The Things We Need

Tis the season.

Last weekend, the kids and I teetered up and down the attic stairs in search of salt dough stars and knitted stockings. Up and down, up and down, many times over, on the hunt for that one box with the Russian tea dolls, no not that one, the one with The Christmas Miracle of Jonathan Toomey! On each trip, I passed by my once-beloved crochet hammock rolled into itself, the wooden frame leaning haphazardly against the garage wall between a few thrift store golf clubs and a rusty rake.

My hammock was a long-wished-for thing. When we lived in L.A. and had no more than a few blades of grass to our name, I dreamed of a sprawling “someday” yard – lush clover underneath a canopy of maples, ladders of ivy, tidy rows of basil, mint, rosemary.

But mostly, a hammock.

And so: seven years ago, in my beginning efforts to establish a slower pace, in a yard not nearly as picturesque but nonetheless loved, my dream hammock was procured. On hot afternoons or quiet evenings, I’d sway to the symphony of lawnmowers, the neighbor’s mesquite chicken on the grill, an open book of Proust on my lap. In seconds, sleep would find me.

Gone were dog days of white-knuckling in the name of productivity, of tethering myself to screens or dishwashers. It was only this: the strut of a swing, the cadence of calm. A sweaty glass at arm’s reach. If ever there was a small sliver of truth to the transforming nature of a product, I believe my hammock was it.

Now, in less than a decade, it grows dust.

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I suppose what would make the most sense in any predictable story arc is that because the hammock is no longer in use, the habit isn’t either. That the hammock was somehow the missing key to establishing my slower pace, that without it, I am powerless yet again, unable to find rest in the thick of a stuffed season.

This, at least, is what the story arc of a salesman might promise.
But I am no salesman, and this story arc is simply untrue.

If not a hammock, a snow drift. If not a bed of grass, a pile of blankets. If not a pile of blankets, a park bench, a tree limb, a stoop. There are many places to rest – a great slew of them created by nature herself, far beyond the walls of a factory.

And so, I find myself wondering: do we ever need the things we’ve worked so hard to convince ourselves that we need?

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It’s a question worth mulling over in a season where there is much to see/sell/buy, when influencers, manufacturers, marketers all preach the gospel of their transforming product.

Change takes great, great work and great, great focus – neither of which can be found in an expiration date and CVC code. A dress does not grant confidence. A book does not guarantee wisdom. An oil does not promise wellness.

A reminder for us all: transformation is fought for, not bought into.

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Your Turn: Anything on your family’s wish list that you’d find yourself maintaining in theory, but not reality? Can you realistically add nightly dermaplaning to your pre-bedtime routine? Are you going to spend the extra time and care to hand wash that pretty dutch oven? Remember: the best product is the one you’ll actually use. And the best change is the kind you actually need.