I moved recently. Moving is essentially performing archaeology on your own life, and what I unearthed terrified me. Over 100 books — carried painstakingly back from Italy to Germany over various business trips — were finally released into public book boxes and hotel libraries. Sacks of old clothes, duplicate pots, plates, and endless “stuff” followed.
By the end, I was staring at a mountain of approximately 4 cubic meters of belongings that I had discarded. It is a staggering, shameful number. Much of it was still good, still wearable — and yet, I daren’t estimate how much of it will eventually choke a landfill. This mountain was the physical manifestation of my consumption.
The Vow
Driven by the shock of that mountain, I made a pact: a year of buying as little as possible. No clothes. No useless trinkets. No objects that exist merely to occupy space. I wanted to build an immunity to the constant urge to “have.”
Then spring arrived. And with it, my balcony project.
The Green Loophole (and the Crocs Trap)
When you attempt a “scientific experiment” on balcony self-sufficiency, you quickly realize that the industry has a plastic solution for every problem.
My balance sheet for the first quarter reads like a confession:
- The Hardware: 5 new planter boxes, 1 mini-greenhouse, and various starter pots.
- The Logistics: 2 pairs of fake Crocs (one for each balcony, so I don’t track soil through the apartment).
- The Life: A lemon tree I “had” to have, blueberries, blackberries, strawberries, lettuce, and celery. And 2 calendula.
- The Chemistry: 2 bottles of fertilizer — encased, of course, in plastic.
I try to justify it to myself: these planter boxes will last decades. If the plants die, they become compost. But the plastic remains. Even in a “green” hobby like gardening, it is nearly impossible to escape the polymer age.
Meet Limo the Lemontree with his two calendula friends. I am trying to cover his soil with other plants to slow evaporation.
The Garden Center Reflex
Walking through a garden center, I realize how deeply the consumer reflex is hardwired into me. The aisles are packed with “solutions” for problems you don’t actually have, designed to make you buy things you don’t actually need. I want to rescue every seedling, own every gadget, and fill every square inch.
But I am learning to resist. Instead of driving to the hardware store for a spade I would only use once, I asked my in-laws to borrow theirs. To dug one hole for the jasmine that has moved with me, and that will be using a dead hedge as a natural trellis. Sharing instead of owning — a small, vital victory against the impulse.
The Verdict on Q1: Quality over Quantity?
Paradoxically, my first quarter of “non-consumption” was as expensive as my previous years of clutter-buying. The difference lies in the substance. Instead of “junk,” I’ve invested in an infrastructure that I hope will feed me and my soul for years.
My goal for next year: reduce Q1 consumption to nothing but seeds.
The final piece of the puzzle is still missing: the famous worm bin. By turning my organic waste into “black gold” and liquid fertilizer, I hope to close the loop. If I can brew my own nutrients, I can stop buying plastic bottles of fertilizer entirely.
The experiment of self-sufficiency is, at its heart, an experiment in self-control. I am not yet where I want to be, but I am looking closer. In a world designed to seduce us into buying, “looking closer” is perhaps the most radical first step we can take.
Previously Published on substack
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