The
other day, I got an email from a friend describing her recent retreat to a quiet,
secluded cottage where she spent many days just being, calmly being. Among her
insights on this trip was the realization of how little she actually needs. She
took only a few outfits and not much else. Her pleasure came not from
extravagance and the “stuff” that frequently adorns vacation time, but from quiet
walks, conversations with citizen conservationists, cooking local food, watching
birds, sleeping on the porch wrapped in the sounds of her surroundings. She
came home committed to cutting back and paring down.
Her
comments reminded me of a recent conversation with another friend, who had a
similar experience while rafting earlier this summer, being struck by how
simple the days were and how fulfilling without the collection of things that
fill our daily lives. And it reminded me of two experiences of my own. One was
our recent trip to Ireland, for which (as I mentioned here before) we each took
one carry-on with everything we needed for a two-week trip. And we managed fine,
not even unpacking several of our bulkier items. I thought at the time about
what a good lesson that was: How much do we really need, after all, I asked
myself, and how much is just excess—decoration, maybe waste.
The
other experience that came to mind is much older. A couple of decades ago, I was
on a backpacking trip in Southern Utah with three other women. The four of us
had backpacked often as a group, and we lived well together in the wilderness. It
was our last morning, and we had just packed up our gear to hike out of the
canyon where we’d spent the past week. Standing in the shade of an overhanging
cliff, I saw our four backpacks lined up, waiting to be hoisted for the climb
out. I stood there for a minute, held to the spot by the view of these four compact
packages, realizing that these small bundles could hold everything we needed—all
the clothing, all the bedding, all the shelter, all the food, all the cooking,
cleaning, and first aid equipment, all the water we needed. And we could carry
it all on our backs. I had similar thoughts during and after other backpacking
trips—in the mountains, in the dessert, in Alaskan tundra—but none was as
profound as that moment at the bottom of Dark Canyon. That spot is still the
stuff of meditation for me, partly because it is so peaceful and partly because
it’s associated with such calm realization of how simple life can be.
This theme has been floating in my mind since I read my friend’s email, and it brought to mind a flock of research studies in recent years that speak to this very
lesson. Happiness, it turns out, comes not from possessions, but from
experiences. When people are asked what makes them happiest, it’s not the
things they’ve had that make them feel happy, but the experiences—the adventures,
the relationships, the moments of profound beauty and profound peace
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This
seems easy to believe, but not so easy to enact. The immediate gains of
gathering stuff are so great: it’s fun to have new stuff, some things are
hugely convenient, some enhance our status or appearance, some may even promise
to improve our connections with other people. And the distinction is not as
simple as it may first appear. Sometimes getting stuff is really about getting experiences.
That moment in the desert, for instance, required that we have the equipment to
be there, comfortably and safely. Maybe the distinction lies in the question of
means and ends. If the goal is to get stuff, we’re in for some serious
disappointment when it comes to the happiness scale. But if the purpose of the
stuff is to create opportunities for rich and fulfilling, memorable experiences,
then we’re in a different position entirely.
I
think there’s an age component in this matter of amassing possessions vs. paring down.
It seems like young adulthood and midlife are more about gathering stuff, at
least among those who have sufficient discretionary funds to do it. Old age, in
contrast, is about cutting back, simplifying, paring life down to what’s
essential. Partly, that’s a matter of necessity. Finances and physical
limitations can make the things of younger years superfluous or even
troublesome. I don’t need a backpack any more, and a huge multi-floor home is
increasingly not a good idea (not to mention I’m way over housecleaning by now).
But I think there’s something else at work, too. It seems that old age brings a
new perspective to things—partly because everything is recognized to be so
transient now. And as we age, I think, we can see better what has mattered and what
hasn’t in making our lives what they are. I can only think of a handful of things that have any particular salience
in my best memories, but the experiences
I recall with great joy are legion and often come to mind spontaneously.
We’ve
probably all had experiences where we realized how little we truly need in the way of things to be happy.
And then we come back to “reality” and resume the style of life we’d come to
enjoy. Which is fine, I guess.
But
somewhere, I’d like to hold the realization that much (most?) of it doesn’t
matter much in the long run. If I’m busier collecting things than creating joy,
then I’m seriously short-changing my life.
© Janis
Bohan, 2010-2014. Use of this content is welcome with attribution and a link to
the post.
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