I am currently in the middle of a house move and can confirm that it is indeed a monstrously stressful activity. As I lamented in an email to an (enviably monastic) friend, ‘why do we bury ourselves under these mountains of stuff?’ All the way back in 1891, in an essay extolling the virtues of socialism, Oscar Wilde declared that ‘[t]he possession of private property is very often extremely demoralising… [p]roperty not merely has duties, but has so many duties that its possession to any large extent is a bore’ (Wilde, 1891, p. 3)[1]. Presently, I feel about fifty percent duty and fifty percent exhaustion.
An overabundance of things has long weighed heavily on my mind. During the pandemic, suffocated as we were by the sudden shift from domicile to prison cell, I wrote an article for the Literary & Philosophical Society’s website entitled ‘Too Much Stuff’[2], decrying the incomprehensibly vast soup of material pouring onto the internet second by second, bursting through the gluttonous pores of streaming companies like Spotify and e-commerce giants like Amazon, threatening to leave us all awash in a meaningless ocean of digital and plastic noise. Since then, the situation has only worsened, particularly when you factor in the increased and largely unacknowledged prevalence of AI-generated art and music now churning the waters into a seething, gelatinous morass.
This bloating is, of course, a corollary of the materialistic foundations of our lives as subjects of a late-stage capitalistic society. For decades now, we have measured our success according to economic growth and signalled our achievement through an endless array of increasingly superfluous acquisitions, the provenance of which is oftentimes entirely unethical both in terms of the ecological and the humanitarian. In order to keep up with the validating mechanism of new things, we have to make space—but where do all our unwanted items end up? I sometimes lie awake picturing dystopic wastelands of refuse extending as far as the eye can see, an oozing mass slowly suppurating poisons into the tender flesh of the withering earth. These fields of junk exist, but it seems rare for anyone who doesn’t work there to have seen them. To do so would be to break the spell of perennial, shiny newness, to stare death and decay in the face, something our culture is designed to avoid like the plague.
In late 2023, I read Ruth Ozeki’s ‘The Book of Form & Emptiness’, in which one of the protagonists suffers from hoarding disorder (Ozeki, 2021). Ozeki, also a Zen priest, examines the causes and conditions of this character’s suffering with tremendous compassion, clarity, and insight, thereby inviting the reader to consider their own relationships to objects. Attachment to objects, however, is not about the objects themselves but rather the emotional attachments they symbolise. As Indian guru Nisargadatta Maharaj explains[3], this complex tapestry of emotions points towards something more fundamental: ‘[a]ll your desires, whatever they may be, are longing for happiness’ (Maharaj, 1992). For many, material possessions are buoys at which they desperately grasp, dangling above a chasm of unknowing and dread. These buoys are certain to deflate, but the chasm is eternal; the only options, therefore, are to acquire ever more stuff, constantly kicking the can down the road with the latest designer trainers, or to relinquish control and fall into emptiness. Our conditioning as modern-day Westerners denies us the spiritual maturity to embrace the latter, but this denial cannot be sustained indefinitely.
As a teenager, I would often order CDs or books online, drawing on the thrill of anticipation at quiet moments to push away a nagging sense of discontent. When I was unable to remember what items were en route, anxiety would quickly seize me, prompting a few harried moments of recollection. As soon as the parcels arrived and the promise of acquisition was fulfilled, the joy would summarily evaporate. In hindsight, it is painfully easy to see how my younger self was falling into the trap of seeking contentment in externalities, a quest that is always doomed, one that plays out in countless tragedies in the realms of the individual and the societal.
Thankfully, I’m a tad wiser now, in no small part thanks to discovering Buddhism and its treasure trove of teachings, which is not to say that I’m immune to my old ways (ironically, I’m currently eyeing up a deck of The Buddha Tarot by Robert M. Place—purely a research interest, of course, representing a unique convergence of Tarot and Dharma; nothing at all to do with just wanting new stuff…). After reading Ozeki’s work, I managed to part with around one third of my possessions, including musical instruments and a substantial chunk of my beloved record collection. Over the last few years, I am glad to say that the mountain I carry has continued to shrink. As the huge pile of boxes in my dining room reminds me, however, the path is long.
