Commitment

If only I could commit to a daily writing practice the way I've committed to a daily yoga practice. There's something funny going on here. Sitting at a computer writing is a lot more normal and convenient for me than getting up early every day, walking in the dark to class, spending 45 minutes contorting my body before I go to work. But here I am, fully committed to the contorting, and seriously shirking the writing. Hmmm.

The other thing I'm committed to, mostly, is my nothing but groceries approach to consuming. I have lost the battle of the bus ticket though. After a long day at the office, I simply can't face a half hour walk home in the dark. So I'm spending $1.50 a day on bus fares. But other than that, I've packed lunches, bought no clothes or shoes, no coffees or snacks, nothing for the house, and I still haven't had a hair cut. Neither have I stretched the rules around the definition of groceries. I did get six new pairs of socks yesterday, but they don't count, as I got them with my rewards card (which is, sadly, no longer piling on the points, but still had enough left for some socks.)

Do I feel deprived? Not really. I am quietly processing the feelings associated with desire though. Desire I used to appease with buying something.

I currently desire a kimono dressing gown. It's soft faded cotton, ever so lightly quilted, in a large patchwork of florals and delicately patterned fabric. It comes in a cloth bag. It's on sale but it still costs $97. I really really want it, and I've been plotting ways to get it without breaking my commitment to not consuming. Not that easy, by the way.

It's interesting to observe this desire. At first I expected it to dissolve in a few days, but it's lasted now for three or four weeks. I'm not consumed by this or anything, but every now and then I think "man, I'd love to get that kimono!" Why do we want to own things? I think it's because we think it will make us more of ourselves -- say or express something about us that we can't or won't say or express. It's folly, I know, but it's a very strong pull.

If I take this kimono thing to its far fetched conclusion, I see myself wrapped up in it, in spring time, leaning on the balcony surveying the front garden which will be landscaped and gorgeous. It's about 10 o'clock in the morning, sun streaming in. I'm sipping coffee, the dog's at my feet, and I'm soaked in relaxation and contentment. Why am I not at work? I don't need to go to work. I am a woman of leisure. This is the story of the kimono.

I can so easily be tricked into thinking that the kimono will fulfill my dream of early retirement, a landscaped front yard, and spring time. These are what I really want; not a dressing gown in a cloth bag.


By committing to a practice of not spending, I may well be getting closer to these real dreams. At least I'm removing the distractions, learning the signs about what's really life changing and what's an empty promise.

And now I know the kimono's real intentions, I could probably buy it and enjoy if for precisely what it is--a dressing gown. But maybe now I won't want it quite as much.