The Hero’s Journey on a shoestring — that is the classic tiny living narrative. After finding a patch of weedy acreage, the protagonists (they usually come in pairs) buckle down for a stint of hard labor in the hot sun. They often use recycled or salvaged materials to fashion their retreat. This not only helps the planet heal, it heals the spirits of the builders, who are happier, better, stronger people when their rescued-from-scrap front door is finally hung. The construction supplies and furnishings are invariably as low in cost as the ideals of the builders are high. And yet, for some the trend has nothing to do with traditional thrift; instead, it answers a hunger for Zen purity and quasi-monastic simplicity. The truth is, without a modicum of success and career-preoccupation, this life would look a bit like poverty — like the rural existence people have struggled for so long to escape. The desire to have not is a desire of the haves.

Tiny living (a gentle, left-leaning alternative to hard-edged right-wing survivalism) is a way for people who are already slim to go on dieting. In both its real and imaginary versions, but especially in the latter, it’s invigorating and clarifying. Lack of closet space concentrates the mind, challenging us to reflect on our priorities, or develop some if we don’t have any. In my own life, I’ve noticed in recent years that the pleasures of divestiture — of carting stuff off to the thrift store or the dump — far exceed the pleasures of acquisition. When I see a photo of a clever loft space perched above a compact, TV-free living room with a cool kitchenette in the corner and views of pine trees, I drift off into an alternate existence where smartphones and antacids have no hold over me.