At this point in my life, there’s not much I really need: a few carafes of coffee in the morning; the undying affection of millions around the world; an investment portfolio that guarantees me financial security for another three decades or so; but other than that, I’ve got it made.
And yet, oddly, I still find myself coveting things I don’t have: a pair of pants made from recycled water bottles; a bicycle that converts from a solo to a tandem and features a hidden electric motor for climbing steep hills; a bottle of bourbon so rare and expensive that even Saudi Arabian sheiks only hoard it for themselves. None of these, and others, are things that I need, by any stretch of the imagination; however, with even the smallest bit of reach in my own mind, I find myself dreaming of acquiring them.
I see what’s going on here, of course: I feel some basic lack of completeness in my psyche, and I’m trying to fill it with material goods. The usual strategies of oversleeping, alcohol abuse, and 24-hour cable sports don’t do the trick, so I look elsewhere—notably all around the internet—to find them.
Were I a better person, I’d surely find what I’m seeking by gazing within; as it is, however, when I introspect deeply, I keep running across that high-tech vacuum cleaner that runs perfectly silently and works equally well on rugs and wood floors, as well. If only I had that, perfect harmony and lasting bliss would be mine.
Our hunter-gatherer ancestors got by with nothing more than a pointed stick and a piece of flint; we’re hard-wired, apparently, to be satisfied with much less than we have. Philosophers like Spinoza remind us that it’s much easier to change our desires than change the world; we should want what we have rather than wanting what we don’t.
Sure thing; and I’d want what I have, if only I had more.
And yet, oddly, I still find myself coveting things I don’t have: a pair of pants made from recycled water bottles; a bicycle that converts from a solo to a tandem and features a hidden electric motor for climbing steep hills; a bottle of bourbon so rare and expensive that even Saudi Arabian sheiks only hoard it for themselves. None of these, and others, are things that I need, by any stretch of the imagination; however, with even the smallest bit of reach in my own mind, I find myself dreaming of acquiring them.
I see what’s going on here, of course: I feel some basic lack of completeness in my psyche, and I’m trying to fill it with material goods. The usual strategies of oversleeping, alcohol abuse, and 24-hour cable sports don’t do the trick, so I look elsewhere—notably all around the internet—to find them.
Were I a better person, I’d surely find what I’m seeking by gazing within; as it is, however, when I introspect deeply, I keep running across that high-tech vacuum cleaner that runs perfectly silently and works equally well on rugs and wood floors, as well. If only I had that, perfect harmony and lasting bliss would be mine.
Our hunter-gatherer ancestors got by with nothing more than a pointed stick and a piece of flint; we’re hard-wired, apparently, to be satisfied with much less than we have. Philosophers like Spinoza remind us that it’s much easier to change our desires than change the world; we should want what we have rather than wanting what we don’t.
Sure thing; and I’d want what I have, if only I had more.
