Space, Harry Potter, and Butter

The most obvious challenge to tiny home living is the physical space. A lifetime of living habits and possessions must suddenly be condensed into a 6x8 foot box. What can't shrink gets left behind. The things which make the cut generally have one thing in common: they can serve multiple purposes. This process of evaluation has happened over and over again in the past few days.

"What about this table?"

"Well, we could use it for cooking when we're standing behind the trailer, and we could also use it as a sitting desk inside the trailer." The table made it.

The trailer itself serves two purposes: a living space and and a cargo bay for a dirt bike. These two requirements ruled out almost every other trailer we considered: pop-ups can't haul bikes, cargo trailers don't have windows, etc. What we ended up purchasing is a 40-something year old Kampmaster camper. If you haven't heard of Kampmaster, you're not alone--apparently it's a local fabricator that made these types of campers for a few years several decades ago. It hails from Woodinville, Washington, not far from Seattle, and we are thankful that a small company many years ago predicted the needs of future millenials almost perfectly.

Along with our desire for multi-purpose objects, we are also seeking efficiency. We'll need to conserve many basic commodities: water, electric power, and even the weight we're carrying. I've never cared so much about the wattage of an LED bulb or the efficiency of a power inverter until now.

Overall, our needs are different from a typical RVer, camper, or even off-the-grid nomad. Unlike RVers, we don't require certain comforts: air conditioning and plumbing, for example. Unlike campers, we do require a relatively large amount of electricity. Since we're working remotely, we need the ability to power two laptops, a wireless router, a second monitor/TV, and our phones and gadgets. These unique circumstances means that we'll be experiencing an odd mix of habits--our work lives will be modern and well-connected, and our personal lives will be rustic. The powerhouse of the trailer is a solar setup (which cost more than the trailer itself) including a 100 watt panel, 400 watt solar generator (with built-in 33aH battery, inverter, USB output, charge controller, multimeter, etc) and a second deep cycle battery that will be chained to the solar generator. On sunny days, we might almost break even with our power consumption, but on many days we'll be running on a power deficit. We have a small gas generator to give us a little boost when we're low on power.

Other than our high-tech electronics, our belongings are standard camp essentials: a Coleman two-burner propane stove, an assortment of jerry-cans for water, a screen-house, and some comfy camp chairs.

Besides our scrutinous evaluation of equipment, we've been steadfast in projects to renovate and improve our little trailer home. In just a couple weeks, our hunk-of-junk has transformed into a cozy camping den. We've painted the interior, installed a pantry cabinet, installed a ceiling track light fixture and hung a low-watt LED string, and improved the environment by adding new curtains, a rug, and rear blinds. We've made the trailer road-ready with new wheels, tires, and hubs.

The more time I spend in the trailer, the more the space seems to expand. Sometimes when I step outside and look at the trailer exterior, I can't believe how small it looks--almost as if I was just inside a magical Weasley-esque tent that has been put under a spell to make it larger on the inside than the outside. This type of adaptation is just like any other human adaptation--first our expectations are violated, then we learn to accept a new idea or environment, our sense of what is normal changes, and our sense of satisfaction changes with it. I'm looking forward to many more expectations changing: how I spend my money, treat other humans and expect to be treated, how I spend my time, what food I put into my body.

In a time when society, especially in America, feels tenuous and on the verge of a crisis, I've never been so desperate to free myself from its norms and expectations. Clara and I both need this--it's no longer negotiable. Our space is small, but our hearts are bursting with anticipation.

I'd like to end with a quote from the film Room. After living his entire 5-year-old life as a prisoner in a backyard shed, little Jack experiences the rest of the world for the first time:

"There's so much of 'place' in the world. There's less time because the time has to be spread extra thin over all the places, like butter. So all the persons say 'Hurry up! Let's get going! Pick up the pace! Finish up now!'"

Like Jack, I agree there is so much "place" in the world, and time never seems like it's enough to cover it. So we're shrinking it down; ironically, so that we may throw open the doors to wider and better spaces--spaces which are not our own but are communal with all living things. In these spaces, there is enough time.