I first read Thoreau in a community college philosophy class. I remember being intrigued by his quotidian descriptions of the nature around, the observations of the animals in his midst, the light shining on the lake, the counting of beans and grains. A few thoughts from the book always stuck with me, mainly those about the “unexamined life being a life not worth living” (which I realize now was originally said by Socrates or some other old Greek) and another about being able to carry all of your material possessions on your back. For years, I was almost able to do that, moving from house to house with only a few books, a small wardrobe and not even a real bed to my name. I prided myself on my lack of investment in material items, to the point that I didn’t even take care of the things that I did own. I cracked in my late twenties, taking a job as a high school teacher—because it seemed like an adult and responsible thing to do (and because I thought it might be a way that I could change the world just a little bit—ah, the naiveté) and with my new adult paycheck, buying all the clothes, furniture, music and books that I had resisted buying before.

It amazes me how much–for someone who professes to so anti-capitalist, anti-consumerism and anti-bourgeois culture– I struggle with the acts of consumption and spending.   I first threw off the shackles of cravings for Wet Seal bangles as a teenager, discovering the joy of thrift stores after a trip to the local Value Village yielded an entire new wardrobe for thirty dollars, one infinitely more interesting than the leggings and floral baby doll dresses I’d been coveting in the window of Contempo Casuals. Almost twenty years later, I remain engaged in a dizzy tango with both the (implanted) desires for material items and the knowledge that a life lived outside of the false strictures of capitalism is a more interesting life, indeed.

Two books have got me thinking about this topic , and have got me reinvisioning the possibilities of my own life outside of prescribed desires and assumptions. The first is one is The Art of Eating In: How I Learned to Stop Spending and Love the Stove.  Written by Cathy Erway, another entry in the long line of bloggers turned book writers, the book details the author’s two years of living in Brooklyn without ever eating out at a restaurant.

The whole blog to book phenomena has become quite the gimmick but there are some nicely surprising inspirations that I didn’t expect when I started reading. First, I love the detail with which Erway writes about food. She documents her meals and the experiences over the meals with loving attention to not only the food, but the context for the meals. There is a simplicity to her love for the act of preparing and eating good food that is endearing, one that I yearn to replicate. Second, Erway delves into the different ways to step out of the restaurant/eating out cycle by looking at urban foragers like “Wildman” Steve Brill–who gives tours of New York parks where fabulous edible plants grow like special treasures–as well as freegans who scour the streets of New York, finding incredible amounts of perfectly edible day-old bread, donuts and vegetables. Like the dumpster-diving punks that have been doing that shit for years, though I have never been brave enough to do that myself. It got me thinking about my own food consumption habits, and how the way we go about procuring and preparing our food can be a political act, not a new concept, but one I hadn’t given thought too in a while.  Also, choosing to prepare food at home can be step towards simplifying, and escaping the cycle of fast consumption without thought. I’ll never view my styrofoamed burrito takeout meals again after reading Erway’s study of the the incredible amount of waste that goes into these one-off meals, when you look at all of the extra napkins, plastic cups and utensils and paper bags. Inspired by the book, my husband and I are trying not to go out to eat for a month. We’re currently in our first week of cooking all meals at home. I won’t even talk about how many dishes I’ve done this week, but otherwise, it’s been pretty smooth. I’m actually using the slow cooker that was gathering dust under the kitchen counter for the past few years.

Another book that’s got me thinking about how much is enough is Voluntary Simplicity by Duane Elgin. Originally released in 1981, and revised “for the 21^st” century, the book is basically a manifesto about the reasons to live a life characterized by “ecological awareness, frugal consumption and personal growth.” It’s funny because many of the things that Elgin talks about are concepts that I’ve understood for years, especially since my early instruction in frugality and living outside of the mainstream inspired by the DIY/punk rock movements of the nineties, when it was cool to use and consume as little as possible (except for beer). Yet, I’ve seen those ideals fade among a large segment of the community as people grow older and take on mortgages and have kids. It’s like, what the hell happened? I know that many people have been able to maintain a life of conscious consumption and anti-capitalist ways of existing, and I would like to return to that fold. But I will need to do it in my own way, and in my own time, and by reading books that get me inspired to live in ways more aligned with my dreams and ideals.

Photo by Flickr user maureen_sill