forward?

That, my friend, is what is essential right now for the most essential you.