Voluntary Deprivation - A Costco Awakening

How do people without SUV’s shop at Costco? It staggers me that people with little cars would even bother to come. 

Today as I was visiting the Mecca of overabundance (Costco)  I caught myself thinking about how important it is to hoard things in order to avoid the dreaded circumstance of running out. 

You might think that I’m being dramatic to make a point, but my behaviour (500 garbage bags…really?) suggests that I’m actually a little afraid of running out of stuff. What if it’s morning and I don’t have enough cereal options to choose from? What if I’m hankering for a turkey burger but don’t have pineapple jalapeño sauce to top it off? I always have at least 4 jars of peanut butter - just in case Costco doesn’t carry their brand of it for a few months.

One day at check-out, I told the cashier that I was overjoyed that a product was back because they hadn’t carried it for months and I had almost had to go without because my stash was depleted. I reflected to her that this might be a part of the corporate strategy; a kind of intentional practice to induce fear of deprivation, which would increase my tendency to hoard (by which I mean: buying 4 kilograms of sun-dried tomatoes). She smiled at me, in a knowing kind of way. Not acknowledging the hidden liturgy of the church of Costco out loud, but affirming my moment of recognition, my realization that I had been formed by the practices of the corporation. 

So today as I was gunning down the aisle to see if they finally have the 18-pack of organic mac and cheese that’s been out for a little while, this hits me: I’m afraid of deprivation. Afraid, not quite in the same way that I’m fearful of my family being annihilated in a tragic car crash, but at least mildly anxious about the prospect of going without. And while I may not experience the emotion of anxiety, my behaviour tells the story. 

My next realization was that we tend to be anxious about things we aren’t exposed to. The key to treating most forms of anxiety is through exposure: your brain learns that the anticipated outcome either doesn’t happen or if it does, it isn’t as awful as you expected. But if you don’t have any exposure, you don’t learn that you can cope with that thing you’re anxious about….which is a round about way of coming to terms with the fact that I haven’t had to experience deprivation in any significant way in quite a while. 

While this absence of deprivation might seem to many like an achievement, or even the way things are supposed to be for white middle class professional men, to me it’s a recognition that power and privilege have begun to insulate me from the real world. 

My position in this society has allowed me to create an illusion that my independence and self sufficiency can create a personal version of the world in which being deprived is non-existent. The overabundance of my world, and its celebrations of excess, have shaped me into a person who fears losing things I don’t even need. 

A part of my poverty of excess, is the belief that I need to protect myself against the loss of inessentials. 

Hoarders aren’t just the folks who won’t throw anything away and can’t walk on the floors of their living spaces for all the junk that is in the way. We are a society of hoarders. We are constantly taking more than we need to protect ourselves against the fear of being without.

Am I the only one who has spiritual awakenings in the freezer section of Costco? 

So I started putting some stuff back. I started making a few specific choices to either risk deprivation (relax, there’s still two jars of peanut butter in the pantry) or actually enter into some small forms of deprivation right now. We have no almond bark, and we shall go without this week, even though it was on sale. 

And I started thinking about what else I might do to intentionally expose myself to this dreaded deprivation. What kind of practices might help me lean into this fear?

After the check-out, as I passed through the food court part of the store with it’s delicious and cheap soft-serve ice cream, I remembered that there’s a long standing practice from a variety of spiritual traditions that might just be designed to help me with this problem: fasting.

Fasting is a form of temporary voluntary deprivation.

It’s not the same deprivation that billions of people on the planet face each day, but it’s an experience that invites transformation. Fasting allows us to choose deprivation for the sake of allowing it to form us in all the positive ways it is able.

We tend to think of deprivation as entirely bad.  I realize that some might read this and see my exaltation of deprivation as proof of how privileged I am that I would dare consider it to have any merit. They might think that only people with too much would start to idealize being hungry. (A similar argument has been made about anorexia being an expression of Western decadence) But I think we can still engage in some voluntary deprivation without idealizing it, or forgetting that most others in the world are deprived without choice.

I'm not suggesting that we should all adopt a kind of asceticism that turns deprivation into something we use to prove to ourselves or others how "spiritual" we are. But in a culture of overabundance maybe there is real value to choosing some occasional deprivations, like fasting, as a form of counterconditioning from time to time.

I fasted once for non-medical reasons years ago. It was awful. I became obsessed with food. Instead of it being the beautiful spiritual experience I imagined it would be, it became a hyper-focus on my physical desire to feel full. But what I didn't grasp at the time was that embracing deprivation rather than becoming obsessed with escaping from it was crucial to the practice having real value.

Deprivation, when we aren’t frantic for escape, can form us in good ways.

It can reorient us to our interdependence on the planet, and on each other, while shifting us away from our illusions of self-sufficiency.