One of the core teachings of Buddhism is that of impermanence: ‘everything changes, nothing stays the same’ (Ozeki, 2022, section entitled ‘The Experiment’). This is the chasm of which I spoke earlier. As Ozeki succinctly explains, ‘[w]e don’t like impermanence, we want to be someone, a fixed self, and we want that self to last. Lacking that fixity, we suffer’ (Ibid). In our ignorance, we try to bury our suffering beneath attachment. Perhaps, then, the heart of the matter is one of framing. If we consider everything good to revolve around gain, then truths such as impermanence will be hard to see in a positive light. In the introduction to his beautiful translation of ‘The Dhammapada’, Spiritual teacher Eknath Easwaran shares this wonderful tale:
‘Someone once asked the Buddha sceptically, “What have you gained through meditation?” The Buddha replied, “Nothing at all.” “Then, Blessed One, what good is it?” “Let me tell you what I lost through meditation: sickness, anger, depression, insecurity, the burden of old age, the fear of death. That is the good of meditation, which leads to nirvana.”’ (Easwaran & Ruppenthal, 2007, Introduction)
Understood in this way, we can begin to pick apart the myth of attainment. All our lives we have been promised happiness once we gain something: our ideal partner, our dream job, our picture-book home, our rightful reputation. Most everything in our culture is geared towards this idea. The vast majority of people will know the experience of reaching a goal only to find that the posts have moved. This could be anything from the relatively insignificant (teenage John opening parcels) to the pivotal (becoming the CEO of a multinational corporation). Zen rōshi Maurine Stuart warns us that ‘when we think we have attained something, we’re in trouble’ (Chayat, 1996, p. 78). The Heart Sutra, a foundational Buddhist text, succinctly states, ‘attainment too is emptiness’ (Emptiness and the Heart Sutra, n.d.). As the Buddha alludes to in the parable above, by inverting our perspective, we can shift from an understanding of suffering as caused by lack to suffering as caused by burden. In shaking off these burdens, whatsoever they may be, the weight of attachment begins to lift from our shoulders—we are en-lightened and discover that happiness was there all along. We are not attaining it; it cannot be attained, only uncovered.
As we have established, attachments are not limited to the material. In fact, it is entirely possible to live an immaterial life and yet remain utterly imprisoned by attachment. Minimalism is no guarantee of emancipation. One of the most pervasive traps we fall into is the story we tell about ourselves. Once we have fixed upon a narrative, ideals, traits, skills, and so on, that we believe define who we are, we can expend inordinate amounts of energy simply maintaining, inwardly and outwardly, the illusion of permanence. This can also make it challenging for people to admit, to themselves or to others, that they have been wrong, instead doubling down, further calcifying their fabricated borders. In a journal entry from early 2024, I reckon with artistic identity in my own life:
‘I have become imprisoned inside a vision of myself as musician, a personal archetype nailed to a complex framework according to which I constantly assess the success of my project, my product… I have unwittingly sought through my practice to give credence to the delusion of permanence.’ (J. Garner, personal communication, January 2, 2024)
At times, when this idea of myself and the expectations generated thereby did not match (for example, when my career wasn’t taking off in the way I thought it ought to), I would find myself cornered, frustrated and confused. This was not the way my story was supposed to go. At the lowest of moments, it becomes tempting to blame others, to construct a paranoid fantasy in which others are out to confound you, are too ignorant to recognise your singular qualities. When we water the seeds of cynicism, paranoia, or rage, we reap bitter fruit (Hanh, 2008, section on ‘Right View’). Grievances and grudges, too, can become attachments.
