The Suitcase of Shoes | What 13 Forgotten Pairs Taught Me About Want, Need and Happiness

I'm currently reading Less by Patrick Grant for my book club.

It's an excellent book. Thoughtful, provocative and, as it turns out, terribly timed.

We've just seriously decided to sell the house, which means every cupboard, drawer and forgotten corner is slowly being emptied. Donald disappeared upstairs this morning with the simple task of bringing down the old suitcases so we could take them to the charity shop.

There were about eight of them.

A few minutes later I heard my name.

Not shouted in alarm. More... in disbelief.

"Jordanna..."

Inside one of the suitcases were thirteen pairs of my shoes and boots.

Thirteen.

I stared at them as though someone had broken into the house and stored their own footwear in my loft.

I had absolutely no recollection of putting them there.

Worse than that, I hadn't noticed they were missing.

Patrick Grant spends much of Less asking us to think about the difference between wanting something and needing it. We live in a culture that has become remarkably good at blurring the two. We buy things because they promise a better version of ourselves. A different life. Better walks. Better holidays. Better parties. Better kitchens. Better skin. Better abs.

Every day another carefully targeted advert appears, gently whispering, "Perhaps this is the thing you've been missing."

Apparently, thirteen pairs of shoes weren't it.

The ridiculous thing is that every single pair would once have been something I wanted.

I imagine each purchase made perfect sense at the time.

Then life moved on.

The shoes went into a suitcase.

The suitcase went into the loft.

And I carried on quite happily without them.

Well... almost.

Because amongst the sensible shoes and long-forgotten boots was one pair that stopped me in my tracks.

Bright neon pink boots.

I bought them in America for seventeen dollars sometime before 2001.

They were outrageous.

I adored them.

I wore them endlessly.

The patent is cracked now. They've long since retired from active service. I have absolutely nowhere to wear neon pink boots these days, yet the moment I picked them up I smiled.

I remembered the trip.

I remembered the woman who thought buying bright pink boots was an entirely reasonable decision.

To be honest, she probably still thinks it was.

Those boots have earned their place.

Which made me realise that this isn't really a story about owning less.

It's a story about knowing the difference.

Some possessions quietly become part of our lives. They gather memories instead of dust. They remind us of people, places and earlier versions of ourselves. Their value has very little to do with what they cost.

Others simply accumulate.

That's the uncomfortable part.

Because while I've been reading Less and nodding along enthusiastically, I had thirteen pairs of forgotten shoes sitting in a suitcase above my head.

It's very easy to think these conversations are about other people.

The people endlessly buying parcels.

The people influenced by social media.

The people forever chasing the next thing.

Then your husband opens a suitcase.

Yoga has never asked me to own nothing. It has never suggested that happiness comes from deprivation or that beautiful things don't matter.

It has simply encouraged me to become a little more observant.

To notice.

To ask questions.

What am I looking for?

Will this genuinely add something to my life?

Or have I just confused wanting with needing?

I don't imagine I'll stop buying shoes altogether.

Although Donald may be hoping otherwise.

But I do wonder whether owning less has less to do with discipline than attention.

Perhaps the happiest life isn't built by endlessly adding more.

Perhaps it's built by noticing, and appreciating, what is already here.

Apart from the pink boots.

They're staying.