If St Francis of Assisi were alive in the world today, he might well be a consultant on the art of “minimalism”. I visited a minimalist home recently: no pictures on the walls, no decoration of any kind, no books visible. It was quite Franciscan, in a very chic way. There is a cleanliness and simplicity to minimalism which is harmonious.
I’ve been taking instruction from a new minimalist guru, who like many such advocates is Japanese. Fumio Sasaki’s instruction manuel is called Goodbye, Things. Fumio’s approach to minimalism isn’t just about style, or even the practicality of de-cluttering your life: it is also about the spiritual rewards of minimalism.
Minimalism aims at reducing possessions to “the absolute minimum you need” and “living with the bare essentials”. It not only makes your life tidier and more manageable: it makes you think about what is important. And “things” are not important.
Getting rid of “things” is freeing the spirit. Holding on to “stuff” distorts life, and gives you the false idea that material objects define your identity.
Give away the gifts you receive, he says: just keep the gratitude. We don’t have to keep material things to remember their meaning. There is more originality in owning less. Discard even that which brings you pleasure.
A little inconvenience can make us happier, writes Fumio. He got rid of all his bath towels – just keeping a simple Japanese hand towel, called a tenugui, for everything.
Minimalism is freedom. Possessions take up your time. Fewer possessions mean more time for contemplation – and happiness, too. Liberate yourself from greed! A life without possessions (or with very few) is a life of joy and satisfaction.
Fumio Sasaki’s advocacy of minimalism is not something I would find easy to practise, but it is a fascinating philosophy, deeply influenced by Zen Buddhism. It also calls to mind pristine convent conditions and the ideals of Christian monasticism. Even if we don’t reach freedom from material possessions, it’s encouraging to strive for a lifestyle with less “stuff”.
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The Rev Giles Fraser is an admirable Anglican priest who broadcasts on BBC Radio 4 and writes for the Guardian. Rev Giles has an unusual complaint: he is unhappy that each time he takes his wife out to dinner, the waiter presents him with the bill.
He doesn’t object to paying for his wife’s meal. But, as he’s been explaining on radio, he deplores the fact that the waiter assumes that whenever a man and a woman break bread together, the man foots the bill.
Rev Giles and I must be acquainted with very different waiters. Almost any time I have been in a public eaterie with a male person this year, I have signalled to the waiter and picked up the bill. Never has the waiter, or waitress, automatically placed l’addition with the chap.
Perhaps I look like one of those bossy older women to whom a command is the natural order. Perhaps Mrs Fraser looks like an exceptionally delicate damsel who deserves male protection. Perhaps different establishments vary in their attitudes towards ladies and gentlemen.
But I would put in this plea to the Rev Giles: if there are still some real gentlemen out there who are kind enough to pick up the meal check for a gal – please don’t discourage the practice.
Believe me, there’s many a female who is highly appreciative of being treated to dinner, and doesn’t at all mind if a waiter assumes that that is what a nice chap does. Don’t spoil the market!
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One restaurant not available to any diners this week is the Michelin-starred Aniar in Galway: the chef/owner J P McMahon has taken to shutting down his premises during the Galway races (first week in August) because of somewhat Hogarthian levels of public revelry.
Galway Races Week is “rag week for adults”, he says, with “abusive customers – drunk and disrespectful. People “p—ing and vomiting on the door”. He told the Irish Times that it was “beyond embarrassing” to be serving food to visiting North Americans while such wild behaviour went on.
The restaurant is in the same location as Galway’s famed “Solemn Novena”, which is packed to the gills every February …
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