I just love this....

Giving Thanks, from The Great Boomer Bust, by Katy Butler

I went to dinner with my brother Peter in the flat he shares in the Haight-Ashbury. He is 36, a perpetual student, and lives on about a quarter of what I spend. There's always peace and quiet at his place, a sense of being an expected guest. He knows how to use a pressure cooker and where to find prized items at Goodwill; when he wants to see a show, he works as an usher. When I arrived, the table was set and the lights turned low; there were wine glasses filled with mineral water, cloth napkins folded carefully at each place, and two candle stubs glowing. When it was time, we sat down for homemade lentil soup, warm sourdough rye from the neighborhood bakery, salad, and baked potatoes. I felt so cared for that I ate bread as though it were a rare food, tasting the grains against my palate instead of wolfing it down. There was a sort of Zen luxuriousness about the whole meal; we squeezed maximum enjoyment out of minimum consumption. My deepest needs warmth, light, quiet, companionship were satisfied. I didn't miss anything.

I thought of my own life my constant conversations with myself about wanting a child, a new couch, a weekend cottage, a bigger house on a quieter street and realized my discontent was cheating me of the life I had. "If it's by choice and it's not overwhelming, having no money can be a way of entering more deeply into your life," my brother said as he served me some more
soup.

Not long after that, I bought myself a new raincoat, a year's supply of shampoo, and a pressure cooker. I quit my job as a reporter to become a freelance writer. I wrote to the direct mail association and asked them to take me off the catalog lists. I sold my ancient, infuriating old Mercedes and bought a dull but reliable used Honda. I bought a second-hand copy of Laurel's
Kitchen, I learned to cook beans, and started using my library card.

I decided that if the economy was going to deprive me of things I deeply wanted, it would not also take my free time.

I began facing the life I had, not the life I dreamed of having or thought I deserved to have. I turned off lights. I started to cut the link between consumption and pleasure, between consumption and self-worth.

First published in Mother Jones Magazine, June 1989. ©1989, Katy Butler, Mill
Valley, California.