Stuff it!

I try not to be materialistic, but I have a streak of it in me that can't be denied on occasion. It looks at other people my age and wonders what kind of magic it is that they know, what strange incantations they recite, what sleight-of-hand they employ...because so many of them seem to "have it made". That feeling has abated somewhat since I joined the ranks of (a) married people (b) who own cars and (c) their own houses, too; but to my surprise, it hasn't disappeared entirely.

Every year at RRSP time we hear that the maximum contribution is seventy-eight kajillion dollars. I know no legal way of amassing seventy-eight kajillion dollars and so, in my dark and depressive moments, I'm sure I'll die long before I can retire.

I'm missing something...I know I am. Because friends and acquaintances have managed to max out their RRSPs, have mortgages almost paid off...in short, are on the off-ramp to Easy St. I went over to MapQuest and typed in "Easy St." and the damn computer laughed at me.

Oh, pishposh, says the voice in my head. You know perfectly well what you're missing. An education, for one thing. A decent job paying decent money, for another...a function of that education you're missing, methinks. Finally, most critically, you're missing the discipline to chase the education and the job. Which makes you worthless. WORSE than worthless: you don't even want to improve your lot. Loser.

This is where I jump in and gag that voice with a rag soaked in kerosene. Then I throw a match and engulf that mental son-of-a-bitch before he can really start in on me. He'll arise, phoenix-like, in a few weeks or months, but until he does, I'll live quite happily and comfortably.

Because I am happy. And I am comfortable. More than, really. Who cares if the bank owns me from the neck down? I do most of my living above the neck.

I can remember that half the world doesn't have access to clean drinking water and would consider our 1400 square foot house a palace. Sadly, that kind of thinking cuts zero ice with Mr. Materialist, who responds that at least half the people in my world make me look like those poor beggars in the streets of Calcutta. Total bullshit, of course...just like the rest of Mr. Materialist's diatribe...but it can be pervasive bullshit if I let it.

What material I have is plenty. I've got this computer, four (count 'em!) televisions, exceptionally comfortable furniture in living room and bedroom. I have more books than I really need, each one priceless in its ability to open a window on a better world. I have a musical synthesizer that lets me craft my own worlds whenever I want. This house, even with its many warts, is far from falling down. Our car is only three years old and still outperforms most everything else on the road when it comes to all-important fuel economy. I can't in good conscience say there's anything I really need that I haven't got in spades already.

And all that...stuff...is, in the grand scheme of things, not such of a much. If all of it went up in a conflagration tonight, and my family got out safe and sound, I'd be no less happy tomorrow morning.

I have the love of an amazing woman which sustains me, lending me more vitality than any collection of crap ever did or could. I have a dog and two cats who adore me: it's impossible to gaze at any of them while sad or angry and remain that way for long. I have a job that, while stressful in the extreme of late, is not a chore to get up and go to most mornings.

Most importantly, I AM NOT WHAT I HAVE. I AM NOT WHAT I DO. As God supposedly said to Moses, I AM WHAT I AM. That's a tremendously liberating thought to hold in one's head, because it allows for infinite choice and infinite progress. That's what I am: a work in progress. And it's taken me a long time to realize this, but life is not a race...much less a race to collect the most stuff.