Want

The Venerable Bede was an Seventh Century monk, who wrote the first history of the English people. When he died, his brothers found that he had exactly three possessions: his sandals, his psalter, and some pepper.

I've always loved that. Good leather footwear, something to read, and assurance that you'll have something good to eat. Boots, books, and supper. That pretty much does it.

I had a conversation at Starbucks tonight, in the course of which, I was asked, "What do you want?"

I thought about my visualization bulletin board. A thing I picked up from watching Queer Eye, it hangs in my room, and reminds me of my goals and objectives. I realized, as I struggled to frame an answer to this question, that although there is some "stuff" up there on my bulletin board, what I want is not so much a matter of things, but it's the man I want to be. Writer, welder, whipsman, and (on the shallow side, but not really if you think about it), well built. The W's.

Huh.

Presently, during this chapter in my life, I find myself encased in Stuff. I'm living in my father's house, which is stuffed with tchochka. It's knick-knack city. And one day, as they say, all this will belong to me. And I dread that day.

And, y'know, I'm thinking... what if i put up there on my bulletin board--although how I'd represent this visually is sort of challenging--wanting Less. Less stuff. As REM put it, on one of my favorite albums by that seminal band, "What if we give it away?"

One of my favorite things about moving is the opportunity to pare down my inventory of Stuff. Bag after bag goes to Good Will or just plain out on the curb for the sanitation workers and the homeless to cart away.

What do I really need, anyway?

It would be interesting to undertake an actual inventory of my worldly goods. List everything. Each article of clothing. Each cooking utensil. Each book. And to then go through this list, and justify the continued possession of each item. My process when I move is essentially this. Before anything goes in the box, I ask myself, 'If I give this up, will I miss it in six months? In a year? In five years? In ten years?" When I get to 'no,' that's the opportunity to give it up.

Sandals. Psalter. Pepper.

A friend of mine from college once lamented her stuff. She was an education major, and suddenly became aware that the half-hearted ambition, the "some day" dream she had, of going to spend a few years teaching on an Indian reservation, was quickly becoming unattainable. Because, what would she do with her Stuff? She couldn't very well pack it all away, and taking it with her was so complicating that it could prevent her from going at all. (She never did.)

I want Less. Less Stuff.

But what about the intangibles that I want? Could I pare those down as well? It's a good thing to have goals and objectives, but perhaps if not quite eliminated, could they be focused?

Years ago, I got a post card. On the back of the post card was a quote of Karl Marx. I no longer have it (gave it up in a move!), but I think I can paraphrase fairly accurately:

"The more you eat, the more you drink, the more you dance, attend the theater, cavort, fence, converse, sing, and stroll... the more you diminish your Capital, your treasure that neither moth nor time can destroy. In short, the more you have, the less you are."

Yeah.

Yeah!

What Karl Marx said!

Long ago, I read a short story, I think it was by John Cheever. The protagonist is sitting with his wife and children in a fancy restaurant. They're out for a family dinner. At the next table is another family, also out for a family dinner. A little boy at the next table is fussing. He wants french fries, and they're not on the menu. (It's not that kind of a restaurant.)

"But I want french fries!" whines the little boy.

"You want! You want!!" answers the little boy's father, "I've never gotten anything I wanted in my entire life. That's not what life's about, fella, and you better get used to that."

And, of course, because it's a John Cheever short story, this propels the protagonist on a bout of self examination, and he realizes that although he has a beautiful home, a beautiful wife, beautiful children... what he wants has nothing to do with that. He has no idea what it is he wants. But he knows he wants something.

Things, perhaps, should pass through our fingers like sand. Enjoy them. Enjoy the fleeting feeling of holding them, but let them slip away without any wistfulness. Because they're just things, and they're not what you want anyway. There will be more things. There are always things. Crowding their way into your life. Every day is like a surreal Christmas morning, all those presents under the tree. All that stuff.

But if it's not Stuff that you want, be clear about what you do want. And think long and hard to convince yourself that you really do want it. Do your best to talk yourself out of it. Want as little as possible.

And maybe, when you've breathed your last, and they gather round to pay their final respects, they'll be amazed.

"How can this be? Boots, a few books, and some vintage walnut oil... How can it be that he dies with so little, when he never seemed to want anything?"

And then they'll figure it out: you died with so little because you gave them so much.

---