Margaret Atwood’s life advice

Also suitable for career obsession · thirst for ownership · possessiveness

William Sieghart prescribes a poem to cure acquisitiveness

We have all kinds of ambitions when we start out in life, and especially when we are young and financially insecure, it is only natural that many of them are materialistic. Those who are lucky enough to achieve some measure of success, however, can soon fall victim to the perils of attaching too much importance to possessions. It is a well-known fact that once we are past the point of comfort, further earnings and ownings do nothing for our happiness.

One of the unhappiest people I have ever met had made a fortune in tech; their family owned thousands of acres in California. I remember being shown their spectacular view of the mountains and saying something like, “God, it’s so beautiful”. And they replied, “You know the best thing? It’s all ours”. But of course it wasn’t, not really. They were blessed enough to have that magnificent view, but they lacked the wisdom to appreciate it, and as a result were miserable, tormented by a secret fear of losing it all. What this lovely poem by Margaret Atwood suggests so lyrically is that ownership is ultimately about control, and the futile attempt to govern our own lives. The moment you take more pleasure in owning something than in the thing itself – in its beauty, in the miracle of its existence – is the moment you forget how to enjoy it. William Sieghart

The moment when, after many years of hard work and a long voyage you stand in the centre of your room, house, half-acre, square

mile, island, country, knowing at last how you

got there, and say, I own this,

is the same moment when

the trees unloose their soft arms from around you, the birds take back their language, the cliffs fissure and

collapse, the air moves back from you like a wave and you can’t breathe.

No, they whisper. You own

nothing.

You were a visitor, time

after time climbing the hill, planting

the flag, proclaiming. We never belonged to you. You never found us.

It was always the other way round.

THE MOMENT BY MARGARET ATWOOD