Knowing your ‘enough’ can be your hidden superpower

Do you know your “enough”? And what does that mean, exactly?

I’ve wondered often, and serendipitously, Gillian McAinsh, friend and former editor, sent me an answer in April.

Discussing an extract from April Rinne’s book, Flux: 8 Superpowers for Thriving in Constant Change, writer Bill Tomoff of the delightful Purple Space blog explores a remarkably simple fact of life: fulfilment and happiness are not caught and kept from owning stuff.

Rinne ’ s ‘ Superpower number 5’ references, he says, our relationship with consumerism and the “too-often quest for more [and more] material consumption”.

The problem, as both she and Tomoff see it, is that we don’t have a cooking clue how damaging our rampant, consumerist aspirations truly are.

As Rinne explains: “This ‘cycle of more’ and the script that powers it can be quick to take root and surprisingly difficult to let go [of].

“The truth is: no amount of physical stuff can ever replace your inner sense of worth, but it can easily bankrupt you [and harm the environment in the process].

“Yet, the old script persuades you of the exact opposite.

“This is how today’s consumerism is designed: the goal of ‘more’ can never be fully satisfied, which keeps you tethered to the hamster wheel, clicking on ads and buying things that never fully satisfy. “But hold on.

“This is a script.

“And it’s not a script that many people would opt into, if they actually paused and thought about it.

“Who wants to live for an unattainable goal set by others, that’s exhausting and expensive, and often brings more jealousy than joy?”

The new script, argues Rinne, sees through the “mirage of more” and says: enough is enough.

I was chatting to my husband about this last week, during a rare hike through his eclectically untidy office space.

The amount of stuff — most of it broken, unusable, dusty or there only for “rainy day” emergencies that will likely never occur — is a source of marital irritation.

I don’t know, he shrugged, how I ended up as a hoarder, and yes, he agreed, it wasn’t like this at the beginning, more than two decades ago, when we were just starting out.

When he travelled down from Joburg to live in the Eastern Cape with me, everything fitted neatly (well, it fitted — neat and he aren’t bedfellows) into his little Toyota.

Now, there aren’t enough cheap Takealot shelves to carry the weight of his sale buys, bits of cable (“It might come in useful, you never know, you just don’t, Bethkie!”), empty boxes and dead computer mouses.

And that’s just on the south side of the room.

Even non-hoarders fall for the script, though, and I tend to

— at least in my head, because I don’t have the budget for reeling in too much stuff like so much fish taking bait.

I know my couch is unsightly, and if only it had a matching, and new, three-seater to square it off, perhaps the lounge would look like lounges where the other half live and drift, effortlessly, dust-free, and with matching cushions.

Maintenance and repairs in our rambling, old, family home would take so much money to execute that one could just as well buy a small flat and make a fortune on Airbnb for the same amount of cash.

And then, I think of my parents, and grandparents, who had just enough stuff to raise a family, keep the lights on, hydrate and feed anyone who crossed the threshold and provide a little nature pleasure with a manageable, plain garden (plus, recycling wasn’ ta thing, because virtually nothing was wasted).

Where did we go wrong? Rinne says it’s a matter of perspective.

“Knowing your enough does not mean being miserly, uncharitable or living in scarcity.

“If that’s your reaction [or your fear], you’ve misunderstood this superpower entirely.

“Knowing your enough is in fact the opposite of these things: it gives you room for generosity and plenitude.

“[A great irony of this superpower is that in a world focused on more, you’ll never find enough.

“Yet, in a world focused on enough, you’ll immediately find more.]”

It’s true, as she says: knowing your enough brings clarity about what really matters.

It releases anxiety and your ability to expand escalates.

I thought about this while thinking of my husband’s scary-cluttered den space, and my own poorly-decorated, shabby home.

If he gets to close the door on his stuff, and finds a way to stop adding to it, who cares what’s happening behind that door? He’s happy, and it’s OK.

And as for threadbare couches and peeling walls — they provide, respectively, seats for bums and conversation, and warmth or shade against seasonal temperatures.

That should be more than enough for me.

And for today, at least, it is.