So, what is to be done? To return to Maharaj, ‘[d]esire by itself is not wrong. It is the choices that you make that are wrong… Only something as vast and deep as your real self can make you truly and lastingly happy’ (Maharaj, 1992). It is this pursuit of the real, authentic Self, in place of the fatting of the imagined self, to which we must turn, first recognising that the trap is one of our own devising. Yes, we are heavily conditioned towards this way of thinking and feeling in almost every aspect of our twenty-first century lives and yet we maintain these bonds entirely by ourselves. Once we realise this and know it to be true, we can start to approach everything in a spirit of inquiry and openness. Vietnamese Buddhist monk and peace activist Thich Nhat Hanh invites us to ask, ‘Am I Sure?’, allowing us to breathe and consider, rather than to react:
‘We have an idea of happiness. We believe that only certain conditions will make us happy. But it is often our very idea of happiness that prevents us from being happy. We have to look deeply into our perceptions in order to become free of them. Then, what has been a perception becomes an insight, a realization of the path. This is neither perception nor non-perception. It is a clear vision, seeing things as they are.’ (Hanh, 2008, chapter nine)
Why not try giving a possession away? Start small—not the family heirlooms, but an item in which you have some emotional energy invested. What feelings arise? Does the experience spark something unexpected? Perhaps try parting with one thing every day. This could be an object, but equally it could be a thought or a feeling. Is there a memory that has been weighing on you, an opportunity missed, a petty insult loosed in irritation, a minor embarrassment in public? Try giving yourself permission to let go, to move on. See what happens. To take a different approach, consider which objects serve you in a reliable, genuine, meaningful way, and contrast this with other objects which may have a less wholesome presence in your life.
Through small acts such as these, entered into with compassion, we can begin to embody a spirit of release and relinquishment. As the shackles of attachment fall gradually away, gratitude arises in the now vacant space. Things become simpler. I leave you with the words of Zen rōshi John Daido Loori:
‘To be simple means to make a choice about what’s important, and to let go of all the rest. When we are able to do this, our vision expands, our heads clear, and we can better see the details of our lives in all their incredible wonder and beauty.’ (Loori, 2005, p. 154)[4]
John Garner
[1] I by no means wish here to fetishise or downplay the very real plague of poverty and homelessness endemic in our society.
[2] This article can now be found on my website: https://johngarner.co.uk/writings/too-much-stuff
[3] I am grateful to Matt Cardin for sharing the wisdom of Maharaj at precisely the right moment via his Substack page: https://www.livingdark.net/
[4] Many thanks to Rev. Roland of Throssel Hole Buddhist Abbey for his thoughtful feedback on the article.
References
Chayat, R. S. (Ed.). (1996). Subtle Sound: The Zen Teachings of Maurine Stuart. Boston: Shambhala Publications, Inc.
Easwaran, E., & Ruppenthal, S. (2007). The Dhammapada. (E. Easwaran, Trans.) Nilgiri Press.
Emptiness and the Heart Sutra. (n.d.). Retrieved July 30, 2024, from The Buddhist Centre: https://thebuddhistcentre.com/stories/toolkit/heart-sutra-emptiness/
Hanh, T. N. (2008). The Heart of the Buddha’s Teaching. Ebury Publishing.
Loori, J. D. (2005). The Zen of Creativity: Cultivating Your Artistic Life. New York: Ballantine Books.
Maharaj, S. N. (1992). The Way to Self-Realization: Part Four. Retrieved September 26, 2024, from Nonduality.com: https://www.abuddhistlibrary.com/Buddhism/H – World Religions and Poetry/World Religions/From the Indian Tradition/Teachers from the Indian Tradition/Nisargadatta Maharaj/The Way to Self- Realization/Nisargadatta The Way to Self-Realization, Part Four.htm
Ozeki, R. (2021). The Book of Form & Emptiness. Edinburgh: Canongate Books.
Ozeki, R. (2022). Timecode of a Face. Edinburgh: Canongate Books.
Wilde, O. (1891). The Soul of Man under Socialism. Freeditorial.
MEANS 