Stuff, a Civic Soapbox Essay by Devan Malore

I do carpentry and construction for a living, so I think a lot about human shelter.

Sociologists call the complex system of relationships required to keep our modern world spinning along, organic solidarity. In the village, we had a butcher, baker, candle stick maker. That simpler system of work and relationships is referred to as mechanical solidarity.

After lifetimes spent in caves, dark leaky huts and walled-in castles, organic solidarity feels great. It’s a pleasure to live in conformable spaces, paint walls any color, not worry about rain or cold. However, organic solidarity tends to be consumer driven, so lots of us these days find ourselves dealing with too much stuff to pay for and care for.

Today, somewhere in rural China a factory is producing components for a phone that is smarter than last year’s. On better days this seems a good idea, one that promotes innovation, peace and prosperity through commerce. On bad days, it seems like relentless production of an avalanche of un-needed things, all clamoring to be bought and taken home. I mean, who doesn’t get tired just from imagining cleaning the garage, basement, storage sheds.

Consumer choice is an important mantra of our times. Yet why we need fifty kinds of ketchup in the supermarket is hard to understand. Of course, ketchup companies do employ good folks at their factories which are often located in struggling communities, and I do realize that our economy is almost hopelessly complex. Yet, for my own peace-of-mind, I still chose l to live by this alternative to consumerism as it’s practiced today – something from the popular Buddhist Monk, activist and writer, Thich Nhat Hanh, which he calls “Mindfulness trainings,”

It goes something like this. First I become aware of the suffering created by unmindful consumption. This might be debt, stress, poor health or negative environmental impact related to buying and consuming. Next, I vow to cultivate good health, both physical and mental for myself, family, and society by practicing mindful eating, drinking, and consuming of all material goods. I’m also asked to consider what news, advertising and media I expose myself to, because I consume lots of information these days that has an effect on how I view life and how I act.

Thich Nhat Hanh

This simple, but not easy, training doesn’t ask me to do the impossible: It doesn’t ask me not to consume. All I’m asked to do is mindfully consider the impact of what I consume on myself the environment and community.

Imagine a culture built on an “economic system” where we place greater value on creation of healthy relationships, good health, peace, love, happiness, consciousness, and intelligence. All those simple not-things that use fewer resources, yet are often difficult to create.

Sure, our sacred stuff would still get made, but hopefully we’d create, use, and pass on that stuff in a more mindful manner.

I, for one, am convinced we’re much more than what we produce and consume. Why shouldn’t each of us consider becoming more, rather than buying more? Surely, mysterious force “the economy” will eventually shift to meet out greater needs.

 -- Devan Malore lives on the Maury River, wondering what stuff will float by in the next flood . . .

"Natural, Light, and Sinking," creative non-fiction from Devan Malore

Martha note: Writer Devan Malore lives in Lexington, right beside the Maury River. His essays are heard regularly from atop the WMRA Civic Soapbox. 

The locals, I’ve heard, have a mixed reaction to students returning to the college after Summer break.

     “Spoiled rich kids,” some say, driving by off campus rental Cedar Houses the morning after a party.

    “Work hard, party hard”, others laugh, driving by quickly going to work.

Morning after party night, lines of parked SUVs, plastic cups and cans litter neatly mowed lawns along the same river I live on too.

But the college, services and jobs associated with education is also a major source of income in this community. In these hard times the city struggles like many. It’s a fine line between loving, welcoming and trying to discipline mostly out of state students.

I lowered a kayak down the steep slippery river bank trying not to be seen by new student renters. A three party night, I thought, floating by first the Lake House, renovated Cottage, then middle Cedar House. Smoke rose from the grill on the deck as loud students almost touched shoulders.

Leaves still Summer green drifted across the calm water signaling an inevitable coming of Fall and more parties. I looked up searching for early bats, hawks, the elusive Blue Heron often perched in a tree. After five minute paddling party tunes could not be heard on the river.

I hugged the shore studying reflections of sycamore branches on river and mirror image of light blue almost pink sky turning to night. Eyes searched among the leaves for the familiar glow returning with students. I fixed on the object and paddled straight for it. The boat hit the metal pushed it aside, my paddle pounding the water trying to pull it in. Reached into the warm water I grabbed the can and emptied water back into the river. Natural, Lite read the familiar blue and silver can. Sound of a compressed can echoed on the river as it was stuffed behind the boat seat with a collection of cans and bottles.
                            
 Ahead to the right another can bobbed among leaves and I headed for it. Missing the can be a foot I reached out with the paddle furiously trying to pull it in. The can bobbed and moved as if it were a fish not easily caught. After a sharp turn, more beating of the water, the can turned on it’s side, made a gurgling sound and began to sink. I reached down to grab it but the can sank quickly, disappearing into murky depths. Over head, bats were beginning to feed on night insects.

A three party night. How many beer cans and water bottles will sink to the bottom, I wondered? Then the river rises, a great journey begins, carrying everything back to the sea. Some cans and bottles hopefully never make it. Maybe a child looking for shells or an old fisherman will feel something that calls out a reminder of things not belonging in a river. Maybe a woman will show her lover the find and ask he carry it back, helping clean up, “our spot.”

I leaned right, turning the kayak, headed down river toward the music of a three party night.

Natural. Lite. And sinking. Will we buy anything colorful, cheap, labeled Natural and Lite? Is it better to let things sink to the depths where we cannot see, don’t have to deal with what remains after getting what we want?

Bats flew wildly overhead and disappearing light made it easier to spot the cans and bottles of a three party night on the river. Some of us have unusual jobs in unusual places during these unusual times, I remembered.

Dinner in a garden. . .

Last evening I was in Waynesboro to hold another personal essay-writing workshop sponsored by the Waynesboro Cultural Commission; which for me, as someone who loves to write and talk with others about writing, is about as good a time as times get.

Before the workshop I met my friend and fellow journalist, Theresa Curry, for a quick and early supper at Waynesboro's Stone Soup, a quirky, lovely restaurant/bookstore that occupies an old farmhouse perched high on a hill beside Main Street.

I parked in front on the street. Climbing the steep steps to the little old house felt like climbing into a fairytale; flowers, flowers everywhere, and a small striped snail climbing with me. I was flanked on either side by mounds of  lavender and small green sprawling plants I can't name, but will look out for at nurseries so I can bring them home to sprawl in my own gardens. Who knew there were so many shades of green?

Theresa and I ate our soup and sandwich out on the back patio. There was garden, garden everywhere around us: nothing formal; every flower seemingly brought forth with a dowsing rod.

It wasn't a garden to admire as much as a garden simply to be in. And sitting there, talking with Theresa about books and words and life and journalism, I, for that one hour, did just that. I turned off the chatter in my head, let the to-do list fly away on the breeze, and stopped worrying about how to save the world through public radio. I became, for that hour in that garden, a kind of whole-person smile, at peace with myself and with the world.

I thought again about Devan Malore's fine Civic Soapbox essay last Friday about moving more slowly. This is not something I do easily, but last night I did it accidentally. Once again the wisdom of the Rolling Stones asserted itself: If you try sometime, you just might find, you get what you need.

If you are over-busy, over-worried, and most particularly, like me, occasionally overly self-important, I highly recommend dinner in a garden.