I read something in James Clear’s newsletter recently that has stayed with me ever since.
“The measure of a life is not what you consume, but what you contribute. Spend less time owning, consuming, taking. Spend more time giving, creating, making.”
I think it landed because I’ve already been wrestling with those very thoughts.
After months of remodeling, I inherited what used to be an artist’s studio. My goal is to turn it into my own creative sanctuary. I’ve even given it a name: Re’ of Light Studio, named after my granddaughter, Cirè, who was indeed a ray of light.
It feels fitting somehow.
As I’ve unpacked boxes shipped from California, sorted through decades-old art supplies, rediscovered forgotten treasures, and mixed them with the new supplies I’ve collected over the years, I’ve realized something a little embarrassing.
I’ve spent nearly a decade buying art supplies.
I’ve spent almost no time making art.
I don’t think that’s because I wasn’t interested. I think it’s because life got in the way.
Or maybe home did.
I’ve never been able to write at home. Home has always represented responsibility to me. Laundry. Bills. Phone calls. To-do lists. Things that need fixing. Somehow, my brain has never associated home with creativity.
Even though I’ve lived here for four years now, it still doesn’t quite feel like home.
I’m hoping this little studio changes that.
I’m hoping I walk through that door, and my mind understands we’re here to create not clean closets or answer emails. We’re here to paint. To write. To make something.
Anything.
The James Clear quote also arrived while I’ve been thinking about simplifying my life.
During the renovation, I got rid of an unbelievable amount of stuff. Boxes upon boxes. Yet somehow, it still feels cluttered.
I’ve become convinced clutter doesn’t just fill a house.
It fills your head.
Every drawer stuffed with things you “might need someday.” Every closet packed with clothes that don’t fit your body or your life anymore. Every stack of old papers you’ve been meaning to sort “one day.”
They all require energy. And these days, energy feels just as valuable as money.
I’ve also been seriously considering selling my rental properties.
Not because they’re bad investments. Because they’re expensive in a currency that matters more to me now.
Time.
Every repair call.
Every broken appliance.
Every difficult tenant.
Every unexpected problem.
They don’t just consume money.
They consume attention.
And attention is where life happens.
I’m beginning to understand that the only things of real value we have are our time and our health. Everything else is negotiable.
The older I get, the less I want to own and the more I want to experience.
I don’t need a bigger house.
Truthfully, I wouldn’t mind a smaller one.
Less overhead.
Less maintenance.
Less cleaning.
Less worrying.
More living.
Give me a beach and I’m perfectly content. The sand is free. The ocean is free. The sunset is free. Those have always been my favorite luxuries anyway.
I have clothes hanging in my closet that I absolutely loved. But I’ll never wear them again.
They belonged to a different version of me.
So why am I asking today’s version of me to keep carrying yesterday’s wardrobe?
Why do we have such a hard time letting go?
Maybe because our belongings become tiny museums of who we used to be.
The dress from that special dinner.
The shoes from the job we no longer have.
We think we’re holding on to things. Sometimes, the things are holding on to us.
Eight years ago, I stood in a theater and watched hundreds of people react to words that had once existed only in my head.
They laughed.
They nodded.
They thought.
A few probably went home and had uncomfortable conversations with their spouses. I’ll assume those conversations were overdue.
That night remains one of the most fulfilling experiences of my life.
Not because I sold tickets.
Not because I made money. I did not! But I didn’t lose any Tyler!
Because I contributed something.
I shared something I’d created.
That’s the feeling I’ve been chasing ever since.
Maybe that’s why James Clear’s words hit me so hard.
I don’t want to spend the next chapter accumulating more.
I want to spend it contributing more.
Writing more.
Painting more.
Creating more.
Giving more.
And giving doesn’t always mean writing a check.
Sometimes it means sharing your story.
Your talent.
Your encouragement.
Your time.
Your heart.
The older I get, the less interested I am in collecting possessions and the more interested I am in collecting moments where something I created made another human being laugh… or think… or simply feel a little less alone.
Maybe less really is more.
Less clutter.
Less obligation.
Less consuming.
More creating.
More sharing.
More living.
If that’s what this next chapter looks like, I think I’m finally heading in the right direction.
Third Act Truth: The second half of life isn’t about accumulating more. It’s about making more of what matters.
Question for my readers: What’s one thing you could let go of today that would make room for something you really want to create?