The Diderot Effect: Staying Simple In The City
Copyright (c) 2006-2008 Bruce Elkin
"Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life.
It turns what we have into enough, and more."
-- Melody Beattie
In an essay titled "On Parting with My Old Dressing Gown,"
French philosopher Denis Diderot described receiving a fancy
velvet robe as a gift.
He loved his new robe, but, shortly, he noticed its magnificence
made his study look threadbare. His desk, rug, and chairs looked
shabby by comparison.
So, one by one, he replaced his furnishings with new ones that
matched the robe's richness.
Later, surrounded by bright and modern furnishings, he regretted
giving up the old robe. He resented the new one for "forcing
everything else to conform with its own elegant tone."
In The Overspent American, Juliet Schor says consumer researchers
call striving for such lifestyle conformity the "Diderot
Effect."
Purchasing a new home leads to buying new furniture. A new
jacket needs a new skirt or slacks to set it off. Moving to an
upscale area prompts thoughts of a car upgrade.
Recently, I experienced my own encounter with the Diderot Effect.
I moved to the city, and struggled to avoid an outburst
consumerism.
For 14 years, I lived on Saltspring Island, a once green, back to
the earth haven that is rapidly upscaling as retiring boomers try
to purchase pieces of paradise.
I lived in a 50-year old, rented cottage that had seen hard use.
Early on, I renovated my work/meeting area. I tore out rugs,
painted the floor blue, the walls white, and trimmed with
homemade pine baseboards. Then I hung colorful, framed prints
and art posters.
With pine and white cotton Ikea furniture and rustic, woven wool
rugs transplanted from my city home/office, the place looked
nice.
But the rest of the house was shabby and threadbare. Dark
paneling, dark rugs, and walls of an indeterminate color,
darkening daily from an ever-growing coat of soot spewed out by
an old wood stove the landlord would not let me replace, even if
I paid for it.
As an ex-outdoor guy, used to living in tents and unfurnished
cabins, I was fine with what I had. So long as I used low-watt
fluorescents in the lamps, a little soot didn't bother me.
But, now, I'm in a bright, newly renovated apartment with
brilliant white walls and sparkling just-refinished hardwood
floors.
Although I have good rent in a small, sixties-type building, I'm
smack in the middle of one of the toniest neighborhoods in town.
Suddenly, almost everything I own seems shabby.
Like Diderot, I feel a gnawing pressure to bring my furnishings,
my wardrobe, and myself in line with my upscale neighbors.
But, really, with one or two exceptions, everything I have is
fine.
True, I should dry clean the jackets and slacks I wear to speak
to groups, or work with organizations. It was "interesting" I
smelled like wood smoke when I heated my house with wood. Now,
it's just funky.
And, if I decorate carefully, refinish my coffee table, and spend
a small fortune to clean my rustic rugs (done!), I can tone down
my furniture's shabbiness, upgrade my wardrobe a bit, and make
me and my place look good enough for company.
Still, there's that gnawing pressure. To buy a new coffee
table. To replace my board, brick, and banker's box filing
system with an Ikea system that reflects the sparkle in the
floor.
But, I resist.
Even such small steps could land me on the consumer escalator. I
could find myself trundling away on that hedonistic,
work-and-spend treadmill where more is never enough.
Instead, I am practicing what I preach. I will create a rich,
yet simple, successful, and sustainable lifestyle-using what I
have.
Following the advice printed on WWII posters, I will, "Use it
up. Wear it out. Make do. Or do without!"
The American Friends Service Committee's consumption criteria
evoke the essence of rich yet simple sustainability I seek:
1. Does what I own or buy promote activity, self-reliance, and
involvement, or does it induce passivity and dependence?
2. Are my consumption patterns basically satisfying, or do I buy
much that serves no real need?
3. How tied are my present job and lifestyle to installment
payments, maintenance and repair costs, and the expectations of
others?
4. Do I consider the impact of my consumption patterns on other
people and on the earth?
I will remind myself that thoughts such as "I'm not as good as
those with nicer stuff," and "I NEED a new whatever," are just
thoughts. They rise, I notice them, they pass. I do not have to
act on them.
Even in the city, I can avoid the consumer ranks. I know I
cannot buy a "real" simple life. I can make do with what I
have, make inexpensive improvements, and, after considering the
criteria above, if I can justify a purchase, I'll go ahead and
buy it--and enjoy it.
I'll let the mastery and meaning of my life and self manifest in
my actions--in doing and being--rather than merely in material
things.
I will take Melody Beattie's advice when she says, "Gratitude
unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough,
and more."
I will practice gratitude daily. Doing so, says Beattie, "can
turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a
friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for
today, and creates a vision for tomorrow."
I will appreciate what I have while I work to make my vision a
reality-simply, successfully, and sustainably.
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Bruce Elkin is a writer and personal life coach. He helps
individuals and groups create what matters most-in spite of
problems, circumstances and adversity. As well as a success
coach, he wrote Simplicity and Success: Creating A Life You
Long For. It and his ebook Emotional Mastery: Manage Your Moods
and Create What Matters Most-With Whatever Life Gives You are
available on his website at: http://www.BruceElkin.com. Visit
his blog at: http://createwhatmattersmost