Deprivation can help us turn away from our endless preoccupations, and allow us an opportunity to be present again with ourselves and the world. What happens when people are “deprived” of their smart phones? It invites us to be here and actually with each other, although we may not always capitalize on the opportunity. 

And in my Costco awakening I realized that deprivation can expose us in small ways to the experience of lacking something, and in turn help us learn that we are able to cope. Many of us catastrophize the experience of hunger. I sure do. It's not really a rational fear, but our emotional reaction to the idea of being hungry, or being without is so overstated, and so untested, that we live lives dedicated to avoiding the possibility of going without. Fasting brings us into confrontation with those imagined catastrophes and lets us experience that going without is not a so terrible and even is something we can cope with.

Perhaps little cars, however “impractical” or inconvenient are an invitation to some forms of deprivation. Perhaps our commitments to ever increasing capacity is feeding our clinging to overabundance by supporting our avoidance of deprivation. Perhaps a little car at Costco is the safest way to go after all.

Poverty of Excess Part 1 - The Good Life

Marla came to my practice recently, complaining of depression and anxiety that she simply could not explain. 

“My life is good!”, she reported. “I have everything a person could want. A good marriage. A home. A job. Financial security. Good health. Two well adjusted children. Annual family vacations….”

In her list, which follows the quintessential middle class North American script for living a “good” life, Marla was relaying to me that she had ticked all the boxes but still found life wanting. Even more impressively she had thus far escaped any significant tragedies that would wound or scar her life. 

So now, plagued by fears and sadness she could not explain, sleepless nights, difficulty leaving the house, and an abiding sense that she was headed towards losing her mind, Marla found herself overwhelmed, yet struggling to feel as if any of her suffering was legitimate.

 I’ve changed her name, but really, it could be any number of male of female patients from a variety of age groups and walks of life, that present for consultation with some similar version of a very similar set of problems. All of them in this particular boat describe themselves as unable to see why they should be suffering in this way without any sufficient reason to provide them with valid justification for needing attention from specialists. And it is precisely because of this apparently illegitimacy of their suffering that they struggle to be open with other people about their mounting psychological impairment. Most of them watch the news and observe the suffering taking place in other parts of the world, and wonder what it is that they have to be so sad about or afraid of. 

It’s easy to jump to the conclusion that when symptoms emerge, it’s a sign that there’s something wrong with our selves. But sometimes environments can be the source of dis-ease…not every problem is internal in its origin. It can be tempting to blame biology and overlook the role our culture has in creating illness. In fact, I think there’s some financial interests pretty deeply invested in having us believe that chemical imbalances are all the explanation we need for mental illness. There’s an entire economy at stake in helping us avoid the confrontation with this question: “what if the ‘good life’ as it’s been presented to us, isn’t so ‘good’ after all?”

Is it possible that this overabundance is actually creating problems within us? Could it be that we still lack something even in the midst of all this wealth?

There is, another kind of poverty. It’s the poverty of excess. It’s a poverty that exists in the midst of the kind overabundance so common to many people in the developed world. With so many resources it’s very difficult to regard our lives as deprived of anything. But the poverty of excess is not one we can solve by simply acquiring more of something because it is our acquisition driven lifestyles that are actually creating the poverty in the first place.

As I noted in my post, “First World Problems”, it can sometimes feel invalid to complain about the kind of suffering experienced by those who live in the top 10% of world incomes (which is most people in North America). But ignoring the spiritual illness brought on by individualism, consumerism, and following the middle class “script” may actually perpetuate the behaviors that we engage in that result in the oppression of the developing world.

In the midst of our poverty of excess, it can be difficult to put our finger on exactly what we lack, because we appear to have so much, too much even. So what does a poverty of excess look like?

I realize this is too large a topic to cover in one blog post. But I want to start first by drawing our attention to the mere existence of the poverty of excess or overabundance. 

It’s been said that if you want to know what water is like, don’t ask a fish. It’s hard to see the poverty we swim in in our culture. Traveling and living elsewhere can help so greatly with this - like swimming in a different pond for a while to gain perspective on your natural habitat. For the longer you’re immersed, the more difficult it can be to describe what it is you’re immersed in. 

People like Marla are sometimes unaware that there even is a culture they’re immersed in, let alone begin to know how to describe it.  I’m not sure that I do either. But let’s try. Let’s begin by recognizing that in the water of our culture there are messages like, “you can never have enough or be enough”. Let’s start to open our minds to the counter-intuitive reality that excess, or overabundance doesn’t create a sense of sufficiency, but actually creates anxiety about deprivation and a vague sense of needing more. 

Maybe we can even learn to recognize how some of our emotional struggles emerge in a context where comfort and security are presented as normative, and suffering is regarded as a failure to live up to the culturally ordained plan for the good life. 

