Only connect

Stuff has been on my mind lately.  My Stuff and our collective Stuff that is currently cluttering our homes and apartments. This weekend, I started packing for my move back to the Bay Area, which will occur in a terrifyingly short amount of time.  I have reserved a U-haul and am psyching myself up to drive said truck with my car hitched to the back. (Stay off I-40 during the weekend of June 8.  Just saying...)  I'm sorting my closet and packing my books. (Thank you, Kindle!  The 115 books I've acquired in the past two years weigh less than a pound and all fit into my purse!) This is what we do when we move.  We pay money to transport our Stuff from one place to the other.  We sort and purge--and keep only what is "necessary."  Yet we still find ourselves becoming a hazard to road-trip vacationers everywhere driving a truck we have no business operating, not to mention the hitch trailing behind.

My relationship with Stuff has been always been somewhat aloof, more so in the past than now.  For an unusually long time as an adult, I owned hardly a stick of furniture and could (and did) move across the world with a couple boxes and suitcases.  I liked it that way.  I now find myself in possession of a couch, table-and-chairs, bed, dresser and various smaller accoutrement like end tables and Ikea lamps.  I've thought about leaving it all in Austin and starting fresh in Berkeley, but I'm not going to.  Abandoning this load will only mean I have to acquire another set, which leaves me just as cold.  Moving or not, we own Stuff.  When people come to my apartment, they will expect to have a place to sit, vessels to drink out of, a table to rest their plate on--and I, as their host, want to provide this for them.  This is a perfectly reasonable expectation, but it is one that requires advanced planning and an outlay of funds in a way we hardly think about (or at least until we have to pack it all up and move it somewhere else).  

Someone has thought about it, though.  His name is Daniel Suelo, and journalist Mark Sundeen has written a book about him called The Man Who Quit Money.  Suelo is neither homeless nor possession-less, yet he doesn't use money in any way. Consciously.  On purpose.  When he's not house-sitting for friends, he lives in a cave on federal land within walking distance of Moab, Utah. He dumpster dives, works in a community garden, forages and volunteers.  He doesn't accept any assistance (like food stamps/welfare) or handouts.  At this point, he doesn't even carry an I.D. Yet his life, as recounted by Sundeen, is abundant in a way that is hard for us to imagine.  For example, people visiting his cave don't expect to have somewhere to sit, but they find places. He eats well from discarded food and garden produce.  Found items like sleeping bags, clothing and tarps keep him warm.  Like the hunter-gatherers of old (and some tribes in the Kalahari to this day), he has plenty of free time after his foraging is finished for the day (or week).  He isn't a hermit, and he doesn't have a political agenda.  (He's not on a "money strike" like a hunger strike to make a point.)  He has chosen to live outside the economy because it aligns with his carefully reasoned ideals and allows him to do the work he chooses.  Not surprisingly, his life is centered on doing good, in the tradition of Buddhist sadhus. He is certainly not the only person in the world who considers the current flavor of American hyper-capitalism to be spiritually bankrupt and soul-crushing.  But his solution is remarkably unassuming and totally non-violent in every sense of that word.  According to Sundeen's account, Suelo is deeply content and at peace, and the way he fully lives his beliefs brings a sense of peace to those he encounters. It's wonderful to read about. 

What's most striking about the book is actually not the fact that Suelo lives without money (but like any good journalist, Sundeen knows a good hook when he sees it).  I mean, the whole book could be about the mechanics of not having a dime in your pocket (This guy uses no money! OMG! How does he do it?!).  The most striking thing about the book--the thing that makes it a literal page turner--is the difficult and fascinating journey Suelo took to arrive where he is today.  Hint: it involves a lot more than closing a checking account.  It touches on so many aspects of life that we all struggle with: identity, relationships, family expectations/influence, the meaning of work, the meaning of money, developed world vs. developing world, religious ideals vs. religious dogma, the list goes on and on.  I have a feeling that anyone who reads Sundeen's book will take something different away from it. 

So what are you waiting for?  Seriously, go read it now.

What has stayed with me most is the way we all remain connected under the surface of our fractured, pay-for-services-rendered modern world. Time and time again, Suelo recounts acts of generosity and community by complete strangers from all backgrounds and walks of life.  When the things that keep us apart--and money is a big divider--are subverted, as Suelo has done, it doesn't take long for these connections to become visible. They have not been gobbled up by partisan politics, Great Recessions, housing crises, the 1% or the bugaboo of the moment.  They are there, just waiting to emerge when the artificial barriers we create are broken down. Suelo is a living, breathing subverter of one of these barriers.  When he refuses payment or direct handouts and instead gives away his found bounty rather than return it to the dumpster as so many of us do, he interrupts the system.  What takes its place is stunning in its genuine depth.  When you can't pay someone, what do you do?  You thank them sincerely.  You smile.  You feel lighter and freer.  They smile back.  You establish a connection that would not have existed otherwise, even if it is short-lived. Exposing and building these connections is the way Suelo lives--all the time.  Living without money allows him to do it. 

It is a profoundly hopeful message, and it is so important to keep in mind, whether you are living in a cave or moving from Austin to Berkeley in a few weeks.  It has made me start looking for other ways to subvert the system in personal, meaningful ways, to break down what divides us and allow all that humanity to come to light.