Asceticism and Moderation

My habit is that of an indulgent and wasteful person.

Today, like many other days, I walked to the grocery store. I bought two small red potatoes, a bag of small brussel sprouts, both unsalted and salted butter, two small sourdough rolls, and one six ounce salmon steak. The small and mundane purchase was satisfying. It felt more satisfying, in fact, than many other purchases I have made at the same grocery store that were composed of more luxurious, indulgent, or plentiful foods. Today’s purchase was one of moderation. I had my indulgences: the small salmon steak and two rolls were unnecessary and purchased for their taste, rather than their nutritional value.

By four in the afternoon, I had eaten little. A few spoons of yogurt mixed with about 1/8 cup of premium-brand granola for breakfast. A sugary, chocolaty, mass-produced national brand “nutritious” granola bar. The remaining four spoonfuls of the bean and onion dish I made yesterday. Five cups of coffee, and much more water. By late this afternoon, hunger was clawing at me. But the hunger was oddly liberating. My spirit was mild. My passions, normally tyrannical over my will, allowed reflection and patience as I read from Kierkegaard and wrote some thoughts. On an afternoon walk, I recalled the goals and simple beauties of the more ascetic philosophers, particularly Siddhartha and Plato. A love of humility and poverty bloomed, and a derision toward money, the love of money, and luxury.

When I arrived home, I removed one sourdough roll from the bag, and the butter from the fridge. I put the roll to my nose, inhaled, and swooned. Ripping open the roll, I applied some butter, then took a bite. More attuned to my body and good habits than usual, I was sure to chew amply. At first, the feeling of food in my mouth was satisfying as it vanquished the feeling of hunger. Then, on the twenty-second chew, the intensity of the butter-on-sourdough flavor burst in my mouth. It struck me as beautiful.

I felt hunger today, and I practiced poverty. But I do not know real hunger or real poverty, neither that imposed upon myself, as a monk might do, nor imposed by the world around me.

This was not a day of asceticism, I reminded myself. This was a day of genuine moderation. It felt alien.