What If This Were Enough?: Essays

Many of us learn to construct a clear and precise vision of what we want, but we’re never taught how to enjoy what we actually have. There will always be more victories to strive for, more strangers to charm, more images to collect and pin to our vision boards. It’s hard to want what we have; it’s far easier to want everything in the world.

The more I have, The more I realize that all that matters is the small discoveries, the little interactions, the improvised, messy, glued-together moments that lie at the centre of our happiness. Everything else is just a distraction.

More than anything else, we have to imagine a different kind of life, a different way of living. We have to reject the shiny, shallow future that will never come, and locate ourselves in the current, flawed moment. Despite what we've been taught, we are neither eternally blessed nor eternally damned. We are blessed and damned and everything in between. Instead of toggling between victory and defeat, we have to learnt to live in the middle, in the gray area, where a real life can unfold in its own time. We have to breathe in reality instead of distracting ourselves around the clock. We have to open our eyes and our hearts to each other. We have to connect with what already is, who we already are, what we already have.

It takes hard work to say, “This is how I am,” in a calm voice, without anxiously addressing how you should be.

We are called to plant these seeds in our world: to dare to tell every living soul that they already matter, that their seemingly mundane lives are a slowly unfolding mystery, that their small choices and acts of generosity are vitally important.

Luxury means being able to relax and savor the moment, knowing that it doesn't get any better than this. Feeling that way doesn't require money. It doesn't require the perfect scenery. All that's required is an ability to survey a landscape that is disheveled, that is off-kilter, that is slightly unattractive or unsettling, and say to yourself: this is exactly how it should be. This requires a big shift in perspective: Since your thoughts and feelings can't simply be turned off, you have to train your thoughts and feelings to experience imperfections as acceptable or preferable--even divine. The sky is gray. A fly lands on you hand. Your cocktail is lukewarm. And still, for some reason, if you slow down and accept reality enough, it starts to feel right. Better than right. You are not comparing reality to some imagined perfect alternative. You are welcoming reality for what it already is. And what if you have no cocktail, because you're sober now? And what if your neck is aching? Maybe you're running late. Maybe you feel anxious. Still, you pay attention to each little fold, each disappointment, each impatient attempt by mind and body to "fix" what already is. And then surrender to all of it. These details are irreplaceable. They give the moment its value. The chance to soak in this mundane, uneven moment is the purest luxury of all.

It takes work to shift your focus from the smudges on the window to the view outside.

You must be living life to its fullest, always. Even when you are suffering, you are learning important lessons. You are making memories. You are doing this for the experience, which is irreplaceable. Every day is a gift. You are not permitted to sigh deeply, or roll your eyes, or linger skeptically on the sidelines. You are not allowed a little space to be lukewarm, or resigned, or judgmental, or exhausted. Sadness is weak. If you’re feeling bad, you must be making bad choices. It’s time to make better ones.

When everything is bent into a jolly shape, everything feels more mournful than it should.

Yet this chirpy insistence on positivity has a strange way of enhancing the dread and anxiety and melancholy that lie just beneath the surface of things.

Brilliance doesn't depend only on talk and flair, even though we're sometimes tempted to believe so. Brilliance depends on believing in the hard work you're capable of doing, but it also depends on believing in your potential, believing in your minds, believing in your heart. Brilliance sometimes relies on believing in your talents before you have any evidence that they're there. What a luxury, to take such an enormous leap of faith, without hesitation! Because even as I've worked hard year after year for more than twenty years now, as I've polished my work and demanded steady improvement from myself and asked myself to do better, I realize that for all of the concrete skills I've gained, nothing takes the place of truly believing that my ideas and words have a right to be taken seriously. And if I believed enough in my talents years ago to own them, who knows what I could've created?

Instead of striving for a life that could somehow match the clean beauty of an image from Instagram or the blurry glory of a trailer for an orgiastically great concert that could never happen, imagine striving for a way to encounter the small details of everyday life as if they were unexpectedly delightful. Isn’t that how luxury is supposed to feel, after all? Luxury means being able to relax and savor the moment, knowing that it doesn’t get any better than this. Feeling that way doesn’t require money. It doesn’t require the perfect scenery. All that’s required is an ability to survey a landscape that is disheveled, that is off-kilter, that is slightly unattractive or unsettling, and say to yourself: This is exactly how it should be. This requires a big shift in perspective: Since your thoughts and feelings can’t simply be turned off, you have to train your thoughts and feelings to experience imperfections as acceptable or preferable—even divine.

The question isn’t whether or not your stuff sparks joy. The question is: Can you spark joy all by yourself?

