It was 3 AM on a Tuesday, and I was hobbling around my 450-square-foot studio in the dark, trying to find a glass of water without waking up my entire nervous system. Then it happened. My pinky toe met a cluster of dusty amethyst cathedrals I’d staged on the floor because my shelves were already overflowing. The pain was sharp, immediate, and oddly clarifying. I sat on the edge of my bed, nursing my foot, looking at the shadows of twenty-five different 'sacred' objects crammed into a corner, and realized my sanctuary had become a storage unit for spiritual guilt.
When my awakening first hit two years ago, I went into a frantic acquisition mode. Everything felt so loud and new that I thought I needed every antenna possible to tune the signal. If a YouTuber mentioned a specific crystal for grounding, I bought it. If a podcast suggested a brass bell for clearing energy, it was in my cart before the episode ended. I was living in a forest of ritual objects, yet I felt more cluttered than ever. My studio isn't just where I sleep; it’s where I draw, eat, and now, where I try to make sense of this weird internal shift. In 450 square feet, every object has a psychic weight. By mid-winter, that weight was starting to feel like lead.
The Year of More is More
For the better part of a year, I operated under the assumption that a 'good' spiritual practice required a visual resume. My altar was a sprawling 1.5-square-foot floating shelf that eventually bled onto the floor and the windowsills. I had oracle decks I hadn't touched in months, three different types of sage (which I later learned was a bit problematic anyway), and enough rose quartz to start a small quarry. I thought these items were holding space for me. In reality, they were just collecting dust and making me feel like I was failing at some invisible curriculum.
I’d look at the shelf and think, 'I haven’t lit that green candle for abundance in weeks. Does that mean my freelance work is going to dry up?' or 'If I put this rose quartz in a drawer, am I telling the universe I don't want love, or am I just tired of dusting it?' It was exhausting. The objects weren't tools anymore; they were chores. They were physical manifestations of 'clutter-blindness,' where you stop seeing the sacredness because you’re too busy navigating the mess.
The January 12th Realization
Everything changed on January 12th. I was sitting at my desk, trying to finish a series of botanical illustrations, and I kept glancing over at the altar shelf. It was so busy. There were twenty-five distinct items competing for my attention—crystals, feathers, coins, old tea leaves. I realized the visual noise of those objects was actually drowning out the quiet internal signal I was trying to hear. It’s hard to listen to your intuition when your eyes are constantly processing 'stuff.'
I remembered reading about the Japanese concept of Ma—the idea that the space between things is just as important as the things themselves. In my art, I knew this. Negative space allows the subject to breathe. Why wasn't I applying that to my spirituality? I was so afraid of 'losing the connection' that I was suffocating it with props. I decided right then that the shelf needed to be stripped bare. I needed to see if the 'volume' of my practice would stay up if the volume of my room went down.
The Purge: From 25 to 3
The process was surprisingly emotional. I spent the next few weeks—from mid-January through March 15th—slowly auditing every single item. I held each crystal and asked if it actually helped me feel grounded or if I just liked the way it looked in a Pinterest photo. Most of them were just... rocks. Beautiful rocks, sure, but they weren't the source of my awakening. I was.
I ended up removing 22 items from that 1.5-square-foot shelf. I gifted the amethysts to a friend who is just starting her own journey, tucked the oracle decks into a drawer, and composted the dried flowers that had turned into grey crumbles. By the time I was done on April 10th, I was left with exactly three things. Just three.
- A Willamette river stone: I found this on a walk during a particularly hard week. It’s grey, smooth, and fits perfectly in the center of my palm.
- One beeswax candle: No fancy scents, no 'money-drawing' glitter. Just the smell of honey and the sound of a steady flame.
- A single blank sketchbook page: This changes daily. Sometimes it has a word on it, sometimes a doodle, sometimes it’s just white space. |
The difference was immediate. There is something incredibly grounding about simplicity. I’ve found that grounding techniques for sensitive creatives often work better when there are fewer distractions. During my morning silence, I hold that river stone. I love the smell of beeswax and the rough, cool texture of a grey river stone held in my left palm during morning silence. It feels real. It feels like Portland. It doesn't feel like a performance.
The Angle: The Case for the Impermanent Altar
Here is the thing I’ve discovered that most spiritual guides don't mention: altars can become stagnant. We build these little shrines and then they just... sit there. They become part of the furniture. We stop noticing them. When I reduced my altar to three items, I realized the power wasn't in the permanence of the setup, but in the intentionality of it.
I’ve started practicing what I call 'impermanent altars.' Instead of having a dedicated, permanent space that stays the same for months, I let the space evolve with my needs. Sometimes, my 1.5-square-foot shelf is completely empty for three days. That emptiness is its own kind of prayer—a way of telling the universe I’m ready to receive something new, rather than clinging to what I’ve already found.
If I’m working through a specific creative block, I might place a single pencil and a jar of water there. If I’m following a moon reading creative schedule, I might place a bowl of salt on the shelf for the duration of the full moon, and then immediately wash it away the next morning. This keeps the energy moving. It prevents that 'stagnant energy' or 'clutter-blindness' that minimalist philosophy warns us about. When the altar only exists for the duration of the ritual, it stays sacred. When it’s always there, it’s just another surface to dust.
Making Room for the 'Lung'
By the time April 20th rolled around, my studio felt like it had finally taken a deep breath. It’s funny—I thought removing 22 items would make the room feel empty or cold. Instead, the 'volume' of the room actually increased. The negative space acts like a lung for my daily practice. I can sit on my cushion and not feel like I’m being crowded by the expectations of twenty different crystals.
I still have my moments of doubt. I see a beautiful deck of cards at a shop in SE Portland and I feel that old itch to buy it, to add 'just one more thing' to my spiritual toolkit. But then I remember the 3 AM toe-stubbing incident. I remember the weight of the dust.
If you're living in a small space and feeling overwhelmed by your 'spiritual stuff,' I invite you to try the purge. You don't need twenty-five items to be 'awake.' You don't even need three. You just need enough room to sit with yourself without tripping over your own tools. Sometimes, the most spiritual thing you can do is clear the shelf and see what happens when you leave a little room for the silence to move in.