Paul Hawkins provided the forward for, Hooked, Buddhist writings on greed, desire, and the urge to consume. In it he wrote of a friend, a reformed big banker who has attempted to curb excess in his life by having only 600 things. It means counting every last teaspoon. If someone gives him a present or he buys something new he has to give away something in order to remain at 600 things.
Once I start counting things I realise if I wish to remain
clothed I may need to convert my loaded bookshelves into a slim electronic
device, of which only one could hold thousands of books. But I’m not sure I can
do that. I wonder if a pair of socks
counts for 1 thing, or 2? I decide it’s a definite 1.
If in my car I have a spare tyre does that make it one thing or two? I decide it is
one thing. The car, complete with its road maps is one thing. Though my
glovebox stuffed full of old sunglasses will need to be cleaned out.
I like the zen of it. Paul describes his friend’s house as
if it is a small temple, “every object has meaning: nothing is retained
unnecessarily.”
But there are three of us, not counting the dog. Does that
mean we can have concessions? 600 things each? No, that would be wrong. My son would then have license for 600 things
excluding fridges, pots and pans etc believing they are the sole responsibility
of those that put the food on them and give him scope to continue to consume at
a far greater rate. Perhaps as a family we could say we have 400 combined
things and then 200 additional personal items bringing the total to 1000. I start counting pairs of jeans unworn for the
past three years while I wait for a thigh thinning miracle.
Teaspoons? How did we accumulate so many? I have a collection of old bottles retrieved
from the property where the pigs rooted them out of what must have once been a
dump. Do they count? Do the rocks I found at the beach, the dried flowered head
of a romanesco broccoli which hangs in
the laundry looking artful against the white limewashed wall? I decide nothing
in the garden counts. I have 600 recycled plastic garden pots alone. No this
will need to be carried out under the auspice of roofs.
Suddenly everything I touch becomes a loaded question. We preserve our food, we have 300 Vacola jars, this is our food system, do I have
to include these? I doubt Paul’s friend did more than eat out and dine in. It
seems unfair to have to include our preserving system that is designed to avoid
waste and lower our consumption of highly packaged and processed supermarket
food. Then there is every glass jar that
ever entered the house, sitting washed and boxed ready for summer jams and
chutneys. Can I bear to part from them? I start looking at the dog sideways, does his
collar bring his count to 2, what about his food bowl, his water bucket? My proliferation of op shop teapots, all my tired pairs of undies, the balls
of saved rubberbands, the things I collect for the day the world may suddenly
end and I’m left bereft of tampons or boxes of matches.
I’ve always thought my life quite a spare thing, but then I
look into the tool shed and despite deciding a box of 1000 nails counts only as
one, there’s enough in there to more than double our 600 each concessions. Trev’s pile of saved scrap metal is anti-consumerist in nature. One day
that odd conglomeration of metals will come in handy – obviously. I avoid looking at his vintage collection of AM radios from the '50's. I decide to
back out slowly and exclude the tool shed from my configurations. I doubt
Paul’s friend built his own house, or needs to repair fence lines, use a
chainsaw or welds his own garden tools. But now it all seems like poppycock.
Back in the house I stare at the light fittings, are they
separate to the house, or part of of it? I decide they are part of it. My box
of tax records for the previous 8 years, should I toss them? The urge is
strong, but they remain taking up far too much room on the top shelf. I
start counting teaspoons. I emerge from
the spare parts cupboard draped in long lost cables for phones long deceased and
recall the time someone left their charger on a bus only to
have extricated a spare to great hoots of amazement, a rabbit from a hat. It dawns on me that I’m a hoarder. Every paper
bag we’ve bought pepitas or sunflowers in are collected and folded, any plastic
bag that actually manages to get through the door is washed, dried and saved
for a multitude of repeated uses. I make our own soap, 100 bars of it are
curing in an aniseed infused cupboard. This is, clearly, not going to work.
I decide to have a thorough clean of the house. I will give
away anything that is clearly extraneous to needs. Hone down on my hoarding,
and then, regardless of numbers, I will cap it. Anything new entering the house
will need to be resolved with one removal.
If I get to the point that there is not one thing more I can bear to
give away, then it will hopefully create the dynamic where the new thing is considered superfluous anyway. Now, the big challenge. Enlisting Trev and Caleb, oh the kicking and screaming...