First World Problems

Over Christmas I was grumbling to myself about not having enough space in my fridge for all the food we had. As I honed my Tetris skills trying to find places for all of it to go and still be able to shut the door without food falling out, I realized I needed a much bigger fridge. Ironically, I have also complained at times that the fridge is too big - we are prone to losing things in it and finding them months later having evolved into life forms too awful to talk about.

Sometimes it's helpful to say these things out loud, so you can hear how ridiculous you're being.

"my fridge is too big" or "I have too much food".

Try saying these things out loud while watching a news report about people fleeing their country and living in refugee camps.

When I'm actually paying attention to the absurdity of my complaints, I'm convicted by how ungrateful I am and how entitled I seem about my life.

Sometimes we use the label "first-world problems" to describe the kinds of ridiculous things many of us get upset about.

Rohinton Mistry, in his astounding tale of life and suffering in India entitled, A Fine Balance, captures it well in this little dialogue:

“I've done lots of jobs. Right now, I'm a hair collector."
"That's good", said Ishvar tentatively. "What do you have to do as a hair-collector?"
"Collect hair."
"And there is money in that?"
"Oh very big business. There is a great demand for hair in foreign countries."
"What do they do with it? Asked Om skeptical." 
"Many different things. Mostly they wear it. Sometimes they paint it in different colors - red, yellow, brown, blue. Foreign women enjoy wearing other people's hair. Men also, especially if they are bald.  
In foreign countries they fear baldness. They are so rich in foreign countries, they can afford to fear all kinds of silly things.” 

Fearing baldness - a "first-world problem" indeed.

It's rare that a line I read in a book sticks with me for years, but that idea about us being so rich we can afford to fear silly things has stayed with me, perhaps one could even say haunted me.

So let me continue to own this (although I know I'm not alone): at times I complain about things of insignificance and even believe I am truly suffering over them.

I close my eyes to the images in the news, and block out my memories of what I saw in the developing world so that I can ignore the kinds of suffering that go on for two-thirds of the world's inhabitants. To be perfectly honest, sometimes I don't really want perspective on my problems - I'd rather complain and feel justified in doing it. I don't think many of us want to perceive ourselves as privileged or even unfairly blessed.

But as I recognize my kinship with all of humanity I'm forced to consider the fact that I might be like Cinderella's older step-sisters - complaining about my dress to wear to the ball while someone else in my family is doing hard labour.

A friend of mine forbids her kids to use the phrase "I'm starving" because she feels it disrespects the suffering of people who are actually starving around the world. It's probably the least we can do.

But here's the other side of the coin with "first world problems"....

...sometimes they do represent true suffering, and we are foolish to quickly dismiss them merely because they do not appear to have the gravity of physical deprivation that much of the world suffers.  I would even argue that when we ignore those true instances of suffering by labeling them as insignificant first world problems, we do a harm not only to ourselves, but to those in developing countries.

Is baldness truly a form of suffering? Obviously not. But it's not just about hair is it? Many people fear baldness because they fear being isolated, rejected, even being unloveable. Our vanity in wealthy nations is so often a product of deeper fears: symbolic, rather than literal dangers. As Mistry points out in this passage, wealth means we can afford to be afraid of silly things.

However, our wealth also creates some of the conditions that make us vulnerable to these symbolic fears in the first place.

We fear abandonment and isolation based on loss of sex appeal because social bonds are weak in countries like ours where individualism has become a dominant ideology. Where families and tribes are no longer the chief organizing principle of social arrangements, connection is now based on the ability to attract social bonds, rather than on the basis of birth into a particular group.

I have no interest in defending my absurd complaints about having too much food in my house. But my contradictory complaints (fridge too small and too big) are a symptom of bigger problems - problems that shouldn't be ignored but rather magnified and addressed. And when we minimize the cultural sickness of living in North American society, we overlook the brokenness of our cultures and remain wounded in ways that I think actually perpetuates our mistreatment of the developing world. If we constantly de-legitimize the problems of loneliness, consumerism, individualism, and lives controlled by technology, because they don't seem as devastating as human-trafficking or lack of access to clean water, we run the risk of missing how wealth and overabundance create their own forms of suffering and brokenness.

I appreciate that we must be careful not to enter into pity for ourselves and equate our suffering with many of those in the developing world. The truth is, suffering cannot be compared. But to write off the problems associated with over-abundance entirely because they're not devastating to human life in the same ways, is also a problem. I think it's a mistake to focus exclusively on the starvation of some in our human family, while ignoring the spiritual illness of our own gluttony.

I do think it's high time we looked carefully at how our overabundance is shaping us and harming us. Not so that we can ignore the problems of those in poverty or make ourselves feel less guilty about our participation in their repression, but so that we can pursue our own healing and restoration for the good of the world. Sometimes we have to fix what's broken in ourselves before we can offer help to others. But before we can fix it, we have to acknowledge that the values and systems we participate in that cause such inequality, are also harming ourselves.