Talking about minimalist purchases may seem ironic to some people. The best minimalist purchase, these people might argue, is no purchase at all. But I think that purchases and minimalism are two sides of the same coin.
How?
Our purchases unveil our relationship with stuff, and talking about them makes this relationship visible. It’s like a radar scanner: minimalist purchases (things that add value) strike a signal because they resonate with us, while dead clutter won’t appear on the radar. And so, having this clear distinction of our items — dead vs. alive — not only helps us appreciate the things we already have but also stops us from buying stuff we don’t need.
With that in mind, here are five minimalist purchases that have supplied me with an endless well of clarity. It’s not that I think you should buy these things. Rather, it’s an invitation to scan your own stuff for value and filter out the clutter.
The Box of Emotions
I bought this at the Moderna Museet, the modern art museum in Stockholm. At the time I was, as so often, a bit lost in life. A few months before, I had returned from my failed attempt to become a digital nomad and had no clue what to do next. Ironically, I thought traveling through Northern Europe would be a great idea. The result? I fell into an existential crisis that gushed up many feelings I didn’t understand.
Enter The Box of Emotions.
It’s a set of 80 cards with beautifully visualized emotions grouped into categories like emptiness, ego, and bliss. (I make this sound like cheap sales copy, but (un)fortunately, they didn’t pay me for saying this.) For instance, one card might be about despair: the front shows an abstract boulder rolling down an incline, while the back explains the etymology and philosophy of the emotion.
I sit down with the box every few days or whenever I have an emotional crisis. And then, using the cards, I do something that I neglected for most of my life: I genuinely try to scrutinize my feelings. As in: What am I feeling? What exactly makes me feel this way? What does this feeling actually feel like? Did I confuse this feeling with a different emotion?
So, if you will, this is a minimalist way to deal with emotions: it’s the act of understanding the value of a feeling without attaching additional layers of clutter to it. Clarity ensues.
Ink
It has become a ritual.
In the evenings, I try to carve out some time to sit down with my journal, a tiny inkwell, and the fountain pen my grandfather gifted me many years ago. Then, I either lay down all the things that have troubled me or use a few journaling prompts to explore the subterranean depths of my mind. Now, this setup comes with a few pitfalls: it takes some finicky fiddling to transfer the ink from the well into the pen, and my fingertips look like a crime scene afterward. Certainly, using a ballpoint pen would be much quicker, much cleaner.
But would it really?
Here’s the thing: it’s the ink’s inconvenience that makes this ritual so enchanting. There’s something soothing about slowing down before surrendering my thoughts on paper, watching the ink ooze from the well into the cartridge, and finally unleashing it onto the page.
Minimalist purchases aren’t just about efficiency. They’re also, to a large extent, about discovering beauty in the ordinary.
A (Reading) Lamp
Although I’m a big defender of e-books, I recently returned to reading physical copies. Because let’s face it: real books add a layer of intimacy, sensitivity, and connection that e-readers simply can’t provide. It’s about the physical pages: their sound when flipped, their chocolate-woody scent, the canvas they provide for notes and highlights. The only catch? Since I do most of my reading at night, the lack of lighting is a buzzkill.
Luckily, though, I found a solution.
One day, while browsing fresh reads in my local bookstore, I found a tiny yet powerful clip-on reading lamp for roughly $25. It gives me the best of both worlds: I can emulate the e-reader’s lighting while keeping the book’s intimacy. Using this lamp, I wolfed down entire books in a single night. (Whether that’s a benefit or downside, I haven’t decided yet.)
This lamp also made me realize how crucial lighting is for our well-being in general. Light makes things seen. It illuminates dark corners. Rooms can take on an entirely new personality purely by tweaking the lighting, desks can provide unprecedented clarity by using a proper lamp, and books are the most satisfying to read in bright sunlight.
Small life lesson: Seeing a situation in a new light can make all the difference.
A Futon
I already dedicated a separate article to this, but abandoning a traditional bed and switching to a futon has got to be one of the most clarifying purchases I ever made.
This has several reasons.
For starters, my room is small. So small, in fact, that a double-sized bed would take up over a third of the room. Throw a desk and a closet in there, and the room can get really packed really quickly. But the great thing about futons is that you can roll and fold them. I usually bend mine in half and convert it into a sort of burrito couch, leaving enough space to dance, do yoga, and think.
What’s more, I sleep better. Rolling and unrolling the futon creates a ritual around going to bed and getting out of it. Sleeping so close to the floor feels literally grounding. Plus, I no longer get tempted to slouch on my bed, drown in YouTube shorts, and take unexpected naps that make me forget my entire identity.
And so, my futon ticks about all the boxes of what I consider a minimalist purchase: clarity, added value, and aesthetics.
A Coffee Grinder
This is where we come full circle.
Shortly after visiting the Moderna Museet (where I bought The Box of Emotions), I visited the city of Malmö. It was in Malmö that I discovered a coffee shop that would completely change the way I think about coffee — and any type of indulgence. “Wow, this is coffee?” I thought, audibly slurping my cup, “That’s illegally delicious.”
Later that day, I bought a bag of light-roast beans that I took all the way home to Germany, staying committed to the idea that I would learn how to prepare this coffee in the best way possible. And that’s what I did. After diving down the coffee scene’s infinite rabbit hole for weeks, I eventually bought a V60 coffee dripper and a hand grinder with stainless steel burrs.
Ever since coffee has become one of my favorite pastimes.
But here comes the best part: I truly started appreciating every single cup of coffee. Sure, all the grinding and pouring take extra work. But similarly to filling my pen with ink, it’s about grasping the process of what I’m doing. It’s about celebrating the extreme luxury of coffee — all the way from where the beans came from and how they were roasted to which grind size I choose and how I extract the flavor.
Coffee has stopped being something I grab, gobble, or get with the push of a button. Instead, I get involved in the process. I get my hands dirty. I have to work for it. And the reward is priceless: a perfectly brewed cup of coffee.
What These Minimalist Purchases Have in Common
It took me a long time to realize this, but there’s a hidden theme among these minimalist purchases. They bring me closer to the true essence of my actions, whether that’s feeling, sleeping, reading, writing, or savoring. They make me feel less estranged — not only from myself but also from the world around me. They’re antidotes to alienation.
Ultimately, I think that’s what makes minimalism so appealing in the first place. It makes us stop and think, “Why do I need this? How does it provide value in my life?” It strips away the clutter that makes us feel numb and mute. It provides space to build genuine relationships with people and items we care about.
As a result, the clarity doesn’t just come from these minimalist purchases. It also comes from the relentless procedure of excluding clutter.
A clear signal remains.
Check out my previous post in this series:
6 Minimalist Purchases That Bought Me a Little Bit of Happiness