top of page
Writer's pictureMichele Koh Morollo

In defence of small dwellings

Updated: Apr 11

How living in small spaces can improve your life, and increase mental discipline.



When I was a student in London, I lived for three years in a 90-square-foot (8.36-square-meters) bedsit. This bedsit was part of a multi-room flat above a kebab shop, which a landlord rented to seven student tenants including myself. Mine was the tiniest of all the units. Within it was a single bed with metal frames, a small desk, a bookshelf made of wooden slats, a teeny wardrobe, an old, cramped shower and toilet with lichen clogged faucets, and a “kitchenette” with a mini fridge, a microwave with a single hot plate for cooking on top, and a wall mounted cabinet with just enough space to store a jar of instant coffee, a tin of sugar, and a bag of cereal. There were no windows and hardly any air movement.


When I invited my friends over, they’d look at me with a mixture of pity and horror. Today, when they recall their visits to my London student abode, they shudder, referring to it as “the prison cell”.


I had ended up here because I was late paying the deposit on my university’s room and board, and realized, two weeks before I left my family and their five-bedroom, four-level bungalow in Singapore for London, that I did not have a place to stay.

I had no money and was relying on the charity of my good father for housing, and living allowances as a student. I told him about my predicament and we went online to look for rental properties in the vicinity of Elephant and Castle, where my school was located. My father — wise and economical man that he is — picked the cheapest option. In retrospect, I realised that my his frugality is one of the main reasons he managed to save enough to build our very comfortable and spacious family house in Singapore. I had no choice but to comply.


In my second year at school, I had the option of finding a larger place if I wanted to, but I decided to stay on in my little hovel, which had by now become my sanctuary and, yes, my home.


If I was in front of the computer at my desk and I needed to get a book from the shelf, all I had to do was remain seated in my Ikea office swivel chair equipped with rollers, rock myself a few times to gain momentum, then take two big glides across to the bookshelf. I had a laptop, which doubled up as my home entertainment system. My bed, which was placed against a wall, was also my sofa. When it was time for supper, I would move my laptop aside and eat at my desk — quite often a prepackaged ham and cheese sandwich, a bag of salt and vinegar crisps, and a Galaxy chocolate muffin purchased from the Asda gas station on the way home from school.


When I needed to exercise in the morning, I would do a few yoga poses and calisthenics near the foot of my bed — on a section floor space that was about a phone booth. My 90-square-foot bedsit was bedroom, office, kitchen, bathroom, dining room, living room, and gym.


What I want to tell you is what this humble bedsit, and its spatial limitations did for me, and how it inculcated in me positive habits of thought and action that were previously non-existent in my slothful, troublesome, delinquent, younger self. I want to tell you how living in this small, enclosed space helped me to grow a spine, and develop character.

Penny-wise by default

Because there was not enough space in my fridge or wardrobe, buying unnecessary snacks or clothes were not an option. Knowing I had no extra space to keep my loot, I had to think hard before purchasing food, clothes or any other items that would take up physical space in the already cramped bedsit. This increased my conscientiousness with regards to consumption, and I became more prudent about my purchases. I believe this ability to hold back and carefully assess what one needs versus what one wants (and may later not want after all) is a most beneficial life skill for a young person to acquire.


Focusing on what really matters

There wasn’t too much housekeeping to be done, so I only spent about an hour every two weeks keeping my living space tidy — this included bleaching the bathroom tiles, vacuuming the floor, dusting my desk, and taking out the garbage. My life was streamlined and fuss free. Time was not being flittered away on the upkeep of a big, cluttered house or apartment with too many ornaments and contraptions. I didn’t need to go out and weed a garden, polish pewter, wash pots and pans, shop for wall posters or other decoration, or give a housekeeper instructions for cleaning. There were no plants to be watered, no curtains for laundering, and no pets to be fed.


I had no “legitimate” excuses for neglecting the more essential tasks of my days, which for me at this time consisted primarily of learning. The elimination of “Town & Country” niceties meant I could no longer avoid doing the things that (in my opinion at least) really mattered — studying, reading, praying, meditating, and writing.


Though I didn’t know it at the time, these activities, which are best carried out in solitude and in distraction-free environs, were fortifying my mind, helping me to identify problems in my life and finding effective solutions for them, and teaching me how to tap into the wellspring of joy deep within me. I began to see the world with new eyes. I learnt to distinguish between the people, places, things, and information that were important and worthwhile from those that were inane or toxic. I lost interest in frivolous pursuits and grew to appreciate things that helped me increase knowledge and wisdom. Vanity and self-satisfaction slowly gave way to an awareness of my own ignorance, and an earnest curiosity about the world I live in, and the minds of others.