Adults are not always so fun. Sometimes I go to parties filled with mature people who know things and act their age and I"m quickly filled with despair. I walk in the door and greet the host and mill about, but in the pit of my stomach I know that leaving home was a mistake. I will not be surprised and delighted. I will not learn something new. I will not even enjoy the sound of my own voice. I will be lulled into a state of excruciating paralysis and self-hatred and other-people hatred.

It’s not surprising that in a culture dominated by such messages, many people believe that humility will only lead to being crushed under the wheels of capitalism or subsumed by some malevolent force that abhors weakness. Our anxious age erodes our ability to be open and show our hearts to each other. It severs our ability to connect to the purity and magic that we carry around inside us already, without anything to buy, without anything new to become, without any way to conquer and win the shiny luxurious lives we’re told we deserve. So instead of passionately embracing the things we love the most, and in so doing reveal our fragility and self-hatred and sweetness and darkness and fear and everything that makes us whole, we present a fractured, tough, protected self to the world.

But we should also aim to create a self and a life and an artistic vision that aren’t an escape from ordinary life, but a way of rendering ordinary life for people of every color, shape, size, and background more magical to them. In order to do that, we have to see that every human is divine. We have to train ourselves to see that with our own eyes. It will fuel us, once we see it. The ordinary people around us, the angry ones and the indifferent ones, the good ones and the bad ones, will start to glow and shimmer.

They treat each other the way Mozart's father treated him. They say to each other, "Whatever is here, even when it feels a little dark, even when it confuses me, I have chosen it as divine.

We are encouraged to believe in our dreams, but we are assumed to dream in the same limited palette as everyone else. We are to view ourselves as unique snowflakes only as it facilitates more efficiently melting ourselves into bottled spring water.

I enjoy the illusion of a waiting audience. It makes me feel less invisible and irrelevant, and those are maybe the saddest, stupidest words I’ve ever written.

By imbuing objects with feelings (in keeping with the Shinto tradition), Kondo underscored the importance of the feelings that our objects evoke in us. But when we tune in to those feelings, something strange happens. We start to recognize not just the joy that things can spark, but the anxiety as well: My iPhone makes me worried that the school could call at any minute to tell me my daughter is sick or hurt. My FitBit reminds me that I haven’t exercised yet. My laptop reminds me that a catastrophe could be unfolding somewhere in the world right now, but I won’t know about it until I check the news.

But maybe it takes a slightly unhinged person to reverse our decades of mindless consumption. Who else would dare suggest, “The basic rule for papers: Discard everything”? (Are they not required to keep tax records in Japan?) Who else would name a section of her book “Photos: Cherish who you are now”? Imagine Southwest Airlines changing their slogan from “Wanna get away?” to “What are you running from?

The past is reduced to a slide show. The future is a YouTube video that won’t load.

Spending more money ensures greater happiness. This is the confused thinking of the duped consumer.

Day in and day out, you are pestered by Barney the Dinosaur, singing about how much everyone loves everyone else and demanding that you turn your frown upside down, in a voice so drippily emphatic that you might like to fashion a shiv out of your sippy cup and gut that purple menace where he stands.

Rather than a tale of greed, the history of luxury could more accurately be read as a record of emotional trauma,” writes Alain de Botton in his book Status Anxiety, efficiently summing up Draper, Grey, and Trump in one blow. “It is the legacy of those who have felt pressured by the disdain of others to add an extraordinary amount to their bare selves in order to signal that they too may lay a claim to love.

In other centuries (and in other lands), melancholy and longing were considered a natural part of the human condition. Now they are a moral failing, a way of signaling to the world that you’re a loser and a quitter. You have to change your attitude and play nicely with others, even if that means bullshitting your way through every interaction. Everyone wants to see you turn that frown upside down. Smiles, everyone, smiles! Like you mean it this time.

Everything must be improving. If things are bad, they are always about to get better. Reluctance to see it that way will be encountered as willful misery…Yet this chirpy insistence on positivity has a strange way of enhancing the dread and anxiety and melancholy that lie just beneath the surface of things.

And maybe when he died, he didn’t think, “Is this all I get?” the way we, the narrow-minded living, might imagine, in the face of such a premature death. Maybe he thought, “I lived a rich life. I embraced what I was given, and it was incredible.

A century ago, survival was the main event. Longing was an accepted part of existence. Today, the inability to achieve happiness or fit in with the herd is treated as a kind of moral failure.

Can I step away from this digital maw? Will my voice still matter if no one can hear it? Ca silence feel more pressing and important than a ping? Instead of imagining the next text, the next tweet, the next Instagram post, the next flash of what my cousin did over spring break or what my neighbour ate for breakfast, what if I could imagine living in this moment, without wanting more? The questions whether or not your stuff sparks joy. The question is: Can you spark joy all by yourself? Do you remember how that feels?