Less is More

Today we are in Fredericksburg babysitting. If I'm not mistaken this is our second, wait - maybe our third babysitting event. But as I sit here and write today, I'm more affected by my dog Amos than the lessons that I'm sure I will learn from babysitting. (There are no babysitting lessons as of yet because the little one is still asleep and has been since her parents left.)

The thing I notice about Amos today is: he is so comfortable on the carpet in this new environment. So comfortable in fact that he is passed out asleep behind me. Me on the other hand, I'm sitting on a little red chair at the computer station in the corner because among other things this chair used to be ours, (we gave it to my in-laws some months back). It is the only thing that is reminisce of my home, my sanctuary, my place of rest. Not to mention we still have the twin chair back at home (at our computer station) so I really can't tell any difference. My comfort level stems from what is known, and typically what I see as mine.

For Amos this is not the case, he's truly at home anywhere. Why? I assert it's because he has nothing. (except a soccer ball, which technically is mine because I had to buy it from my brother when Amos ruined it on a trip to my parents house). Amos was a stray before we adopted him and though I am sure he feels like our apartment is his home now, he is equally at home in a hotel room or the red carpet of my in-laws family room. It seems to me that he really does think everything is his: visitors always come to see him, crumbs that hit the floor are for him, and any squirrel we ever see on a walk is for him.

"Less is more" is a phrase I utter regularly and an idea I think about all the time. Amos (our dog) has nothing and thus in one sense has everything (ie: the floor he now lies on is his.) Once again serving as the comparison I have some things, at least enough to make me prefer a red chair at the computer station because it feels like home.

I suppose the relationship between "less is more" is also inversely true, "more is less." At the house I grew up in, the neighbor behind us had a speed boat. It lived behind the little fence that was built around it. I never saw the boat hitched to a truck. All I know is once every few months our neighbor would walk outside and start the engines up and let them run for an hour or so. Since all things are subject to decay, occasionally the day would come when engines would not start. The boat would get repaired only to resume its quarterly runnings. Still, I never noticed it out being used. (In hind-sight I'm sure that the boat did get used, but as I was an outdoor kid with 3 tree forts within view of the boat's yard, I can honestly say in the 11 years we lived there I never saw it gone from its home behind the fence).

I recall asking my dad (who ironically enough designs and builds boats for a living), how come the neighbors have a boat which they do not use, and we do not have a boat even though we would use it all the time? (To my childish thoughts, we had all the time in the world to enjoy a boat). My father, as he often did, had a little tid-bit of advice which to this day I still have never forgotten. "The more you have, the more you have to take care of." And like all of the advice he imparted during those "growing up" years, it still stands true.

And while I feel tempted to try to carry this commentary in any number of directions to express really deep thoughts and try to make you think I'm an incredibly insightful person and a deep thinker I must digress. After all: less is more. But I will say this: I find myself increasingly grateful for a Father's wisdom, familiar red chairs, and dogs who have it all.