Life's pleasures are found in the details--butsometimes it's
necessary to treat ourselves
I ONCE SAT WITH A FEW SOCIAL SCIENTISTS DURING A MEETING ABOUT
MONEY. THE OBJECTIVE WAS FINDING WAYS TO ENCOURAGE PEOPLE TO INCREASE
THEIR SAVINGS, BUT WE SOON FOUND OURSELVES ARGUING OVER LIFE'S
NECESSITIES. ONE PARTICIPANT ANGRILY VOICED THE VIEW THAT WHEN PEOPLE
BARELY HAVE ENOUGH MONEY FOR KETCHUP, SAVING FOR THE FUTURE ISN'T A
CONSIDERATION.
In these instances, saving becomes a luxury that many cannot
afford. But is ketchup a necessity? At the time I did not think so. Now,
in one sense, I do.
I believe life should be lived in the details. But the details must
feel good; that way we can also feel that all is right with the world.
For instance, an expensive item may not necessarily feel luxurious. If I
am given a painting that I do not care for and am oblivious to its
monetary value, I do not feel it is a luxury. It will not help me awaken
to the day. For something to be a luxury it must seem positive and
unusual; it must be an experience that returns us to our centers and
gives us an appreciation of the present.
Consider people who buy lottery tickets. They are often disparaged,
especially when the purchaser is a person of little means. "What a waste
of money." A waste of money? For some, a dollar buys the opportunity to
dream of a better life. The dream may redirect attention to the
particulars of current life and create the possibility for change and
improvement. If I won the lottery, I might decide to buy a new table
because mine is stained and cracked. If I didn't win, I might be
disappointed and choose to forget about the new table, in which case I am
no worse off than before. Or alternatively, my original thoughts about
the table might stay with me and motivate me to refinish it myself. These
activities are mindful and thus enlivening.
Indeed, life should be lived in the details. Recently, I was
planning a trip to Puerta Vallarta. I could stay in any hotel, but
staying somewhere in particular helped harness my imagination. I decided
to splurge. The most special room at the Camino Real was "too expensive,"
but that was what excited me most. I imagined the sort of luxury to which
I am typically unaccustomed. Of course, the price did not require giving
up any real necessities; it was just the feeling of being extravagant
that was in question. The trip was two weeks away, and when I divided its
total cost by 14 days of eager anticipation, plus one week in Puerta
Vallarta, as well as hours of memories for years to come, the cost came
down quite a bit.
The trip was spectacular. The scenery, food and service were all
remarkable, and the management's warmth reminded me that life consists
only of moments--and moments of joy can be brought about from as little
as a stranger's smile. I felt special, and the entire experience made me
feel renewed.
When on vacation we notice so many things that bring us pleasure,
little things that are equally available to us in our daily lives. But if
we are blind to these details, then novelty may be a necessity. Novelty
provokes mindfulness, which may be the essence of our psychological and
physical well-being. Thus, if the novelty of purchasing flowers out of
season leads us to stop and notice their beauty and the reflected beauty
around them, then they are a "functional" necessity. Just think about it.
How mindful we would be if we just thought of the little things we take
for granted--like ketchup and kindness--as luxuries.
Ellen J. Langer is a professor of psychology at Harvard University.
She is the author of The Power of Mindful Learning (Perseus, 1997) and
Mindfulness (Perseus, 1989).
Tags:
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