The Tea Letter #9: Introducing the Simple Life Series
A series of posts exploring the Simple Life: what is it and how do we live it?
This week’s newsletter is the beginning of something I’ve been meaning to do for a while: write a series of posts exploring a single idea or theme over time. I didn’t intend to start it now, but I saw this post on “overconsumption in hobbies” on reddit’s r/SimpleLiving subreddit and went down the rabbit hole.
So, I’d like to introduce my first series of posts exploring the Simple Life, what it means, and how exactly we go about living it. Much of what you’ll read in this series is “discovery” writing, meaning I’m doing it to find out what I think, myself. As such (and as always), I welcome any and all discussion on the ideas, thoughts, and themes presented in my writing.
I’d like this series to be more akin to a salon, where I introduce my ideas and then have discussion and dialogue about them with you in the comments. I believe commenting requires a Substack account (ew, more accounts) but, hey, you’re here anyways. Might as well make one (and consider subscribing while you’re at it, wink wink nudge nudge).
Much of this series is still in progress, but here’s my current draft of a Table of Contents (with the caveat it’s subject to change over time):
Introduction (you are here)
Values and the “God-Shaped Hole”
The Monk, the Designer, and the Disciplined Pursuit of Less
Mimetic Desire: Wabi and the “Rich Life”
Seeking Experiences vs. Stamp Collecting
Money and Finding Quality At Any Cost
Conclusion
Without further ado, let’s dive in.
Introduction
What is the “simple life”?
A common misconception about the simple life is that it requires us to engage in asceticism–a denial of “physical” and “psychological” desires to achieve a goal. This couldn’t be further from the truth.
In 1208, at the age of fifty-two, poet and Zen monk Chōmei retreated from the world and became a recluse, devoted to an ascetic life in the pursuit of Buddhist enlightenment. He was born the wealthy son of a Shinto priest and lived a courtly life of poetry and refinery. But his fortunes had come down significantly in the world.
Court politics, the chaos of the Genpei War, and a number of natural calamities conspired to drive him away from Kyoto and into a series of ever-smaller dwellings over the course of his life. From the fine mansion of his youth, he wound up in a hut, only ten foot square, back in the hills behind the Hōkaiji Temple in Hino, east of Kyoto in the modern Shiga prefecture. We know of his life there through his writings on the subject, called the Hōjōki (The Ten Foot Square Hut).
In it, he portrays a simple but idyllic existence: there is no one to shame him for living as he want; he chants Buddhist sutras; he sings and plays the koto or biwa without skill and does not care (there is no one there to listen, after all); he sometimes goes into the woods with the son of a local warden, only ten-years old, to pick berries, gather yams, and other such things (“He is ten, I am sixty – a vast difference in age, yet we find our pleasure in the same things.”)
By all measures, he is living the quiet and simple yet satisfying life of a recluse, set on the path of Buddhist asceticism he has chosen in the same spirit as the Buddha Siddartha himself. Then, when we cannot think anything would be better than to run off after Chōmei to build our own ten foot hut, he reveals a shocking admission: he has fallen victim to attachment and we have followed him into his sin.
He realizes at this moment his “fondness” for his hut is an error. He sees himself wasting his days “describing useless pleasures”. Chōmei went into seclusion to practice the Buddhist Way, but instead he has found his heart is corrupt. Is he distracted or has he tipped over into madness?
“When I confront my heart thus, it cannot reply,” he says.
For centuries, Chōmei’s readers have recoiled in horror at the realization that they, too, have fallen victim to attachment and fondness for a life so full of beauty. Even the recluse, who appears to live in the utmost simplicity, can fall into the trap of longing for life in such a place. What are we to do about this?
We don’t have to go far to find an answer, and neither did Chōmei.
If only Chōmei had paid more attention to Siddartha’s life, he would have realized asceticism does not work–the Buddha himself set it aside after learning it offered no hope for enlightenment. Instead, he moved on to establish what is known in his teachings as “The Middle Way”, a path of moderation away from the extremes of self-indulgence and self-denial. If we look to Jesus, we can easily see he was no recluse hiding away in caves to seek connection with God in isolation. No, he was out amongst the people proclaiming God’s Word and turning over tables in temples. He ate and drank with his disciples, engaging in fellowship with them while sharing in God’s blessings.
Where does this leave us in our understanding of the simple life? To know the simple life, we must find our own Middle Way.
As I thought about what I need to do to walk my own Way with courage and confidence, three distinct areas of importance emerged: my values, my essentials, and my time. Without knowing our values, our lives are like castles built on quicksand–with no bedrock beneath us our foundation will sink and the entire structure will collapse. With my values in place it becomes much easier to think about what matters to me most (i.e. what is truly essential) in my life so I can remove anything that does not belong. Finally, with my values established and my essentials clarified, I want to use my time to craft a life full of an abundance of what I want and a scarcity of what I don’t.
I know this is possible. The simple life has been modeled by others both great and small, richer and poorer throughout history. However, these examples have shown me it never happens by accident. A simple life must be made–the Middle Way must be pursued. The simple life requires dedication, action, and many leaps of faith. At times life will not have the appearance of simplicity at all. We will stumble and falter along our path. That, too, is part of the journey.
To quote E. L. Doctorow:
“Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”
As it is in writing, so it is in life. Though we know how life ends for us all, the path it takes to bring us there is hidden in fog and darkness. But we only need to see as far as our headlights can illuminate the path in front of us, so let’s not delay any further.
The trip is long so we best get going.
P.S. I realized Substack doesn’t use thumbnail images in the body of the post and I’d actually like you to see this one. It’s a reconstruction of Chōmei’s “ten foot hut” that nicely illustrates the kind of environment he was in when he wrote Hōjōki.