Dear Queenie,
I was doing so well. I had embraced minimalism. I was clearing cupboards, donating things I hadn't used in years and finally accepting that I did not need twelve towels, six unopened bottles of shampoo or enough canned food to survive the collapse of civilization. My home was becoming lighter. Then I watched The Last House on Netflix. Big mistake. I don't want to spoil anything for people who haven't seen it, but let's just say my peaceful minimalist brain has now been replaced by a woman who looks at an empty cupboard and thinks: "This is how we die." “I live on an island!” We have hurricanes. Ships get delayed. Supermarket shelves can empty. Electricity and water can go out. Suddenly my minimalist bathroom with one spare roll of toilet paper doesn't look serene. It looks irresponsible. I went to the supermarket recently for milk and found myself staring at canned goods wondering how many tins of tuna constitute "prepared" and at what point it becomes "bunker." Now I want batteries. Water. Canned food. Extra toiletries. Pet supplies. Medication. Flashlights. Possibly a generator. And I'm beginning to look suspiciously at every empty storage space in my house. My minimalist journey is in serious danger. Queenie, how do I prepare sensibly for island life and hurricane season without turning my spare bedroom into Cost U Less? —Minimalist Until Further Notice
Dear Minimalist Until Further Notice,
This is why Queenie sometimes recommends following a Netflix thriller with something involving cake. Your problem isn't that you've suddenly discovered hoarding. You've remembered geography. Living on an island does require a certain amount of preparedness. Hurricane season is real. Supply chains can be disrupted. Power and water can be interrupted. And after a serious storm, the ability to comfortably announce: "I only own what brings me joy" may diminish considerably when the one flashlight that brought you joy has dead batteries. But preparedness and stockpiling are not the same thing. Preparedness says: "What would my household reasonably need if normal services were interrupted for a period?" Anxiety says: "BUY ALL THE BEANS." Don't let anxiety do the shopping. Make a hurricane supply list based on actual guidance and the number of people and animals in your household. Decide how much water, non-perishable food, medication, batteries, hygiene products and other essentials you realistically need. Buy that amount. Then stop. Better yet, make your emergency supplies part of your normal household rotation. Eat the canned food before it expires and replace it. Use the batteries. Rotate the bottled water. Keep enough toiletries to get through a disruption without owning a five-year supply of toothpaste. Minimalism was never supposed to mean owning as little as humanly possible. At its most useful, it means being intentional about what you keep. On Sint Maarten, hurricane supplies have a purpose. The decorative basket containing 47 hotel shampoos you stole from vacations in 2013 probably does not. So you don't have to choose between being a minimalist and being prepared. You can be both. Create one designated emergency area. Stock it sensibly. Check it before hurricane season. Then close the cupboard. And perhaps stay away from disaster programmes for a while. Because if the next Netflix series involves a global food shortage, I don't want to receive another letter asking Queenie whether you need to plant cassava in the living room. —Queenie
