a day without planes

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It’s been almost a year since I first decided to forgo holiday shopping in order to begin simplifying my life. Now, the heady sweetness of November once again alights upon the upturned faces of the city. Have I abandoned the quest to launch my Christmas shopping yet?

Um … no. Looks like this simplicity thing is going to stick.

It’s not that I’ve “arrived,” not by any means. If you showed up at my door, you’d find a dog whose collar I removed for a good neck scratch (a week ago) and still can’t find. (I can’t find the collar. The dog, thankfully, possesses the amiable quality of always finding me.)

My plan for this evening is to remove some books from a shelf, dust, sort, reduce as many titles as palatable, and line the shelf with books that are more beloved. The beloved books, alas, are mostly in piles on my living room floor. And, in spite of good intentions, I recently found myself wondering, “How did October become so busy?” because I had, once again, over-scheduled myself.

For me, simplicity is still a process. Last week, standing upon the glossy floors of Target, I got a little further insight into why.

I only needed one thing at Target, maybe two. Household basics. And yet there I was trying on fall jackets. I don’t need a fall jacket. I already have one. So I walked away, because, you know, I’m all about self-discipline. (You know by now that’s a joke, right?)

I wandered the aisles, going over my mental list (of two items, you’ll remember) because if there is one thing I loathe it’s going to the store and having to go back again the same day to retrieve some forgotten necessity, which by the way, happens to me pretty consistently. I am the kind of person who buys the cereal and forgets to bring home the milk.

A year of simplifying has brought unexpected benefits, namely paying down a certain amount of credit card debt. All at once I realized that I had a card in my pocket with a zero balance. New fall jacket? Possible. A present for my daughter? She deserves it.

My unexpected good fortune rushed over me and, frankly, threatened to pull me under. It was smartly followed by my old friend—fear.

What if my current jacket rips and I need a new one and then I can’t find one I like? What if December arrives and I’m out of money? Hadn’t I better stock up on gifts, just in case?

Justification, slipping towards fear, cascading into panic. Soon I was wondering where the money would come from if I lost my job, the car breaks down, our decades-old furnace refuses to stumble through another winter. And, sure enough, I began feeling like I had better buy anything I (might) need right now, before it’s too late.

I don’t mind telling you, deep breathing and a sanity check were both required.

When did I start believing that there would never be enough—enough work to sustain a family, enough time to sustain relationships, enough activity to contribute to a community? When did I start believing that everything was so fragile and could somehow be made less so by squirreling away supplies, tangible and otherwise? When did I start thinking that saying yes to every request would somehow increase my value as a human being?

I’m not sure, honestly. By way of extended metaphor, however, I’d like to offer the morning of September 11, 2001. I was home with my daughter, just an infant then, with not even one year of knowing each other tucked away. I plopped her on a blanket, turned her away from the television, pushed the mute button and wept as the second tower crumbled into dust and ashes and bones.

I was alone. And, like everyone else in America, I didn’t know what was going to happen next.

But there was this child of mine, perched upon the floor, turning over the pages of a board book, oblivious to the vastness of the world into which she had been born, except for a few touchtones. Her book. Her blanket. Me.

I turned off the television and took her outside. We walked and walked; I’m not sure how long we were gone. I kept watching the sky and whispering to myself “no planes, no planes” as a reminder that my family, my city, was not under attack. Something bad was happening. But it wasn’t happening here. It wasn’t happening to me.

I could keep walking. I didn’t have to run.

Sometimes there seems to be such a heaviness of tragedy and threat in the world, we all stand moments away from toppling into panic. Panic can manifest itself in some rather silly ways. Shopping. Yelling. Obsessing. Refusing to help those in need in order to protect our own sense of security and order.

This year, more than any other, I have learned the things you think make sense don’t always stay that way. People who spend a lifetime taking care of their health tumble into disease. Relationships you thought would sustain vanish like vapor. Work becomes a twisted game of corporate Candy Land, with some colleagues swooshing up to the castle, while others swish off the board at the flip of a card.

Deep breath. Sanity check.

Today, I turn again to picking the books off of my living room floor. Why? Because it is the task in front of me, and because I can do it with love. I hug my child. Stir the soup in the pot on the stove. Call someone I love. Say thank you.

Today, I do one thing at a time. Without fear for what comes tomorrow. With only the blessing of today to sustain. It is enough.

The leaves are falling, and they are beautiful. The weather is inviting, as long as you have a good fall jacket, which I happen to have.

One is all I need.

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