That Thing We Don't Talk About

That would be money.

I am thinking about money more than ever these days; mostly because I have less of it than I've ever had. This is not a complaint, as my financial status is mostly a choice: I work freelance, and I work less than full-time, so that I can write and live part-time in the country and grow vegetables and be the mistress of my own hours. I consider thoroughly the distinction between need and want on an almost hourly basis, every time an urge or desire (which involves financial expense) arises. On a tight budget, the process by which an appetite or inclination churns through the need-or-want litmus test machinery becomes thorough, layered, and verging on existential. Why do I want this thing, and what is really essential to wellness, health, and goodness in this life?

[Case in point: I am here in the tidy, affluent suburbs visiting my sister (who has just had a baby). I am making coffee using her deluxe multi-function sleek black gold filter coffeemaker. I am thinking, This is cool, wow, this is a fun gadget. And then, I am thinking, Would I spend money on this? Would this make my life better than a $12 bare bones automatic? And the answer comes back clear and swift: nah.]

This may give the impression of an austere and white-knuckling existence of deprivation. Quite the contrary. In fact, I'd venture to say that while this is the least financially-bountiful time of my life, it is also the richest time of my life - in pleasure, challenge, and experience.

The draw to the city and the country for me I think are related to this - a particular relationship to material things, to the material world, which is different from the suburbs of my upbringing. Of course materialism is a global phenomonenon, not limited to any particular cultural environment these days. But in the city and the country, one is called upon to flex resourcefulness muscles in particularly intense ways: the farmer is the original DIY guy; and on a small income in a city like New York, you become a genius of creative survival and DIY pleasures.

In the country, we grow food from seed, we chop wood, we cut grass with used equipment, we do as much of our own house projects as possible (although as I've written, I am only slowly growing into all this), we walk, we swim, we browse yard sales, I bake, he grills, we hunt mushrooms, we sit on the porch and read or talk, I write, he thinks, we shovel snow and jog in the rain, we breathe into the backs of our lungs. Sometimes, we smoke a good cigar. We delve deeply into pleasure - a joy which comes from a certain measure of exertion - and minimally call upon entertainment, the sort of pleasure-like experience which is primarily passive (don't get me wrong, though; we do enjoy a good movie on DVD.) And we do it mostly without opening our wallets.

In the city, bargain-hunting and minimal living is truly life-as-art. Dumpster-diving (or "curbside recycling") is no joke, it is extreme interior design for the most ambitious beauty-lovers. Chinatown and the farmers' markets are complementary subsistence staples. Eating out on a regular basis is the middle-class NYer's financial Achilles Heel; we commit to the life of home-cooking, become intimate with the contents of the fridge (timely "repurposers" of that which is about to go south), and make serious use of the freezer (an $8 Puerto Rican breakfast out, thus, becomes an event, and a savored one). For the daily commuter, the unlimited 30-day metro pass is the World's Best Urban Bargain, and eco-friendly to boot.

I can't remember the last time I bought an article of clothing. And I can't remember the last time I missed it.

The rewards of the light footprint on the planet are indeed deep and wide; with less to spend, there is much to be gained. I realize that all this can smack of yuppie-crunchy hobby-tourism; with any luck, it's more than that, it's a real evolving life.

Yesterday, just before leaving the city for this visit to the suburbs, I found myself power-browsing the $1 book carts outside The Strand - that mecca of discount literature - on a somewhat strange mission. My sister had requested I bring a book or two, "something light" - literally, something she could hold in one hand while breastfeeding. The $1 book carts (throughout the city, not just Strand - let me recommend Housing Works Bookstore as well) are a beautiful, glorious thing. Some of my deepest, most lasting pleasures have been found on these carts - EL Doctorow's Ragtime, Marilynne Robinson's Housekeeping, Edith Wharton's The House of Mirth (Cormac McCarthy's All the Pretty Horses is a recent purchase awaiting me), and I left there with two promising, less-than-one-inch-wide paperbacks (Amy Bloom and Laurie Colwin), a $2.16 investment. The pleasure is in the exertion (if you are familiar with the claustrophobic chaos which is the Strand, you know my meaning) and in the discovery.

My sister and her husband are stressed about money. Between the two of them, they make what seems to me a goodly income. Sis and I do a pretty good job of letting one another live and let live, without judgment; although I suspect we each consider at times the impossibility of the other's true happiness. I can only say that this is my life now, waist-deep in the worlds of difficult pleasures, city and country, and thanks to any of you who take the time to read about it.