Let Go of Your Legal Pad

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And as I straightened to a full stand and saw the orange and yellow lilies and happy zinnias and Tessie’s bright shoes and a swing set and a little red plastic chair on the deck outside—all in just the right light, that bold rounded yellow kind of light like the good people of Cadiz so often enjoy, it hit me in a rush of physical sensation: I have everything I need. I don’t need anything else, ever.

No more personal tracking devices like omniscient Blackberrys, no heartshaped Teflon waffle makers with heat resistant knobs and automatic cut-off valves, no bamboo steamers or apple corers or electric bread warmers, no atomic projection clocks that coax me awake in dulcet tones, no telescoping Italian barstools, no stacking washers and dryers that look like pieces of art, no power suits with pizza slice pointy shoes, no personal portable monogrammed list carriers, no new car (though, to be honest, if someone would enjoy the pleasure of giving me a car since mine died a sad and smoky death, that nice little VW Beetle convertible is a sweet choice in light teal), no little yellow raincoat for the dog, no napkin rings in the shape of small garden sprites, no more making lists of things I need—I’m done, I’m happy, I’m eschewing materialism once and for all.