Teeny Piles of "Keep"

If we don't turn around, we just may get where we're going. - American Indian Saying in the Zen Calendar (April 22, 2004).

Day 160. I'm a lot less disturbed by . . . uh . . . the number that comes after five. If I keep sitting, perhaps all my neuroses and obsessive rituals will dissipate. Uh, huh - right - and any day now Oklahoma will become a blue state. Dream on.

This evening I was sorting through yet another orifice in my home, creating enormous "give away" piles and a teeny "keep" pile. Non-attachment is the best organizing method since feng shui. I'm considering renting out my emerging closet, cabinet, and drawer space to assist with my son's bursar account. The only thing increasing faster than money owed to his university is membership in the Tea Party. They are both exceedingly frightening phenomenon.

My donation frenzy triggered a memory from over 20 years ago. I was staying with my friend David in California one summer, and we went to visit a couple who had recently moved to a small beach house. I recall them being slightly older than us, which would put them at the ripe old age of early 30-something. I was both intrigued and appalled by their house. It contained almost nothing. They had a few pieces of mission style furniture, a futon in the bedroom, and a couple of chairs in the kitchen. The walls were white; the floors were wood, unadorned with rugs; the light and plumbing fixtures minimalist and stark. A couple of plants and a clear cylinder filled with seashells were the living room's only ornaments. A few plates, bowls and cups sat in the kitchen cupboards, which had no doors. Six wine glasses were suspended from a homemade rack near the sink. Two cream colored towels hung from hooks in the bathroom, where the only visible products were one bottle of shampoo and a box of baking soda. Inwardly, I wondered if their previous home had burned to the ground and/or what religious cult they belonged to.

Leading us into the living room, our host and hostess poured white wine for David and I. They motioned for us to sit on the wispy sofa while they plunked onto the floor. With barely concealed pride, they asked what we thought of their new house. David, recovering first from the awkward pause (and confirming every stereotype we hold about gay men living in California), said brightly, "It's really airy and spacious." Sensing our discomfort, the couple laughed heartily and offered a memorable explanation.

They spoke at length about the huge house they had purchased in L.A. county and the ensuing enslavement that accompanied home ownership. With humor and perspective, they lamented for almost an hour over the nightmarish frenzy of home improvement they embarked upon. For over two years they were captives of their "dream house" - caught up in a senseless whirlwind of the 1980's version of flaunting their competitive incomes through lavish and excessive home decor.

They expected to be rewarded for their effort and expenditure. They had been promised contentment, gratification, admiration and (hopefully!) jovial jealousy from their yuppy peers. Instead, they accrued mountains of debt, exhaustion and burnout from maintaining their palace and premises. Contentment was marred by ceaseless comparison of their home to the houses of their similarly enslaved friends. Someone inevitably had one of what they had -- only newer and bigger, louder and shinier. Nobody had time to pay a visit and offer admiration; they all worked 80-hour weeks to keep up the mortgage payment. The pool was never swum in; the hot tub cover remained solidly snapped shut; nary a drink was served from the granite-topped wet bar.

These friends of David's were quick learners. After three years of "playing house" - 80's style - they sold everything and moved to the 750 square foot cottage near the beach. With utter conviction, they informed us that they adored their simple, sparsely furnished abode. Cleaning it consisted of sweeping every couple of weeks and swiping up some - you guessed it - baking soda off of counters and bath tile. They worked short days, electing to spend their time collecting shells, sharing wine with like-minded, emancipated friends, and having frequent and highly gratifying sex with all the energy they no longer expended on home improvement.

Back then, I was skeptical about their home interior. I found it understimulating, and the bareness made me anxious. Now, I know they were on to something. I think they were incredibly enlightened, achieving a spectacular revelation at an impressively premature age. They concluded that "stuff" was burdensome and shedding it was liberating. It's taken me 25 additional years, but I've arrived at the same revelation.

I'm discovering I have much more to shed than material possessions. But I'm not turning around. And I just may get where I'm going.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc