The Joy of Less Page 11

  Keeping the Lens Cap On

  Happiness, not in another place but this place… not for another hour, but this hour.

  ~Walt Whitman

  The waiter carefully placed two gold-rimmed plates, filled with linguine and panko-crusted chicken, on the table. “Enjoy your meal. Let me know if you need anything,” he said with a courteous smile as he scurried off to serve the other guests in the restaurant.

  Raul lifted his fork to begin eating before I interrupted him, “Wait, can I take a picture for Instagram?”

  He sighed, “Go ahead.” I took out my cell phone and took the picture for Instagram. Then, I spent the next thirty seconds deciding on which filter would bring out the best in my food and which clever hash tags to include in my post.

  By the time our chocolate-drizzled ice cream dessert came around, I was getting ready to take my fifth picture of the night. Raul rolled his eyes. I quickly snuck in a shot of the dessert before asking him, “Sorry, am I bothering you by taking pictures?”

  “I’m not gonna lie, it’s a little annoying,” he said hesitantly. “But it’s okay. I want you to do what makes you happy.”

  I put away the phone, a little bit embarrassed, and decided to just enjoy our date. While we conversed over dessert, his statement lingered in the back of my mind. It wasn’t until I reached home that I really contemplated the issue. Did taking pictures of my life, to show 500 followers whom I barely spoke to, make me happy? Well, there was definitely that indescribable feeling I felt when my post amassed over twenty likes. It felt good; it felt like I won. But, what was the prize? I looked through the stream of photos that I had posted of Raul and me throughout our two-year relationship. Most were of our time spent at fine restaurants or the latest attractions near our city, and the brand name gifts we bought each other on holidays. I clicked on the profiles of other people I knew (or rather, was acquainted with) and noticed a similar trend.

  It seemed like social media platforms were akin to the stages upon which spectacular plays are showcased. Everything grand is put on the stage as part of one big competition to see who has the best life. People are always trying to validate themselves and their relationships by posting pictures of their fancy vacations, their romantic dinners and the many lavish things that their paycheques can buy. Unfortunately, it’s easy to get caught up in the competition, even when you don’t realize it or intend to do so. It’s funny, the pictures are always so perfect but we’re all well aware that life isn’t. I wondered how many of these seemingly perfect pictures that flashed before my eyes coincided with an argument, or an annoyed bystander.

  I called Raul that night, “I’m sorry about the pictures tonight. I had a good time but I think it could have been better if I just didn’t take any pictures,” I admitted to him.

  “Don’t worry about it, it’s honestly okay,” he replied.

  “No, it’s not. I’ve been thinking about it all night. I actually came up with a good idea.”

  “Really? What’s this big idea?”

  “How about for at least the next year, we ditch the fancy restaurants and going out to expensive places and just go on free dates? And I promise I’ll stop taking so many pictures. I’ll limit myself to just one for each date.”

  “Wow, you’re really okay with doing that?”

  “Yeah, I’m serious. I mean, who are we trying to impress? We should be having fun, not worrying about what others think, right?”

  “You’re absolutely right. I think it’s a great idea. It’s not about where we go or what we do; it’s about being together and being happy. We’ll save a ton of money, too.”

  “Yeah, I know! I can start making a list of date ideas if that’s okay and if I miss anything, we can add it in later.”

  “Sounds good. I’m sure you’ll think of some exciting things.” He was right. As I put my pen to paper, I thought back to our previous conversations about his childhood, things he dreamt of doing and things we did before we were together.

  I recalled him telling me that back in the Caribbean, where he grew up, they would fly handmade kites on Easter. This was meant to symbolize the Risen Lord. They would also tie prayers to their kites, hoping that the message would reach God. He told me about the different types of kites he made with his friends and how odd he found it when he moved to Canada that no one flew kites on Easter. Fly a kite, I wrote at the top of the page.

  Did taking pictures of my life, to show 500 followers whom I barely spoke to, make me happy?

  Another special memory was the day we first kissed. It was on a trail behind our high school football field. I stumbled to get past the boulders and twigs that were lying on the ground. He had held my waist gently to make sure that I didn’t fall. We finally made it to a log that was stable enough to sit on. I saw him staring at me out of the corner of my eye but I was too nervous to look back so I stared at the clouds slowly drifting across the sky.

  “It’s so pretty here,” I said.

  “I really like you,” he said, completely ignoring my attempt at small talk, “You’re so different from all the other girls here. It sounds lame, but it’s true. Your face isn’t caked with make-up, you care about your future and you walk around like you don’t care what people think of you. More girls need to be like you.”

  I looked at him and smiled. “Thank you,” and it just happened. There were no fireworks but there was the sound of nature all around us. Everything about that moment felt natural.

  I added “go hiking” to the list. By the end of the night, I had everything from playing board games to building a blanket fort on the list. After he approved every item on the list and added a few more, we began scheduling our first new-style date.

  “The first time I saw you, you were looking at the paintings in the showcase near the art classes. So, I think we should do something artistic. How about painting a picture together?” he asked.

  “Sure, that sounds great. I’ll come to your house on Friday.”

  When I entered his garage that Friday, there were paintbrushes, bottles of paint and a large canvas laid out on one of those white, fold-up picnic tables.

  “Ready?” he smiled.

  “Of course, this looks amazing!”

  We sat down and began painting a beautiful landscape together. Not only was it liberating to release our emotions on a canvas through our brushstrokes and choice of colours, but there was something special about allowing our creativity to flow, having fun together and being far from the world’s eyes.

  ~Selena Singh

  Itching for a Change

  Becoming acquainted with yourself is a price well worth paying for the love that will really address your needs.

  ~Daphne Rose Kingma

  I wanted to be a receptionist in a doctor’s office when I grew up. As a kid, I played with a blue plastic phone and a calendar, answering the phone with a smile and filling in time slots for patient appointments. Fifty years later I am still filling in my calendar, but my plastic phone has been replaced by an iPhone and as a clinical psychologist I serve as my own receptionist. A vanilla candle on the corner of my desk perfumes the air with a subtle scent as I listen to life stories in forty-five minute intervals — sound bites of love, loss, dreams, and tragedy. Worn green leather chairs cushion our time together. I have a photographic memory for only two things: my patients’ lives from one week to the next, and baking recipes.

  One Christmas holiday a few years ago, my work stress was intensifying due to the difficulty of cases and the number of clients I chose to see in a day. It was a cold Thursday evening that I sat listening to a young woman recount a horrific car accident she had witnessed the previous night: “She flew through the air as the car careened around the curve and slid off the embankment. I knew it was my neighbor when I saw her red and green socks through my headlights as she hit the pavement. She always wore funny socks with her snow boots.”

  I drove home holding tight to the steering wheel, snow beginning to fall. As I opened our front
door to the smell of baked potatoes, my neck suddenly became hot and itchy.

  My daughter asked, “What are all those red spots, Mom?” A warm bath seemed to help but the next week it happened two more times after a long day of work. I realized I was itching for a change. I had to figure out how to simplify and live my next fifty years more peacefully.

  Shortening my workweek and seeing fewer patients was only the beginning. More importantly my mid-day is now reserved for someone special whose self-care trumps all others. My blue yoga mat sits regally in the corner of my office, always a reminder of the importance of my own physical, emotional, and spiritual alignment. I steal away to a small yoga studio around the corner. It is my sanctuary where I connect to myself. I need to do that — it’s at the core of my ability to help heal and connect with others.

  Yoga is like putting on my reading glasses, allowing me to see what is closest to me, which can get blurred when caring for others.

  Yoga is like putting on my reading glasses, allowing me to see what is closest to me, which can get blurred when caring for others. When I am centered and balanced, I can better read my patients’ stories. A therapist’s work is all about change and transition — both our personal growth and that of our clients. The inevitable pain and challenge of our journey is softened in yoga class as we experience a sweet calm in the transition between our in breath and our out breath and from one pose to the next. Standing poses challenge my balance, reminding me of the importance of finding that equanimity in our busy lives. I try to wear clothes that easily travel from one practice to the other, from mat to office, my seams holding the healing energy.

  Like the soothing bath on a cold night just a few years ago, I now bathe in the light of daily yoga and meditation to sooth the inevitable rough spots in life. As I meet my true self on the mat I am better able to meet the truth in others. What an honor to hold on to the simplicity of that receptionist job I dreamed of as a child.

  ~Priscilla Dann-Courtney

  Why I (Mostly) Quit Facebook

  One day I hope to have as good a life as everyone on Facebook.

  ~Author Unknown

  I have a love-hate relationship with Facebook. I’d heard how addictive it could be so I never signed up. But a few years ago, after my sister begged me, I reluctantly became a Facebook user.

  I decided to treat my venture into Facebook as a lark. I would use it once, just to see what the buzz was about, and never visit the site again. I created a bare-bones account using my work ID photo. For about ten minutes, my sister was my only friend. As I looked at her page and her friends’ pages, learning new things about them, a dear high school friend “friended” me. Once I accepted that request things snowballed. In the next thirty minutes, I had sixty-three friend requests — all former high school classmates, many of whom I’d hardly spoken with since graduation. It was intoxicating. And interesting too — to read their profiles and see what they were up to and what we had in common. My life suddenly seemed richer. Why had I avoided Facebook so long?

  After a pleasant lunch hour, I logged off, intending not to visit Facebook much in the future. However, the next day, a colleague sent me a friend request. After I accepted, I noticed that this colleague was Facebook friends with other colleagues. It seemed only polite for me to make these friendships official and public too. So I “friended” my colleagues. And while I was on, I “friended” all my college friends as well. I’d definitely stop there though.

  I’d only been on Facebook a week when I felt an almost rabid need to collect friends. I had to have everyone I ever went to school with, worked with, the parents of my kids’ friends, and seemingly everyone I’d ever met. I made it my goal to collect 1,000 Facebook friends, and imagined how great it would feel to be so connected.

  By now, if I had no lunches with friends scheduled, I’d check Facebook, laughing and sympathizing with the updates of my new online community.

