Pacing Ourselves: Learning Moderation

We felt that it was important to be good to ourselves, and that this meant that it was dangerous to tell ourselves no. About anything, ever. Repression of one’s desires was an unhealthy thing […]

When did the collision between our appetites and the needs of our souls happen?

How did we come to know that we were dying a slow and unacknowledged death? And that the only way back to life was to set all our packages down and begin again, carrying with us only what we really needed? -Barbara Cawthorne Crafton

If you’ve seen colorful little cubes explode across your Twitter feed, you’ll immediately know what I’m talking about. For those of you who don’t know, there’s a great game called Wordle. It’s not fancy or complicated. It’s six chances to guess a five letter word, each letter turns grey (it’s not in the word), yellow (in the word, but in the wrong spot), or green (right letter, right spot). There’s nothing terribly flashy about the game, it’s hard to get extremely complicated with only five letters. 

There’s an unwritten rule that no one reveals what the word is for the day, giving everyone a fair chance to get it themselves. I’ve been amazed at my own consistency with the game; a daily sharing of scores with friends, commiserating when it was a tough word, and there’s a post-it note on my desk where I update the score with my top competition (I’m losing, but we don’t need to talk about that.) 

The graphics aren’t great, it  feels like an old school computer game I would have played in “computer lab” when there was such a class. But the one thing that stuck out to me is that it’s only once a day. I can’t binge it or play it for five hours straight, even after you miss, they tell you the correct word, so you can’t drag it out. I look forward to it every day and am sad when it’s over. I enjoy it more because it’s done in moderation, and a strange little community has formed around it. 

Streaming services have started a similar technique. Popular shows like the Mandalorian or Ted Lasso are released one episode at a time. Viewers never fall down the rabbit hole, but wait in anticipation for the next delight. Of course, you could wait until they’re all released and then binge the season, but there’s something to the waiting, the anticipation. And there aren’t 20 episodes, just a mere few. It’s easy to form a little community around episode releases; watch parties are more common, a weekly gathering of friends to enjoy the hour-long show. 

I’ve found a similar approach in reading books. I read pretty quickly and my reading is usually done in solitude. It’s all well and good to be a quick reader, but sometimes I wonder if I stray into a sort of “binge reading.” Slowly savoring books isn’t my normal rhythm. Back in September a group of friends joined the 100 Days of Dante online reading group. I’d previously read the Divine Comedy for class in college and again in post-grad, but one was a rushed binge read before an exam. The other was a bleary-eyed commute read, so I’m not sure how much I got out of either reading. But this group has broken up the Divine Comedy into three cantos a week, beginning in September, ending at Easter. A community has formed around this paced reading of Dante. A group text titled “Sojourners of Dante” bursts to life on Monday checking to make sure we’re still all meeting, and then is flooded with resources and posts and thoughts after our Tuesday evening meeting. 

I think we never realize how much we appreciate moderation until we’re actually experiencing it. A meal that fills us up just the right amount, not yearning for more, not uncomfortably stuffed; we are full. Perhaps that’s why Jesus taught us to pray for daily bread. “Give us enough to fill us, but just enough that we return to you every day.” 

A quick little game every morning that leaves me satisfied in solving the word, and leads to text updates throughout the day on how everyone did solving our little puzzle. The binge watching and binge playing of computer games are done in isolation, but when we aren’t being filled to the brim with excessive screen time it leads to reaching out to those around you. Because the game and the show are limited, we want to share it with others. We’re all loving this show, why not watch it together? We’re all reading through this beautiful work why not share it together? 

On either side of the middle ground of moderation is where the danger isolation lurks.

In sloth and gluttony we find ourselves laying on our beds reminding Netflix “Yes, I’m still here.” But similarly immoderate devotions lead to isolation. Exercise routines done alone, an inflexible habit most deem “healthy”, but at the cost of social events, family duties, or occupational requirements. And an obsessive self-discipline might on the surface seem more pulled together, but what if our iron resolve collapses? Who can we rely on when we have never done so before? Excessive devotion is usually applauded, but it can drive us inwards. A ravenous desire never desires interdependence; the cravings of self-fulfillment know nothing of love.

A tv show once a week to be enjoyed and anticipated. A little puzzle to be played once a day. A mere few cantos to read throughout the week. Concealed within these small rituals is the logic of moderation, nothing overwhelming, just enough.

So, how can we train ourselves to just enjoy our daily bread? Or if we’re looking at a buffet table of goodness, where do we cut ourselves off knowing we’ve had our fill, and vice versa allowing ourselves to have enough? Life doesn’t come with the Wordle restrictions. I shared the beginning quote because it’s what got me thinking the most about how I moderate my own life:

How did we come to know that we were dying a slow and unacknowledged death? And that the only way back to life was to set all our packages down and begin again, carrying with us only what we really needed?

How do we set down our packages to sort out what we need to pick up. Perhaps it’s why we love Whole 30, Marie Kondo telling us to rid ourselves of things, the simplicity of Wordle. This sort of “back to basics” mentality appeals to us. But we also must come to terms, that we will have to pick things back up. After the month of purging bad food you will go to a party and be offered a slice of cake, and it can be a right and good thing to consume it. Someone will give you a gift so sweet and sentimental you know you will not part with it, even if impractical.

If you were hoping that the end of this piece would give you the perfect ratio for a moderate, well-ordered life, this will be a grave disappointment to read. I don’t have the solution. But I do know that I crave it, and I suspect my fellow sojourners in this life journey crave it too. So I’m on the lookout for how to implement it in my own life, beyond my daily Wordle score. How can I read books but not devour them, enjoy food but not fret over it, organize my closet but not purge it. In essence: how can I love my life without worshiping it or fearing it? The answer, it seems to me, does not lie in creating more restrictions of our desires, but in different desires altogether. If all our devotion and worship is directed at something outside of ourselves. The gifts of life we devour are better enjoyed, acknowledging the abundant giver who provides for us more than we could ever want.