Working on some thoughts, and since they are in process I thought I would offer someone elses blah blah blah for a change, I know, you can thank me later, dear readers... ;-)
by Nicholas Klassen
As
much as I’d like to consider myself an ascetic, I probably get drunk
too often to qualify. And even without that specific vice, it’s hard to
imagine ever being able to match the big leaguers like Saint Francis,
Gandhi, and those fellows who permanently hold their arms above their
heads to the point of disfigurement out of some sort of Hindu devotion.
The
exploits of that crowd tend to intimidate me. But I love the stories.
Like in Suketu Mehta’s book Maximum City: Bombay Lost and Found, where
he describes the members of a wealthy Jain family of diamond merchants
who take diksha – renouncing all their worldly possessions to become
wandering, barefoot mendicant monks. Their grand send-off consists of a
parade through the streets in elephant-drawn carts so they can lob
handfuls of money and gold to the cheering crowds. As if that weren’t
enough, they then renounce each other; the husband departs in one
direction with his sons, the wife in another with her daughter. Their
subsequent days are spent begging for food with nothing to their names
but an alms bowl and two unstitched pieces of cloth to wear. Pious
Jains praise the selfless act. Cynics speculate derisively that the
local mafia must have been after them or that there must be a trust
fund in place should the family have second thoughts. Mehta catches up
with the man months later to update the story. His bare feet are
“cracked, calloused, split, and blackened” from his trek, but his
heart, he insists, is at peace.
So what does this mean for
me? Should I follow suit? Cash in my savings so that I can hand out
crisp $100 bills on the streets of Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside and
start walking to Prince George?
Probably not. I can’t even
match my favorite ascetic, Uncle Ernst, who lives year-round in a
lakeside, uninsulated cabin that has neither electricity nor plumbing.
He maintains a rigorous meditation regimen and once holed himself up in
a Thai Buddhist monastery for a month, meditating all day and
subsisting on rice and water. I wouldn’t have lasted more than a few
hours [[before needing a diversion, a beer or something]].
But
I do strive for a degree of self-denial based on my religious
convictions, though an objective observer might question my adherence
to austere ideals. For starters, I’m not interested in banishing the
great pleasures of good food, drink, and general merriment. A world
without frothy pints of pale ale would not be for me. So that’s why
I’ve decided that it doesn’t have to be an “all or nothing” venture.
Take my ’89 K-Car station wagon. Automobile ownership may automatically
exclude me from being an ascetic, but what about the fact that it’s a
$400 beater that I went halfers on with my brother – the two of us have
our own car co-op. Or that it sits parked most of the time because I
only bought it so I could visit my folks – who were largely responsible
for any ascetic inclinations I have – and go camping – surely an
exercise in asceticism, MEC gear notwithstanding.
I
figure I’m downright Gandhian by North American consumption standards.
Our society is so unaccustomed to – and in fact, scared of – Spartan
living, that the Unabomber’s defense attorneys cited the stark 10’ by
12’ shack he lived in as proof of his insanity. That’s part of the
appeal for me; if mainstream society looks down on simplicity, then it
must be good. But more than that, I seek simplicity because I have
stood with refugees queuing for their meagre food ration and I cannot
gorge myself with the knowledge that they are always hungry. I seek it
because the Earth cannot sustain our appetite for resources. I seek it
because I have long since tuned out the foot soldiers of
turbo-capitalism constantly imploring me to buy. I seek it also in
deference to my religious heritage – though I am careful not to
romanticize the asceticism of my Anabaptist forebears that grew out of
persecution, displacement and poverty.
And despite all these
stated motivations, my affinity for simplicity is ultimately rooted in
some intangible spiritual considerations; considerations that are a
shrouded mystery, and, as far as I’m concerned, can remain so.
I
also recognize that I do self-denial on my own terms. If I didn’t enjoy
biking, it would likely not be my primary means of transportation. If I
didn’t like toasted peanut butter and cheese sandwiches, that would
likely not suffice for dinner. If I didn’t hate to shop for clothes so
much, I would probably wear new duds more often.
Still, I do
genuinely believe that my inroads toward asceticism – fully recognizing
that others have made far greater advances than I – count for
something. And I like to think I’m taking cues from the Buddha, who
left the opulence of his father’s palace to embark on an ascetic search
for enlightenment. But after six years of austerity and severe fasting
that almost sent him to an early grave, he realized the ascetic path
just increased suffering rather than bringing enlightenment. Go figure.
Turns out the path to take is a ‘middle way.’ Mind you, after this
realization he then proceeded to sit under a tree for seven weeks until
he achieved enlightenment himself, and then slogged through the India
countryside for the next 45 years to share this epiphany. Pretty harsh
middle road.
I don’t aspire to be Buddha, or Saint Francis,
or the Jain diamond merchant-turned barefoot monk. I simply try to tune
in to the curiously satisfying mystery of austerity. I may not get it
all right and maybe I should beat myself up a little more over whether
my life is austere enough. But I don’t want self-denial to become
self-flagellation. So I fumble along and cherish the thought –
presumptuous as it may be – that even my half-assed version of
asceticism has me pointed in the right direction.
Nicholas Klassen is a former senior editor with Adbusters magazine, and now a senior partner at Biro Creative