A willing mind and enriched interior life

Before being ensconced in my London bedsit, I was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. I never did well in school because I could never sit still with a textbook long enough to be properly educated in a subject. I’d want to walk to the kitchen and find things to nibble on, hang out with friends, go to a party or out dancing, shop, watch TV, go to the cinema, chat with my parents, or buy a hamster. Books and new information bored me. While my primary school friends were reading Judy Blume, I opted for Archie comics (I could always predict what Archie would do next because every book had basically the same plot). My mind was unwilling to commit to any material that required exertion or sustained mental effort. It simply would not focus, be still or behave.


But something changed while living in the bedsit. The amount of time I could engage in prolonged periods of work and contemplation increased, and I became better at making decisions too. It seemed that limited physical space had the effect of constraining my attention. I developed a newfound hunger for knowledge that was insistent and persistent. I wanted to read, to research, to find out about new things. I started to see a correlation between ideas, like how a theme from a painting at an art gallery mirrored a theory I was reading about in a book.


The meager conditions of my bedsit were perfect for the development of a rich inner life. The absence of superfluous luxuries meant that I needed to be more resourceful with regards to how I entertainment myself, so I learnt to keep myself stimulated with scholastic pursuits. Through reading and writing, my brain became a cinema of sorts. Its faculties of memory and imagination a projector that spun intricate worlds where anything was possible. Words and ideas came together to create scenes that were much more compelling for me than anything I might have watched on television, or witnessed at a rave.


I became aware of useful information all around me, and I suddenly had a desire to read every book in the school library if I could. Words, images and events that before seemed flat, came to life. As if cataracts had been removed from a third eye, I started seeing meaning in long tracts of text, paintings, buildings, and events of the past. I started thinking deeply about the subjects I read about. I started to ask myself questions like “What’s underneath it all? What makes a life count?” I became somewhat of a neophyte philosopher!


Being in this shoebox of a home meant that I was kept in close quarters with my true self (soul, whatever you choose to call it) and my higher power (God, spirit guide, whatever you choose to call it), and so I learnt to listen to promptings, previously silenced through busy-ness, chatter or sybaritic activities. Free from white noise, trifling engagements— television, gossip, shopping, idle banter, glossy magazines — and all those things which provide instant gratification, my mind cleared up sufficiently so I could stop taking my Ritalin and calmly work through one mentally challenging project after another.


When before my mind had only gums, now it had teeth, and it took pleasure in chewing on substantial, useful data. During my three years in this bedsit, my world expanded, and I became a sponge for knowledge and an ever-eager student of life.


Equanimity and creativity

When animals are confined, they suffer. Monkeys and dogs caged for prolonged periods bite themselves, masturbate compulsively and display behavioural symptoms that are indicative or anxiety or depression. Likewise, being incarcerated has a negative psychological effect on most human beings.


But prisons also have a way of bringing order to those whose way of life is grossly disordered. Most individuals who commit crimes tend to be emotionally unsettled. I certainly was during my delinquent teenage years. I had always felt lonely, angry, restless, unhappy, and under-enthralled by life and the people who populated mine. All of my discontent translated to destructive behavior.


When unruly types like myself are moved from the massive playground of the world into a small cell, that restless, destructive energy, which a psychiatrist once described to me as “Thanatos” (the “death instinct” that compels humans to engage in risky, self-destructive, aggressive or thrill-seeking behaviors) has no outlet of release. Without a place to exercise, Thanatos is weakened, and its role as captain in the unruly’s life is subsumed by the more rational and emotionally-neutral ego. Removed from a world with too much stimuli, the uncomfortable feelings that drive Thanatos balance themselves out, till the disturbed individual attains emotional homeostasis.


We humans are different from animals because we are endowed with that higher faculty of moral reasoning, which allows us to soothe ourselves when in unnatural and stressful situations such as solitary confinement. A prisoner whose moral reasoning does not kick in, might end up banging his head against the wall till he dies, but a prisoner whose moral reasoning does kick in, digs deep and finds rationales (usually religious or metaphysical concepts) such as “god”, “fate”, “karma”, “retribution”, “atonement” or “reincarnation” to facilitate his reform and make sense of his loss of freedom. In a sense, he finds inner freedom through the sacrifice of his physical freedom, and in doing so transmutes his anguish and moves to a place of equanimity through acceptance of where and who she/he is.


