Ruminations on a complex life

Aweh, My Dearly Beloved Fellow Ruminants & Groupies

We return to Johannesburg from our holiday home in Southbroom tomorrow to start the 2025 year in earnest. It promises to be at least as complex as 2024. I just took the featured photograph from the table where I am writing this blog. We had a full house with my mother-in-law, our boys, and their girlfriends. There was much laughter, sunburn, and spirited conversations at the dinner table. There were also numerous visits to the hospital but that is perhaps too much information.

We bought this house in 2001 from my father-in-law, who passed away a week shy of his 93rd birthday in 2019. The story behind why we bought the house is a bit complicated. I never really wanted a holiday house—and perhaps I still don’t. If you don’t understand why we’ve kept the house for over 20 years, you’re not alone. I’m not sure I understand it either. I’m simply not one of those simpletons who always know exactly what they want.

Do I want it all, or do I aspire to minimalism? Both, as it turns out. Yesterday, I bought two new six-button remotes after discovering that leaving one in my pocket for a spin in the washing machine wasn’t exactly beneficial. Remotes prefer to stay dirty.

After a wonderful beachfront lunch with Nerine, I spent the rest of the afternoon watching YouTube videos on how to program the remotes to their receivers. There was also a fair amount of cursing, as each receiver had its own maddening procedure. One ancient receiver didn’t even have a tutorial and required an old-school phone call to a help desk. Finally, it was done. It was complex.

How do you measure the complexity of your life? Let’s propose a simple measure: how many keys do you own? And by “keys,” I also mean remotes—because technology has blurred the lines. Let’s call them keymotes for simplicity.

Each keymote opens a door, starts a car, turns on a TV, or arms an alarm. Each one unlocks not just physical spaces but realms of responsibility, obligation, and, dare I say, existential dread. We have hundreds of keymotes.

Now imagine becoming a solitary monk with no keymotes—just a single, sparsely furnished room. A simple life. Could this be bliss? No interruptions. No YouTube tutorials. Just quiet contemplation to unravel the mysteries of the universe.

But let’s also spare a thought for the ever-increasing number of beggars on our street corners, barely subsisting. They have keymote simplicity, sure—but not a life anyone would aspire to.

Every year, I resolve to simplify my life, but so far, progress has been poor. More keymotes, not fewer. We have boxes of them. Some don’t work, some I have thrown away, but I keep many of them “just in case.”

Then there are the mysterious keys whose locks I’ve long forgotten. Relics of a bygone era. Are they metaphors for forgotten dreams and aspirations that once seemed so vital? Or were they just keys to an old gym locker? Who’s to say?

And let’s not forget the tiny key to our mailbox, stolen and never replaced. Relying on the postal service in South Africa is like sending a WhatsApp to a landline.

I often dream of a life without clutter—a pristine space free of tangled cords, forgotten gadgets, and boxes of old junk. But the truth is, I’m too lazy to sort through everything. If it’s in a box or on a shelf it can just stay there. Is there virtue in letting go of the things that no longer serve us—even if it’s just a dusty key to an unknown lock?

Is simplicity complicated? The fewer things we own, the more intentional we must be about what remains. And yet, the more we own, the more chaotic life feels. Maybe the secret isn’t in having nothing or everything—it’s in learning to be content with what fits in your pocket. As long as you don’t forget to take it out before doing the laundry.

Of course, not all keymotes are physical. Our phones have become the ultimate master key—unlocking everything from emails and bank accounts to playlists and home alarms. Yet, for something designed to simplify life, they mostly just keep us tethered to chaos and an endless stream of notifications. One minute you’re unlocking your gate, and the next, you’re doomscrolling through news that makes you wish you’d stayed locked out altogether. Maybe the true challenge isn’t how many keymotes we have, but how much control we’ve handed over to them.

So, do we chuck the old keymotes, go full-on minimalist, or just embrace the chaos? Perhaps it’s about finding some middle ground—keep the keys that open joy, ditch the ones that lock you into bullshit, and make peace with the junk drawers. Or not. Life is complicated. Get used to it. Hope that all makes sense. If not have a drink or go for a walk on the beach.

Until next time, may your keys always find their locks, and your locks always open to something worth the trouble.

Regards,

Bruce