LOVE FOR THE SIMPLE LIFE

It seems that my life has a way of continually complicating itself. Sometimes I help it happen and sometimes it happens all my itself, but—either way—it does happen. What I wonder is, how can I go about keeping things simple—at least for the things I have control over. One way is to deal with things as they come up. I know that putting off what I have to deal with today only makes those things bigger—more complicated. Dealing with things in the present keeps issues at a manageable size.

What are the other things I can do to keep my life simple? I can look inward inside myself, instead of outside, for things. If I search outside for satisfaction, it always seems that I’m adding something more on to my life. But if I just look within, the world of choices is self-contained—simpler by the mere fact that whatever is in me is something I already own.

There are activities that are simpler than others. Walking is a simple exercise that involves nothing to be added on. Swimming is much the same—some people say it is the perfect exercise. Drawing is nice and easy—and very relaxing. So is whistling, reading a book, writing poetry, playing the guitar.

But some of these things can become complicated intrinsically just because there are things that need to be learned in order to do them. To be really pure and simple, the activity I’m trying to get to here—truly Buddha-like—should be effortless.

In this light, it seems like one of the simplest and purest things to do is to watch television. I think it’s probably why so many people do it even though some people are in the habit of putting it down. I’ve had real "spiritual snobs" tell me proudly that they didn’t even own a television. Well, how hoitie toity can someone get! Watching television, while lying sideways on the couch—my favorite position—has got to be among the simplest activities available to modern humanity.

But, beyond that, my personal best definition of "simple" might be to be walking up the creek in the morning that runs through my in laws ranch, as the animals are waking up, with only a handful of human beings within a hundred square miles. There’s nothing along the creek that I’ve ever found, to brag to—at least nothing that will listen and care whether or not I either have lots of money or stuff or none at all. The rocks don’t care how spiritual or not spiritual I am—basically they don’t give a shit what I do, as long as I don’t step on them.

Out there, I can feel like Henry David Thoreau or Walt Whitman—for chrissakes—or like Tony Anthony—knowing that with each step I’m walking a little further from the petty complications that we humans seem to invent for ourselves.