  Time is the most precious commodity. It’s the only thing we really can’t make more of.

  I wasn’t sure about the etiquette involved with responding to posts. Did I have a responsibility to read all the headlines that Facebook generated for me and to respond to all my friends’ updates and photos with a personal comment or “like”? Need I acknowledge every Facebook friend’s birthday? Did my friends compare what I posted on other friends’ walls? If I liked someone’s new baby pictures, was I unintentionally hurting another friend’s feelings by not reading on to learn about and like his job promotion? Could I ever take a day off from Facebook? As fun and exciting as Facebook could be, it was also very stressful.

  I updated my status rarely, crafting a breezy, but hopefully pithy, comment on life, or announcing something monumental like my wedding anniversary. Then I’d wait with bated breath to see who would respond.

  I updated my photographs even more rarely, deliberating endlessly about my choices. What was I saying by only including myself in my profile picture, or choosing one with myself and only one of my three kids? Was I dissing my husband and other kids?

  With my Facebook e-mail synced to my work e-mail, I’d get constant Facebook updates and e-mails all day long. It took tremendous discipline not to respond immediately. I could easily be lured into checking out someone’s status change, then sucked in deeper, marveling over shared experiences with people I was hardly friends with in real life. People sometimes shared the most ridiculous things, like how they ate a burrito at lunch, and yet receive 100 responses from fellow burrito eaters. They’d rave about the inherent deliciousness of burritos and debate the best and worst places to buy them. These threads would continue for days. People would post that their cat or kids threw up, drawing sympathy from forty-two of their friends. I hated devoting time to thinking about such things, yet was unable to stop reading. More than once I found myself looking at engagement or vacation pictures of friends of friends, people I’d never met.

  I also found myself thinking a lot about people I hadn’t thought about for years, measuring their home and work situations, their kids’ activities, against mine, drawing conclusions about their lives based on their posts. I have severe motion sickness, and don’t particularly like sailing, yet felt intense jealousy when one friend bought a boat and posted a dozen photographs of her beautiful, happy family’s boating adventures. It seemed to follow that this friend probably also had children who did everything the first time they were asked, an easy commute, a self-cleaning home, and laundry that spontaneously washed, folded, and put itself away. I considered buying a boat.

  Posts like these affected my in-person interactions. I got grumpy with my family for no reason other than I’d been feeling bad about things I’d read on Facebook. Everyone on Facebook seemed to be having more fun than me.

  Despite my best intentions, I, too, could let Facebook eat up hours of my time on any given day. In addition to scheduling fewer lunches with friends, I was now devoting an increasing amount of family time to it. I resented when I had to log off to cook dinner, read to my kids, or watch a movie with my husband. As my online connections grew, my real social life stagnated. My husband complained, but I ignored him. I felt happier, and yet also unhappier, but completely addicted.

  It was only when my four-year-old hit his two-year-old brother with an Etch a Sketch, saying he ruined his Facebook picture, that I knew I had a problem.

  The same day, I lunched with an old friend. In the course of our conversation she said she’d realized lately that “time is the most precious commodity. It’s the only thing we really can’t make more of.” Her words hit me hard. Why was I wishing I didn’t have to read to my children or watch movies with my husband, activities I’d always loved? Why had I been devoting so much time to relationships that meant relatively less to me?

  That night I changed my personal Facebook policy. Though I kept my page up, I now limit myself to fifteen minutes a week. If anyone has anything important to say, they can tell me personally. I’ll probably never quit Facebook completely; it�
�s helped me connect with old friends I might never have reunited with otherwise. But these days, I regularly meet friends in person for lunch again. I read more books, watch more movies, and take joy in spending time with my family. To paraphrase the great humorist Erma Bombeck, I now cry and laugh less on Facebook — and more while living life. It feels like time well spent.

  ~Kate Lemery

  Cutting the Cord

  If you want your children to turn out well, spend twice as much time with them and half as much money.

  ~Abigail Van Buren

  The blare of the television drowned out my voice as I told the kids to work on their homework. I tried to talk to my husband about an important issue, but he was so engrossed in the show he was watching that he didn’t hear a word I said. I had the opening song of a number of shows memorized, and I dreaded hearing them. I knew that when those songs came on, I would lose my family, each of them in a different part of the house, caught up in a world created by Hollywood. My youngest daughter’s sassy attitude mirrored those of the girls in the television show — girls whose parents are irresponsible, not present, or the butt of a lot of jokes.

  And then everything changed.

  We’d dreamed of living in the mountains ever since we were dating. And then, in one bold, “I can’t believe we’re doing this” moment, we did. We sold our beautiful house in the suburbs and moved to the mountains. A thousand square feet smaller than our old house, the new house lacked a lot of other things we once took for granted. The biggest being the lack of access to television. Too far from the city to get any antenna reception, we also could not get the cable company to come out. Satellite television was too expensive, way more than what people in the city paid, and with fewer options. Which meant we could only use our television to stream movies from the Internet (with limited selection, since most services charged more than we were willing to pay) or watch movies.