Subtract
Is a double-negative a positive?
Welcome to In a Word, a newsletter that cultivates thoughtfulness, one word at a time. If a friend forwarded you this email, click here to subscribe:
Hi, hello! In this issue, I’m sharing how I determined what to give up for Lent in the essay portion. Then, in the collection, we’re talking KonMarie, the pitfalls of minimalism, David Rose’s misunderstanding of tax deductions. Oh, and a poem about confidence dwarfed by an arbitrary number.
Let’s get to it, shall we?
Listen to the audio version HERE.
A cardboard graveyard towers behind me as I write this. The tiny boxes delivered face oils and books and hair bows; the large ones a toddler potty, leopard mules, a new doll. I’ve been stockpiling them in my office, where they’ve become a monument to consumerism—kind of like when artists make sculptures out of garbage, except my pile is decidedly not on display.
Around Black Friday, I started letting sales boss me around. I bought some things I’d wanted for a long time, and some things that only made sense to stock up on while they were on sale. But once I flipped my mindset to being “in the market,” I became a fish on the line for every sale. The marketing funnels swallowed me whole.
I didn’t do any real financial damage, but I did start to feel fatigued by my new part time job of scouring websites and shipping off returns. Time I’d meant to spend industriously evaporated into the ether of commerce. (Online or off, I am not a speedy shopper. I spend days tinkering with an online cart, only to return half of what I buy. I’ve bought and returned three different bags while struggling daily with the broken zipper on mine.)
In addition to the hours spent on spending, my conscious is gnawing at me about the hidden costs of shipping—the working conditions of warehouses, climbing global temperatures. I’m not beating myself up about it—after all, I’m just one little person with some Christmas money in my pocket, sucked into the vortex of modern capitalism. We’ve all been there.
I am relieved though, that Lent begins tomorrow, a season marked by self-denial. My self needs to be denied for my soul’s sake.
I didn’t always observe Lent. I remember feeling smug about it when I first heard a Catholic classmate in middle school talk about giving up chocolate. I could have Jesus, and chocolate, thankyouverymuch. No need to wait for Easter morning to enjoy those Cadbury eggs (insofar as their gloppy innards can actually be enjoyed).
My theology was right: giving something up for Lent isn’t about proving yourself worthy or “earning” Easter. (The whole thesis of the Christian faith is that we could not possibly earn what God freely gave.) I don’t pressure myself to fast during Lent, but if something presents itself, I pay attention.
Between checking my Poshmark app first thing each morning and ordering Betsy a pair of navy leggings for NEXT WINTER, only to forget and order another pair of navy leggings, you could say online shopping PRESENTED ITSELF. I felt a bolt of both relief and dread the moment the thought hit me. Then I bought some stuff in my Amazon cart.
The goal of fasting is not self-flagellation, but it’s not self-mastery, either. In my hands, a change meant to turn me towards God can easily devolve into a self-improvement project or strength challenge. The gain is not seeing how strong we are when tested, but how strong God is when we’re weakest.
I think often of the moment when Eve takes the fruit in her hands, glowing with false promise: you will be like gods. I remember it when I try to control people’s perception of me, when I hoard duplicates of my favorite face masks and snacks, when I am loathe to ask for help.
“You will be like gods” shimmers still, a promise ultimately as empty as my pile of boxes. I buy it every day in ways big and small, with my dollars and with my mind. It’s so appealing, to shrink God’s vision of the good life into a fun house mirror version for the illusion of control.
Lent can feel so austere, after hopping from feast to feast—Thanksgiving to Christmas to Valentine’s Day to Fat Tuesday. In contrast to the mirage of self-sufficiency propagated by consumption, Lent is refreshing in its blunt truth about human weakness and mortality.
Lent invites us to put to death, even briefly, the distractions we use to stave off death and the fear of it. A fast is a small act of resistance against the voice that says I am my own God, a whisper back that says, “No, I’m not.”
One thing I will be adding this Lent is Erin Moon’s Lent guide, Every Broken Thing. From the Introduction:
The opening lines of Lent are pulled from Ecclesiastes: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Within the pages of this ancient and often confusing book, we hear those words that silently thrum under the noise of our everyday lives: what is the point of all this?
Erin’s voice has comforted and challenged me as she guided me through Lent and The Comfortable Words in 2019. She does not shy away from hard questions but also gives you a laugh when you need it. If Lent is a brand new concept to you and you’re Lent-curious, good news! The guide includes a primer.
(Though Erin is a friend, I am allergic to recommending anything I don’t LOVE, and I LOVE Erin’s work. You will, too.)
Marie Kondo captivated the world with her extreme advice to get rid of anything that doesn’t spark joy. And now she’s back to…sell us stuff?
“She has muscled her way to legitimate celebrity status in America, and in 2019 the end game of fame is always sales.”
The Crane Wife is a beautiful piece about a woman who denies her needs long enough to learn that need is not to a personal failing.
“Even now I hear the words as shameful: Thirsty. Needy. The worst things a woman can be. Some days I still tell myself to take what is offered, because if it isn’t enough, it is I who wants too much.”
The Pitfalls and The Potential of the New Minimalism:
Today’s minimalism, with its focus on self-improvement, feels oddly dominated by a logic of accumulation.
5-Hour Workdays? 4-Day Workweeks? Yes, Please.
voice that says I am my own God, a whisper back that says, “No, I’m not.”
And finally, a poem I wrote about confidence dwarfed by an arbitrary number:
Some last links worth a click:
My Minimalist Life Hacks “I don’t work in a stifling office, at a stifling desk. Nature is my office, my desk, and my bathroom.” 😂
Thank You for Coming to Our Used Clothing Store to Sell Your Ugly Garbage Clothes
Everything You Need to Know Before You Try That Juice Cleanse
May we subtract the superfluous to multiply the meaningful.
As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts on anything this issue calls to mind for you. Simply respond to this email to let me know.
Gratefully, Jacey
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