Growing affluence

Years and years ago, I encountered Marshall Sahlins' essay "The Original Affluent Society". Sahlins, an anthropologist, argues in this piece that the so-called primitive cultures are decidedly more affluent than the settled-in, modern groups because they acquire so little. Acquisition is in fact a burden in the original affluent societies because assets weigh one's body down, require the carrying of cargo, and, because assets must be maintained if they are not to be lost, one's ability to engage in the basic hunter-gatherer instincts for survival becomes increasingly restricted.

The end result as another man -- Karl Marx -- maintained was alienation. One loses touch with the activities that lend life its meaning and become engaged in a constant struggle of earning through the selling of one's labor enough money to survive. The richness of life becomes increasingly impoverished as hours in the workplace increase and wages -- even if they do not shrink -- become more and more inadequate to cover the basic needs of life.

I used to think of the original affluent society as a metaphor for late twentieth and early twenty-first century life. Building on the understanding of "less is more," I would do my best to keep my worldly possessions down to a lean, mean level and I would try to live my life in a way that would enable me to have "just enough". Over the years, other philosophies intervened, however, and I began thinking about stockpiles, nest eggs, retirement accounts, and of the abundant society as being the generous society where one always had so much that one could always be giving. Giving money, giving food, giving possessions, giving time.

I liked the concept of giving -- and still do. As our gardening efforts grow more abundant, I think about the joys of giving gifts of produce to those who need food and gifts of seedlings and seeds to those who want to start their own backyard farming ways of living. I encountered the Christian church in my 40s, and gained a deeper appreciation for the concept of tithing -- or at least my interpretation, of it. The idea was to give at least 10 percent  of what one earned, and to do so unconditionally. The idea that some advocated was that unconditional giving would result in a return of what was tithed ten times over.

The issue that I have today with unconditional giving is an uncomfortable one. I put it into words with some hesitation. My basic feeling is that it doesn't work if it involves money or sacrifice. If it involves these latter things, one is back to the state of alienation (though arguably one might never have left it at all). One is left without one's basic needs covered, and is left to fend in a hostile society for one's self.

I'm not worried about whether tithing results in a return on investment. That seems not to be the point. I'm worried about what happens when one gives and gives and gives, and finds themselves without enough to subsist on. I have confronted this issue with a rather odd blend of anger, shame, and guilt in previous years as I've found myself shaking my head "no" to kids selling candy bars for school fundraisers, artists launching kick-starter campaigns for new projects or pressing supporters to purchase their work, and runners raising money to finance their marathons as well as children's hospitals, diabetes treatment, and cancer fighting efforts they are running in support of. Often, the bare fact has been that giving up the money to buy the commodities being marketed means giving up something else. Maybe it's a worthy sacrifice when that something is a candy bar that might have been purchased instead in a grocery store or a scarf to add to a collection of 17. But what happens when the sacrifice is a more personal luxury -- a much-needed new pair of running shoes, a dinner out with your spouse, a flea treatment for cats? What happens when the sacrifice is a necessity -- the mortgage, the phone bill, the credit card payment?

I feel like the original affluent society might be helpful these days in sorting out some of these dilemmas. Perhaps the underlying message behind what Sahlins proposed was that one is affluent when one learns how to limit one's needs but -- significantly -- takes care of those needs first. After the needs are met, the rest can be shed -- and should be shed because that is the secret to affluence: not accumulating stuff.

Growing food creates a joy that is unparalleled in life. Not even running, the meditative metronome of rhythmic breathing in yoga or swimming, writing, or communing with friends can equal the happiness of a harvest that fills boxes, bins, crates, cans, and freezer-wrapped packages to the brim. Each night, as I pick collards or kale or chard or bok choy; slice up a plethora of colorful fresh vegetables, and prepare dinners with produce so flavorful that no spices are required, I thank the stars, the moon, the sun, and all the higher powers that may or may not exist for blessing me with a life that rotates around writing, teaching, exercising, and food. I feel in my heart a sweet little chirp as I open the refrigerator to retrieve an egg and find the refrigerator socket that's meant to hold a dozen overflowing with eggs from the backyard encased in shells that are green, brown, beige, white, and sometimes almost blue.

I also feel joy when I load up a bag of greens and a dozen eggs to take to the local food pantry at the Franklin Community Center. These are only the fruits of land and labor (mostly my husband's), but somehow the practice makes me feel richer than writing a check. I am able to give something unconditionally that the recipients need.

I remember at times the first farmers we got to know at markets in Honolulu and Seattle as well as the farmers we feel quite grateful for knowing now. The farmers -- in the tropics, the Northwest, and now the Northeast -- all share something in common: Generosity.  They are not generous in the sense of handing over free food but free knowledge. They sell us food, but they give us for free the knowledge, advice, and wisdom about how to grow it ourselves. I sometimes wondered why they were being so open and helpful; wouldn't telling other people how to grow food put them out of business? Michael Kilpatrick, a twenty-something farmer, laughed when I posed that question to him during a forum last fall. "We get so excited when we see people growing their own food," he replied. "It means we don't have to do it for them." In other words, those who use what they need and put it to good use are giving back a gift ten times over.

We have thought about selling eggs, and some friends have hinted that they'd like to be occasional customers. But I keep thinking, "What would happen then if we ended getting caught up in selling eggs?" Would people who needed food still receive food? Would we still we meeting our basic needs? Or would we be giving up the way of the original affluent society? So as with the offers to buy candy bars (which sometimes retail for more than a dozen eggs), I find myself shaking my head "no" to offers to join the capitalist market. And, somehow, for now at least, just thinking about re-creating the original affluent society seems to be working out well. I almost never have cash in my purse. But every day I find time to write. And usually to work out. And every day we have a meal that is like a feast.