Simplicity
Happy Summer Collective!
We’ve just rounded the bend on the solstice, and the days still have a savoring energy about them. Consuming a single freshly picked strawberry from the garden seems to be an event in and of itself – the monstrous flavor of such a small morsel taking its sweet time to visit each taste bud, unbothered by a to-do list.
June strawberries from my garden, Denver
Many of us are trading an Instacart grocery order for a Sunday morning stroll through the local farmers’ market. Others in the collective are planning, enjoying or reminiscing over summer vacations.
I’m on the tail end of a special family adventure. I just spent an unforgettable week with my family sailing the turquoise waters of the Raiatea, Ta’aha, and Bora Bora atolls of the South Pacific.
Somewhere between the wind, the underwater world, and the daily routines of the boat, a single lesson kept surfacing:
Simplicity.
Each morning was a ritual. I’d wake on the boat, nod to the rising sun, stow my bedding, turn on the LPG switch, light the stove for the kettle, and slowly make a cup of filtered coffee. I’d use the ripples (ondas) on the water to cast out my morning blessings as I patiently awaited my single cup. I’d then find my husband, already halfway through his stretching routine on the bow. We’d greet each other with a knowing glance of gratitude and then inspect our temporary floating home. We’d check our anchor, consult the wind and agree on the inevitable adjustments to our sailing plan based on the weather and the collective energy of our crew.
Just like on land, peppered into the day’s plan were our basic chores: cooking, cleaning, laundry, and repairs. Modern enhancements for these everyday chores don’t exist on a sailboat, and without them, I noticed a heightened deliberateness with which I approached the tasks. Without a washer and dryer, laundry was reserved only for clothes that failed the sniff test (my shirt that fell into the toilet immediately qualified). Every wash required fresh water, reef-safe soap, patient scrubbing, and careful line drying with one eye always on the next rain cloud. My husband happily owned this job, proudly reporting that he had “scrubbed the shit out of my shirt.”
Cooking also required more foresight and simplicity. A simple smorgasbord lunch would have to do when underway as extensive food prep would surely invoke sea sickness. From the book Dove, I followed a simple recipe to make “sea bread” for our crew, whose featured ingredient is ocean water. I highly recommend you try it if you have access to open ocean water. Here's the recipe (or watch the reel):
Dissolve 1T yeast and 1T sugar in 1.5 cups of sea water. Add 4-5 cups of flour to form a dough ball. Let rise. Bake in a medium-flame oven for 30-45 minutes in a well-oiled pan.
Sea bread, directly out of the sailboat oven, Bora Bora
I think about all our technological advances back home that boast efficiency yet I wonder if our society is actually experiencing a net-loss of leisure time with such inventions. I also wonder how many of my grandma's recipes I've over-complicated.
And then there is stuff.
While sailing, there’s nothing to purchase and there isn’t room to store or maintain more than the essentials. Amazon isn’t delivering and the sunset is not for sale.
My son, William, enjoying the free sunset
As such, there is a natural shift from lust to love. I learned about this concept most notably from Richard Rohr. He uses himself as an example and explains that as a Franciscan Friar with minimal means, he was never able to purchase expensive works of art, despite his deep desire to own them. In his younger years this pained him. Over time, it shifted. Instead, he would visit museums and take in the beauty of art without the ego- and scarcity-driven desire to possess it. I can’t think of a better gift for our nervous systems.
Sailing makes me feel like Richard in an art museum. One day, while moored in Bora Bora, we slipped into a channel where eagle rays are known to gather. The current carried us effortlessly over the reef until a family of eleven emerged from the turquoise below! I gripped my chest, just in case my heart decided to leap out. I hovered above them, memorizing their unique patterning by sketching the shapes on the roof of my mouth with my tongue, a drawing technique I’ve been practicing since I can remember. One was tattooed with cosmic constellations; another’s markings were identical to a leopard's spots. The oldest and biggest, which my BIL named “Grandpa Simpson” had lost many of his spots, I assume weathered by time, like a balding old man.
When we eventually returned to our ship, I transferred my palate drawings and the underwater vista into a portrait of my daughter, Grace, swimming alongside the rays. I used seawater to wet my paint.
My daughter, Grace, swimming with a fever of eagle rays
As our adventure came to an end, we took stock of our belongings. We had packed lightly but still, we had way more than we needed. We made a list of what to ditch next time and I remembered Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s words: “In anything at all, perfection is finally attained not when there is no longer anything to add, but when there is no longer anything to take away.”
I know it is not sustainable to expect myself to narrow my possessions to the size of a sailor’s closet or to always pick an experience over a purchase. But I’m inviting this gift of simplicity and ritual into the summer days that lie ahead, remaining curious how less can be more for my family, this Collective, and our planet.
Perhaps you feel moved to join me in this curiosity.
Here are some prompts for us to consider:
What simple thing do you love to savor in the summer? How can you make space for this little luxury?
Are there daily chores that could be simplified or ritualized through deliberateness?
In a room, a packing list, a recipe, or a work conundrum, what happens if you exchange “what can I add?” with “what can I take away?”
Is there a chore or task you’ve been outsourcing that might become a ritual if you took it back?
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The Current, Issue V2.I5
