A few weeks ago, I found myself unexpectedly entangled in a rather stressful financial disagreement. Stories of lack and scarcity skittered like lizards in my mind. But as the disagreement dragged on, amazement overcame my anxiety. My “adversary” in the argument is wealthy by most standards, but everything he said suggested impoverishment, fear, and scarcity. The tiny lizards in my brain seemed comical and cute compared to the raging dinosaur inside of his.
I left the conversation aware of two things: 1) wow, that dude makes a lot of money, and 2) I feel so rich.
There is real poverty in this world, and that’s a tragic injustice. But for those of us who have dependable access to food and shelter, whether we feel rich or poor in a given moment usually doesn’t have all that much to do with what’s in our bank accounts. It has a lot to do with the stories (and reptiles) that populate our minds.
Since my disagreement with the dinosaur, I’ve been consciously choosing to notice all that I have. I’ve recommitted to my long lost habit of gratitude journaling. The more I lean into this, the more I feel a sense of abundance.
“Abundance” and “scarcity” can describe physical realities in the world around us—including realities that are beyond our present locus of control. But these words can be equally descriptive of our mindset, of our locus of attention, of the way we choose to inhabit this imperfect world. There will always be something more that I could wish for. There will always be some looming possibility that I could fear. But there will also always be this moment, and in every single here-and-now, there is something marvelous. Something worth noticing. Something to remind me of what true wealth is.
Spending time with the people I love makes me feel rich. So does reading a good book, taking a walk with my dog, connecting with you through writing, sharing a belly laugh with a friend, traipsing barefoot through the grass, playing the piano, pausing to listen to birdsong, or giving time or money to causes that matter to me.
That last one is sort of interesting, since it involves giving money away but reliably leaves me feeling richer. This phenomenon isn’t limited only to charitable contributions. Earlier this year, I spent rather a lot of money—more than my lizard brain thought I could afford—to enroll in a life coach training course simply because I felt a deep pull to do so. The tuition money disappeared from my bank account . . . and I felt richer. Why? Because I honored my values and my deepest desires. I made the choice from a place of love rather than fear. And in so doing, it became clearer to me that money is neither a thing to be worshipped nor a thing to be reviled and feared. If we are lucky enough to have a little bit of discretionary spending, then money is a vehicle for expressing what we value.
All of this was on my mind when I stumbled into Lynne Twist’s book “The Soul of Money.” If it hadn’t been for my encounter with the dinosaur, I wouldn’t have given the book a second glance. I guess some judgy part of me imagines that people who read books about money are greedy materialists (and therefore inferior to oh-so-enlightened me), but the premise of the book mirrored and expanded on the thoughts and feelings that were already bubbling up inside me. “The Soul of Money” isn’t actually about money—or not just about money. It’s about the way we relate to all aspects of our lives. It’s about the choice to live from a mindset of sufficiency (which gives rise to abundance, creativity, resourcefulness, integrity, and generosity), even when we are living in a world that teaches a mindset of scarcity (which gives rise to fear, greed, hoarding, disconnection, inequality, and emotional and spiritual impoverishment).
The author puts it this way:
For me, and for many of us, our first waking thought of the day is "I didn't get enough sleep." The next one is "I don't have enough time." Whether true or not, that thought of not enough occurs to us automatically before we ever think to question or examine it. We spend most of the hours and the days of our lives hearing, explaining, complaining, or worrying about what we don't have enough of . . . We don't have enough exercise. We don't have enough work. We don't have enough profits. We don't have enough power. We don't have enough wilderness. We don't have enough weekends. Of course, we don't have enough money—ever.
We're not thin enough, we're not smart enough, we're not pretty enough or fit enough or educated or successful enough, or rich enough—ever. Before we even sit up in bed, before our feet touch the floor, we're already inadequate, already behind, already losing, already lacking something. And by the time we go to bed at night, our minds race with a litany of what we didn't get, or didn't get done, that day. We go to sleep burdened by those thoughts and wake up to the reverie of lack. . . What begins as a simple expression of the hurried life, or even the challenged life, grows into the great justification for an unfulfilled life.
Whether or not this describes your life and your way of thinking, it certainly reflects the life and mindset that an individualistic, capitalist society promotes. I’ve thought and felt all of these things. And I’ve also thought and felt a thousand times over how impossibly lucky I am and how incredibly rich and rewarding the gift of life is. Do you know when I felt this sense of abundance most keenly? During my sickest months of long Covid, which also happened to be smack dab in the middle of my divorce. They were the hardest months of my life, but because they were so hard and because my mortality felt so real and present to me, I poured the energy and attention I had into appreciating the beauty and goodness still available to me. I felt piercingly alive to everything—the pain, the uncertainty, but also the birdsong, my children’s laughter, the taste of food, and the kindness of strangers.
Now that life is a bit easier, I sometimes slide into the old trap of imagining that once I’m a little healthier, then I’ll really have it made. Or once I have a steadier income, then I’ll really enjoy my life fully. Or once the kids are back in school, then I’ll finally have time for all the things I yearn to do. These are lizard thoughts. They are tired, dead-end stories of scarcity. The only place where happiness can ever exist is in the here and now. The only place where anything (or anyone) can ever be enough is right here and now. Abundance isn’t an amount. It’s an intentional appreciation of what is. You are, and I am—right here and now. In this micro-moment of time and space, what is actually lacking?
What stories of scarcity are making you feel stressed, isolated, or stuck right now? How do you connect with a sense of abundance? What differences do you notice in your life when you do? I’d love to hear from you in the comments!
P.S. Big news! Thanks in part to your enthusiastic feedback, I’m going to share my first novel, “All is Well,” a bit at a time here on Substack. I hope to have more details for you in the next week or so!
There are so many helpful thoughts here. I try live more in the present with a sense of gratitude. I think I struggle entering midlife without accomplishing the goals I'd set myself, the comparison trap catches me out and im still trying on role/careers. At times I feel so rich but there are habits that keep me in that space
I've always - but especially lately - been looking to the natural world to reassure me that abundant generosity exists even at the most unlikely of times. Where I live, there has been overly-abundant rain and flooding and wildfire smoke this summer. Nonetheless, mid-summer flowers, in a glory of diverse colors, shapes and sizes are popping up everywhere. And they're every bit as exquisite against a backdrop of smoky haze or brooding rain clouds as a clear azure sky. Maybe even more so.
On the other hand, your piece has reminded me that there is also an abundance available of what I don't want. Like an abundance of fear-based political rhetoric and anxiety-provoking news 24x7. The good news, which you and Lynne Twist have helped me to remember, is that I get to choose what sort of abundance I avail myself (and my lizard) of.
I'm excited to read your novel!