More Than a Minimalist: The Quiet Weight of Nostalgia
I’ve long identified as a minimalist, not just in how I live, but also in how I present myself. I appreciate clean spaces, quiet moments, and a clear sense of purpose. But that’s not the whole picture. I’m more than a minimalist.
I’m nostalgic, too.
Image: 1978 (I was 13). Our dog, named Dog, and I don’t remember the cat’s name.
From a young age, I found myself entranced by old photographs. Not for the obvious reasons, but because I could almost hear the stories whispering from the images. Each captured moment seemed like a frozen frame from a film I hadn’t seen but somehow knew by heart. This connection to the past, this quiet weight of nostalgia, is a beautiful thing. Perhaps that’s why I’ve always been drawn to history, to lives lived, memories layered, and the passing beauty of what was.
Image: 1966-67 - I remember, like a motion picture in my mind, this moment, my mother holding me. How weird to recall this from the attic of time.
It’s ironic, then, that as an adult, I’ve allowed so few photographs to be taken of me. Part of that is intentional. Part of it isn’t. And lately, I’ve started to wonder: is that selfish?
I don’t mean selfish in the “I need all the attention” kind of way; quite the opposite. I wonder if I’ve been selfish in withholding by not leaving enough snapshots of myself for those I love. What if someday, someone else wants to find a story in an image I’ve refused to allow? What if I’m robbing someone of a future memory, one that could spark the same wonder I used to feel when flipping through old photo albums?
Perhaps that’s my introversion speaking. Yes, despite what many of you might believe, I am an introvert. This aspect of my personality has often been a source of struggle and growth.
I know, I know. You might say, “Dann, that’s nonsense. You’re so outgoing. You’re always sharing stories, building things, speaking boldly online.” But let me tell you the truth: every time I step into the public eye, I do it through a veil of anxiety. I force myself into those spaces, not because they come naturally, but because I believe connection is worth the cost. My introversion doesn't stop me from seeking connection; it just makes the journey more challenging.
I’ve claimed to be sick before speaking engagements, not because I wanted to lie, but because the nerves made me feel physically unwell. And then afterward? Depression would crash over me like a rogue wave. I’d spend days trying to recover from what should’ve been a simple social interaction. I’ve joked before about being like Bobby Boucher from The Waterboy: “Bobby, you don’t have what they call… the social skills.” It hits home in a way I can’t explain.
But please don’t mistake me for naïve. I’m acutely aware. Sometimes painfully so. I overanalyze my body language, my tone, and my posture. Sometimes, it feels like I’m floating outside myself, watching it all unfold from the rafters. This introspective nature is a fundamental part of who I am, and it shapes the stories I share.
Lately, though, something is shifting. I’ve been listening to a young man on YouTube, Dan Koe, and following his work here on Substack. His voice is grounded, his message sharp. He talks about refining focus, about showing up consistently, about narrowing your aim to hit what matters most. And slowly, I’ve been seeing something strange and beautiful begin to form:
The nostalgia of the future.
The idea that what I’m doing now, the conversations I brave, the goals I pursue, the awkward small talk I survive, will one day be looked back on with warmth. Maybe even pride. The future itself is becoming nostalgic in advance.
Take this season on the homestead, for example.
We just finished picking raspberries; two full gallons. Blackberries too: five gallons of inky goodness, though they’re starting to grow a bit seedy this year. The last couple of gallons will ripen slowly and be gathered one day at a time, most of them going straight to the buck-bucks (our grateful chickens). And just over there, beneath the arbor, our muscadine grapes are swelling with promise. They’ll be ready soon. My father planted those from seed. He got to see the arbor completed, watching from the back porch in his wheelchair. He didn’t live long enough to taste the fruit, but he saw it. And that counts for something.
Image: 1980 (age 15) The hen who wanted to roost on my foot. I balanced myself on one leg for over ten minutes.
That memory alone is enough to take my breath away.
And spiritually, I feel that same tug. I have just finished reading "Meat for Men" by Leonard Ravenhill. Again, a book that never fails to wrestle my soul closer to God. Ravenhill reminds me to keep my edge sharp, to seek deeper prayer, and to remember that minimalism of lifestyle is not enough. I need to be maximalist in faith.
So here I am: a minimalist by nature, a nostalgic by wiring, and a recovering introvert trying to live honestly. But more than that, I'm on a journey of personal growth. I'm learning to show up, to share, to connect. And that's a journey worth taking.
I may not always know how to show up in a crowd. But I do know how to pick fruit. How to build arbors. How to capture memories in words, even if not in photos. And perhaps that’s my way of giving back what I’ve withheld.
Maybe one day someone will stumble upon my words like I once stumbled on old photographs…and find a story worth keeping. It's a reminder that we all leave a legacy, in our own ways. What will yours be?
By the way, chapter three of The King’s Man by my late father drops today at 1 PM on Royal Road. Click the blue colored title below to get started. It’s free to read.
Have a blessed day!
Dann
My Monomyth
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