The following is Part II of a two-part essay on vigor. In this essay, I define the term ‘simpletonic’ and discuss the notion of vigor, which is inspired by Thoreau’s term ‘morning vigour’.

 

“The morning wind forever blows . . . but few are the ears who hear it” (Thoreau, Walden, p. 73).

In Part I, I defined the term ‘vigor’ in relation to physical fitness; I discussed how I believed that it is an error not to maintain the line of our body. Our body is the vehicle that shuttles us through life, so we should endeavor to preserve its tremendous capabilities; our physical form should not limit us. If it does, then we weaken mentally and begin to lose the vigor that we should aim to carry with us each day. But the physical aspect is just the beginning; it is the easier portion of the maintenance of vigor. The more difficult portion lies in the ‘how’ we live; lies in the mind. To help explain this concept, I’d like first to introduce and define the term ‘Simpletonic’, which is a double entendre.

The first entendre is a noun: ‘simple tonic’, which means exactly how it sounds. It is a tonic—a sort of medicine—of simplicity. A simple life is a rich and wonderful life, so we should do our best to take a swig of simplicity here and there to remind ourselves that we can always live in a more elemental fashion. The second and more fundamental entendre is the adjectival form of the word ‘simpleton’: simpletonic. This is not a word in the English dictionary, but it ought to be. A simpleton is traditionally defined as “a foolish or gullible person”, which clearly makes it an insulting term. However, I’d like to shine a new light on these qualities, emphasizing the good in them. Why should we fear gullibility and a dash of foolishness? We respect cynicism and we revere expertise. We crave the opportunity to showcase our knowledge, and we fear what people will think of us when they recognize that our knowledge is limited. But when we act in this way, we miss wonderful opportunities to listen, to learn, and to connect with other people. The beauty of living in a simpletonic way is that we believe everything we see and are open to all possibilities and realities. Simpletons have no prior knowledge and no pretence. By reducing ourselves in this way, we are able to listen. And when we have developed the ability to listen, we are able to see much more clearly.

In this vein, I’d like to explore what I call ‘simpletonic vigor’. Thoreau uses the term ‘morning vigour’, which he essentially defines as that sacred auroral energy of the morning which we should strive to carry within ourselves throughout each day until our eventual nightly slumber. It is a beautiful notion and a very difficult enterprise; he said it himself: “To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake. How could I have looked him in the face?” (p. 78). Simpletonic vigor is essentially the energy and focus that we develop within ourselves as we learn to look at the world in a more questioning, wondering, open way. Acquisitiveness and luxury are the primary foes of simpletonic vigor.

Acquisitiveness and luxury go hand-in-hand. I remember a conversation that I (and two other friends) once had with a mother of three boys. She grew up with relatively little, in a large lower middle-class family from the outskirts of Philadelphia. The man she married, who was of a similar socio-economic background, ended up achieving significant success in the private equity world. She believed that they failed their children by allowing themselves to fall into acquisitiveness as a result of this success. It’s an interesting point. Is it possible to raise good, well-grounded children amidst luxury and plenty? It does seem possible, but based off a number of conversations I’ve had with parents of all ages and backgrounds, it’s certainly a challenge. The problem is that we convince ourselves that we need to acquire and to earn for the sake of our children, but this is often an indirect excuse for our own material desires. I am young and have no children, so I will not pretend to understand the intricacies of raising a child.

However, it seems to me that the kids will be alright if we don’t drive a BMW. I do not believe that there is anything inherently wrong with owning nice things, but moderation is the key. The point is that there are woes to acquisitiveness and that we should try to be aware of the impact that this acquisitiveness might have on ourselves and our dependents. When we grow accustomed to comfort and quality, does that put us out of touch with the struggles of the majority of humanity? Does it make us incapable of enduring the occasional rugged conditions, limiting our ability to enjoy the simple pleasures around us? When we refrain from excessive acquisitiveness we learn to appreciate and even venerate the roof overhead, instead of complaining about the lack of air conditioning or the poor quality of the mattress. Happiness and appreciation come much more naturally if we can learn to think in this way, and when we self-impose a bit of material frugality in our lives.

I’m a firm believer in the notion of owning few things because I believe that each thing we own in turn comes to own us. The more expensive our car or home, the more we worry. We may receive pleasure in the recognition of success projected in the envy of others, but ultimately our desire for ownership adds boundaries and headaches to our life. The beauty of owning little is the freedom that accompanies it. It allows our minds to be clear and present, as opposed to distant and overly concerned about our possessions and finances. I grew up around rich people; I saw this every day as a child, and it can make a person quite nasty. Not many things can warp the mind worse than the fear of loss. This is one of the primary motifs in Steinbeck’s great novel The Grapes of Wrath: “If he needs a million acres to make him feel rich, seems to me he needs it ’cause he feels awful poor inside hisself, and if he’s poor in hisself, there ain’t no million acres gonna make him feel rich, an’ maybe he’s disappointed that nothin’ he can do’ll make him feel rich…” (p. 148).

When we own little and live simply, we stay in motion. Our mind remains acute and our body remains sturdy when we choose to sleep in a firm bed with a simple blanket and a few pillows; when we sit tall in a chair or on the floor, as opposed to lounging on a soft couch. We may find the soft couch and the television inviting, but these luxuries slowly break us down. Our hips begin to ache, our back begins to slouch, and we become worrisome about things that are not worthy of our attention. A good friend once mentioned the universality of Newton’s first law of motion: A [person] at rest remains at rest, while a [person] in motion remains in motion. This applies not only to physical activity, but also to the way we carry ourselves throughout each day. The more luxury and comfort that we allow in our lives, the more we become accustomed to these things, and the more we handicap our bodies and minds.  

That being said, I often come back to maybe my favorite Thoreau quote: “. . . there [is] some virtue in a stove” (Walden, p. 261). The idea is that it is admirable to live simply and with the stout vigor that accompanies simplicity, but also that a bit of luxury and comfort goes a long way. Luxury has a threshold at which marginal returns begin to diminish dramatically. The step from no shelter to a wooden roof is life-changing; from a wooden roof to four walls, sublime; from four walls to a sturdy home with a stove and kitchen, still tremendous; but from here on, the marginal returns diminish. A larger home with more rooms and fancier furnishings does not make us stronger, more capable, more understanding or more intelligent. “While civilization has been improving our houses, it has not equally improved the men who are to inhabit them” (Thoreau, Walden, p. 28).

Ultimately, “every man is the arbiter of his own virtues,” as Faulkner put it (The Sound and the Fury, p. 195). So we must decide for ourselves whether we are comfortable with allowing ourselves to be driven by acquisitiveness. We must debate internally the degree to which the luxuries in our lives hamper our experiences. We must consider the way in which our things stunt our capacity for empathy, understanding, awareness, health, and vitality. How can we nurture a simpletonic mindset and vigor? There is no easy answer, but we should do our best to come to honest terms with ourselves in this regard. We all secretly know the answer.