As much as I believe we would all acknowledge the perhaps
undue significance, within many global cultures, that is given to the
individual possession of 'stuff' or 'things' - I feel that at times our
singular pursuit of acquisition blinds us to an equally important recognition
of the balancing role of empty space - an at least partial absence of material belongings
in our homes and lives. Our vision is obscured by the wealth of paraphernalia
with which we surround ourselves, rendering us blind to the true value of 'no
stuff' or 'no things' - nothing. Because nothing, actually, matters.
I was saddened recently to read of the death of yet another
of the creative souls whose works were influential in the early stages of my 'discovery'
of a personal philosophy and character - my 'self'. Ursula K. Le Guin's
writings, whilst sometimes dismissed - by the convenient human habit of
'labelling' or 'categorising' - as being nothing more than generic works of
science fiction or children's literature, are in fact extraordinary
examinations of the human condition and, as her obituary in the Washington Post
noted, 'grappled with issues of gender inequality, racism and environmental
destruction'.
Favourite and formative works for me are her Earthsea series
- at one point considered a trilogy but ultimately encompassing five novels and
eight short stories - which I too originally enjoyed principally as mere fiction,
yet which always resonated at some deeper level of understanding. An oft-quoted
passage from book three The Farthest
Shore has the Archmage Ged addressing his companion Arren, 'Try to choose
carefully, Arren, when the great choices must be made. When I was young, I had
to choose between the life of being and the life of doing. And I leapt at the
latter like a trout to a fly. But each deed you do, each act, binds you to
itself and to its consequences, and makes you act again and yet again. Then
very seldom do you come upon a space, a time like this, between act and act,
when you may stop and simply be. Or wonder who, after all, you are.'
Only many years later did I recognise the Daoist sentiment
in this dialogue. Browsing the Philosophy section in a bookshop for an
approachable rendition of the Tao Te
Ching, I chanced upon 'An English Version by Ursula K. Le Guin'. Her verse
11, The Uses of Not, reads:
Thirty spokes
meet in the hub.
Where the wheel isn't
is where it's useful.
Hollowed out,
clay makes a pot.
Where the pot's not
is where it's useful.
Cut doors and windows
to make a room.
Where the room isn't,
there's room for you.
So the profit in what is
is in the use of what isn't.
Her footnote explains: 'One of the things I love about Lao
Tzu is he is so funny. He's explaining a profound and difficult truth here, one
of those counter-intuitive truths that, when the mind can accept them, suddenly
double the size of the universe. He goes about it with this deadpan simplicity,
talking about pots.'
Both of these extracts address the notion of absence -
nothingness. The first, an absence of activity - the creation of a space to
simply be. The second, an absence of matter - the creation of a volume which
can be filled or inhabited - or not! In truth, both passages are ultimately
alluding not simply to these absences - but equally to their opposites. Hence
Ursula's comment about 'doubl[ing] the size of the universe.' The well
recognised Daoist two-part Taiji diagram, commonly referred to as the Yin-Yang symbol,
clearly illustrates this central Daoist precept of the 'balance of opposites'.
Originally alluding to the shady and sunny sides of a hill - which of course
are constantly in flux and become their opposite every day - the symbol reminds
us, and invites us to accept, that all things are constantly changing yet perpetually
in, or seeking, balance.
This duality is evident in all we do, all we know, all we
experience, all we value. All our senses relish the equalising balance of the 'intangible'
other: Gazing into an infinite night-time sky from a rooftop above the hubbub
of a major city, or a broad ocean vista from a balcony within a wall of soaring
Gold Coast residential towers; a three-bar rest after the cacophony of an
orchestral overture, or the perfectly timed pause before the punchline
delivered by an accomplished comedian; the deliberately bland or neutral palate
cleanser between courses of an exotic degustation, or the deep intake of cool,
clean air after escaping the suffocating atmosphere of a poorly ventilated - or
worse and more commonly, over-scented - public toilet; the freedom of nakedness
after a day's confinement in restrictive clothing, or the upturned and empty
palm of a hand in a Yoga-class Padmasana (Lotus Position) after hours of
tapping at the keyboard of our office computer. The pinnacle, perhaps, of this
desire to experience a more complete, all-encompassing 'absence' is provided by
the current trend for Isolation or Float Tanks which aim to restore 'balance'
to a participant rattled by contemporary urban life through Stimulus/Sensory
Deprivation.
We recognise the value of 'nothing' also in the visual arts,
and not simply its significant compositional value. We also imbue it with
monetary value by outlaying vast sums for works by such as Mark Rothko or
Barnett Newman that could be said to be largely comprised of little more than
broad expanses of a single flat colour. Indeed, in 2014 an untitled 'all-white'
1961 work by American conceptualist painter Robert Ryman fetched $15 million at
Sotheby's, New York. Our willingness to confer cultural or even metaphysical
value to 'nothing' is perhaps exemplified by the much anticipated Roden Crater
project in Northern Arizona by light and space artist James Turrell, which promises
visitors, among other experiences, an unprecedented and consciousness-expanding
view of an uninterrupted expanse of pure blue sky.
We also frequently find advice to possess less - to discover
and value 'absence' - in diverse quotations from esteemed authors: 'With more
quality in our lives perhaps we would crave less [quantity].' from Kevin McCloud's 43 Principles of Home;
'Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful, or believe to
be beautiful.' From William Morris's 1880 lecture, The Beauty of Life; 'It
would seem that perfection is attained not when no more can be added, but when
no more can be removed.' from Antoine de Saint-Exupery's, Terres des Hommes (Published in English as Wind, Sand and Stars); and perhaps unsurprisingly from a Japanese
observer, the ultimate in appreciation of the almost imperceptible 'If light is
scarce then light is scarce; we will immerse ourselves in the darkness and
there discover its own particular beauty.' from Jun'Ichiro Tanizaki's, In Praise of Shadows.
But do we listen? It is currently very fashionable within
our 'greed is good' consumerist mindset - seemingly undiminished since the
1980s despite repeated global financial 'warnings' - to dismiss the well-known
designers' credo of 'less is more' as minimalist, modernist nonsense. We judge
ourselves and our contemporaries almost solely on our apparent mutual abundance
of assets. We fill our homes to bursting with belongings, collectibles and
equipment; effects, goods and chattels. Then when there's little room to move,
we place it all into store and fill the void once more with fresh acquisitions.
But with every new purchase our environments become more thickly crowded with
stuff whilst our attention is spread ever more thinly, with a lesser and lesser
portion of our available emotional quotient to delight in its presence in our
lives, plus a proportionally diminishing likelihood of ever encountering that
oh-so ephemeral, yet oh-so longed for, moment of peace and solitude we
physically, mentally and spiritually crave.
But by seeking to bask in admiration at our ostentatious
display of wealth, we actually make ourselves the poorer - not just financially,
but also poor of quality time, poor of physical space, poor of calm and
serenity in our daily lives, when with just a slight inversion of our thinking,
a little less haste to fill every nook and cranny with material clutter - and a
great deal less monetary expenditure - we could discover the genuine richness
of existence that we truly desire. Perhaps Matsuo Basho, the
seventeenth-century itinerant Japanese poet expressed this sentiment most
clearly in an essay he wrote in the year prior to his death, when he stated '
My solitude shall be my company, and my poverty my wealth.'
So less really is more - because it allows us to glimpse the
richness that lies beyond immediate and distracting materiality. And nothing at
all? Well nothing, as we've seen, truly matters.
Finalist for New Philosopher Writers' Award XVIII: Stuff
