Pylimitics

I live in a house, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of my deed has been signed by the clerk, the mortgage officer, and I signed it. My name is good for anything I choose to put it to. My house is where I live.

In my house there is one room I favor above all others. It is where I keep my desk and chair, my computer, my clothing (save for foul-weather gear, which stays near the back door of the house), and my shoes (save for my rain- and snow-boots, which reside with the rest of the foul-weather gear). My room is also the home of my exercise machine, which vaguely resembles a bicycle and functions in that general manner. My room does not have any of the other necessities for sustaining life; I cannot bathe there, prepare food, and so forth. 

My room is not over large; it is in the neighborhood of eight feet by ten feet, and has one window (next to my desk) and a closet. This brings me back to the point from which I started. There is no doubt that I live in a house, that that must be distinctly understood, or nothing understandable can come of the story I am about to tell. 

In my room I conduct my business, and,  putting aside for the moment my exercise machine, also a fair portion of the part of my leisure that is sedentary. For both of these I make use of my computer. My business is not to the point of this tale; it is my sedentary leisure that is key. I have become interested in reading, hearing, and watching the experiences of people who make public in their writings and videos their lives, which are spent in extremely limited quarters. Their dwellings occupy something in the neighborhood of eight feet by ten, or sometimes even less. They live in vans, in tiny houses or trailers, and on boats. 

I have no wish to strictly emulate their lives. For one thing, I do not own a van, a tiny house, a trailer, or a boat, and for the latter I do not even harbor any affinity. Nevertheless, I have observed that many of their habits and predilections can, and perhaps should be adapted to my own situation. 

Not having the practically unlimited quantity of water, heat, and power I enjoy in my house, these people living nomadically are mindful of such things, and use them, if not sparingly, let us say carefully. When they bathe, they must of necessity remember that the water in their tank will also be needed for other purposes. Even when they ease their thirst with a glass of water, they must keep the same consideration in their minds. 

When they use electric power, they remember where it originates — which is likely to be the solar panels on their roofs, just feet — sometimes inches — away. Baking a loaf of bread in their electric oven might mean waiting to print a document until later. If their oven (or their heat) relies on some other source, they must consider their supply of fuel, whether to deplete it, and where and when it can be replenished.

Their use of the space around them, and their accumulated possessions is, like their attention to resources, mindful. The storage areas they have are much the same as my one room, should it exist without the rest of my house. I can choose to keep a seldom-used item somewhere else in my house, but the only recourse for a nomad is not to keep such a thing. Mostly probably to avoid acquiring it in the first place. This, again, entails attention.

My general sense has become this: the resources and space that I enjoy are not, in fact, unlimited at all — that is an illusion supported by the fact that I share vast amounts of water, fuel, and so on with vast numbers of other people, also living in houses. The origins of these resources (except for electric power, when it comes from a constantly-renewed source like light), all have limits. Nomads attend directly to the possibility that on any given day, they might have no water left. That possibility exists just as concretely for me and every other house-dweller too. The difference is that we cling to our illusions and don’t give any attention to the underlying reality. 

I’ve begun to try to nurture, in my own situation, a nomadic attitude of mindfulness. I believe this state of mind may be the chief attraction to nomadic existence for many, even most of the people who choose to live in mobile circumstances. 

There are those, of course, who never made such a choice, but had it forced upon them — because they did not choose that aspect of their circumstances. I would certainly excuse them for any bitterness or anger they might express. Although they do not always express such things. I would ask “what reason do they have to be happy? They’re poor enough.” To which they might return “what reason do you have to be morose? You’re rich enough.”

I am striving to treat the resources available to me in my house — which carry the illusion of infinite availability — more mindfully. In considering whether I should acquire new items, I try to think not of the ample space throughout my whole house, but only of the limited space in my favorite room. I try to do the same with water, and fuel, and food, and electrical power, although as yet my electricity is not augmented by the power of light. I believe this is good, and even though some people will laugh to see the alterations I’m making, I think I’m wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe for good, at which some people didn’t have their fill of laughter at the outset. 

We are nomads — every one.