There are a few lucky ones who not only attain emotional equanimity, but whose consciousness extends to invention and exceptional creativity while in captivity. When the body is tethered, the mind, if it is an energetic one to begin with, must turn inward and roam more wildly than ever before within the cavernous palaces of the imagination. In this instance, captivity is like a gymnasium where the mind receives training in creative athleticism.


An 18th century Englishman named William Addis invented the toothbrush in his prison cell. An uneducated New York flour merchant named Jesse Hawley was responsible for the idea of the Erie Canal (the first transportation system between the eastern seaboard and the western interior of the United States), an idea he came up with while serving a 20-month stint at a debtor’s prison in 1807. Spaniard Miguel de Cervantes wrote one of the greatest works of fiction — the two volumes of Don Quixote — while in jail.


It would seem that for those with overactive thought-lives, prison-like conditions can in fact serve as a conductor for creativity. In austere and restrictive physical settings, the excessive vital essence, no longer able to easily attend to the whims of its owner’s voluptuary drives, is rechaneled to vigorous mental activity.


While I do not claim that my bedsit was a prison, I believe its confining effects subjugated my will and brain sufficiently enough to break my most obdurate and self-defeating patterns of thought. The result was newfound mental agility, and the ability to manifest ideas in a way that I never could before.


A deeper connection with others

Living in tight quarters compelled me to make more of an effort to spend time outdoors with people whom I enjoyed being with, or were curious about. Before moving to London, most of my social interactions took place in large groups, at raucous parties, in the midst of pub revelry, or feasting at family celebrations, where the pitcher of beer being passed around the table or the dish in front of me held my attention better than the person I was engaged with.


Being alone indoors so much made me crave fulfilling and thought-provoking conversations when I did leave my bedsit and keep company with others. I realized how little I liked the constraints and boundaries of social etiquette , ascribed statuses, and small talk, all those falsities, so often required of people when they are in group settings.

I preferred to meet one individual at a time in an outdoor café, for a walk in a park, or to sit by the river. I seldom agreed to group gatherings, unless there was good reason for it. I realized that I preferred the roominess and depth of interactions that take place in privacy between two, rather than situations where many are gathered, and each competes to be heard, or strains to attend to the various topics being discussed simultaneously. I substituted shallow socializing with high quality, one-on-one engagements. With just me and one other person, each meeting became meaningful and transformative, because I was not communicating in the old superficial manner, but at a deeper level and with more genuine interest in what the other had to say.

This way, I could give the other person 100 percent of my attention and listen and absorb everything they communication. Midway through most of these interactions, I would feel as if our “this is my face for the world” masks had come off, and often I experienced feelings of warm friendship and intimacy with my companions. Before, I simply had people around me, but through this new way of connecting with other people, I found that bonds could quickly be created that give meaning and context to both our lives.


The way of the anchorites

I did some research on people who voluntarily live in small enclosed spaces, and discovered that perhaps I was just getting a taste of what a select group of Christian men and women had experienced centuries ago. In Europe of the Middle Ages, devout persons used to literally wall themselves up in tiny cells and rooms attached to churches, or in remote caves in the wilderness, where they spent their days alone devoted to the study of scripture, prayer, and meditation.


The cell or cave that the anchorite lived in was called the anchorhold. Besides being a physical location and portal of sorts where the anchorite could embark on a journey towards union with god, and begin the work of perfecting his or her own spiritual condition, the anchorhold also served as a womb from which a reformed or improved version of the individual could emerge.


Sometimes, I think it is amazing how wondrous the world can be when you see it through a smaller frame. It’s so much easier to see the details — like the veins on a leaf, or the spot of red on a sparrow’s breast— when looking through the small aperture of a viewfinder than it is when looking through a massive floor-to-ceiling window.

I would not want to live in that tiny bedsit forever, and I have nothing against more ample and well-ventilated residences, but I am glad that to stumbled onto an improved version of myself through the time spent in that little home of mine near Elephant and Castle.


In closing, I would like to thank my father for not succumbing to that most pervasive of parenting faults — indulging one’s offspring with dangerous privileges. Now, I look back at my days in that bedsit and am grateful that my father (perhaps unbeknownst to him) presented me with the opportunity to discover what Thoreau aptly described as“the marrow of life”.

0 views0 comments

Comments


bottom of page