Simplicity
Simplicity. It’s a beautiful word. Beautiful in how it sounds. And beautiful in its meaning too.
I think of monks, who go about their litany of life day in and day out. They rise to the bells and pray and eat and work, and the bells ring again and they come in from their various duties. I envision them on green lawns moving in and out from the monastery, coursing to the rhythm of bells and chores and eating and sleeping.
What is it that allows monks to live so simply? Perhaps it’s their distance from the rest of the world. Often monasteries are out in the country or up on a hillside, geographically as well as socially removed from the chaos of things.
Or maybe it’s the absence of greed. I don’t mean to say a monk never covets his brother’s tunic or bread, but let’s face it. Not much enters a monk’s line of sight that an ordinary person couldn’t do without.
Maybe it’s greed that complicates our lives. My first year after graduating from college I lived in a twelve-by-twelve room with a desk and a few shelves built into one of the walls. I had a twin-size bed, a dorm-size refrigerator and microwave, and a closet without doors where I hung my clothes and my towel. I used a community bathroom and, when I wanted something to eat that couldn’t be cooked in my microwave, a community kitchen.
I lived there because I had no concept of how far money went. I don’t know what I was making, but I was an administrative assistant and knew that administrative assistants didn’t make much, so I took the cheapest accommodations I could find that still afforded some measure of safety.
And here’s the thing. I was remarkably happy. I remember talking on the phone with my parents. They seemed concerned about how I was doing ("Are you sure you’re okay, honey?" my mom asked), and I can remember telling them I was fine, that in fact I had everything I could possibly need.
But then I got a raise and a promotion and a new job with a bigger company. It just seemed natural to get a bigger place and then I had to buy stuff to fill my bigger place and then my place was too small for all my stuff so I got a bigger place and, well, you know how it goes. Simplicity became roadkill when I smashed into it on my way to Pier 1.
I think of monks, who go about their litany of life day in and day out. They rise to the bells and pray and eat and work, and the bells ring again and they come in from their various duties. I envision them on green lawns moving in and out from the monastery, coursing to the rhythm of bells and chores and eating and sleeping.
What is it that allows monks to live so simply? Perhaps it’s their distance from the rest of the world. Often monasteries are out in the country or up on a hillside, geographically as well as socially removed from the chaos of things.
Or maybe it’s the absence of greed. I don’t mean to say a monk never covets his brother’s tunic or bread, but let’s face it. Not much enters a monk’s line of sight that an ordinary person couldn’t do without.
Maybe it’s greed that complicates our lives. My first year after graduating from college I lived in a twelve-by-twelve room with a desk and a few shelves built into one of the walls. I had a twin-size bed, a dorm-size refrigerator and microwave, and a closet without doors where I hung my clothes and my towel. I used a community bathroom and, when I wanted something to eat that couldn’t be cooked in my microwave, a community kitchen.
I lived there because I had no concept of how far money went. I don’t know what I was making, but I was an administrative assistant and knew that administrative assistants didn’t make much, so I took the cheapest accommodations I could find that still afforded some measure of safety.
And here’s the thing. I was remarkably happy. I remember talking on the phone with my parents. They seemed concerned about how I was doing ("Are you sure you’re okay, honey?" my mom asked), and I can remember telling them I was fine, that in fact I had everything I could possibly need.
But then I got a raise and a promotion and a new job with a bigger company. It just seemed natural to get a bigger place and then I had to buy stuff to fill my bigger place and then my place was too small for all my stuff so I got a bigger place and, well, you know how it goes. Simplicity became roadkill when I smashed into it on my way to Pier 1.
posted by ChadRAllen @ 7:54 AM
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