But like many luxuries, it has an insidious downside. It’s wonderful to have the freedom to continually widen our interests. But new options seem to enter my life all the time, and so I drift from old ones. If I were stuck in a prison cell with these items I would almost inevitably become the accomplished guitarist, painter and polyglot I wanted to be when I purchased each of those things. They would hate for you to discover the incredible wealth remaining in what you already own.Īmong many other possessions, I have a set of watercolors, a guitar and amp, and a bunch of “Learn French” books.
The last thing marketers want is for people to get their excitement and fulfillment from what they already have access to. There’s just so much money to be made in selling people new paths-new equipment, new books, new possibilities. The consumer economy nurtures this sweet tooth. When newness is always available, it’s easier to seek more of it than to actually engage with a tricky chord change, the dull sections in Les Miserables, or the dozens of ugly roses you need to paint before you get your first good one. If we indulge in it too often, we can develop a sort of “sweet tooth” for the feeling of newness itself. Maybe at the end of the year your peers present you with a special ring.Ī big part of the Depth Year’s maturing process would be learning to live without regular doses of the little high we get when we start something new. There could be a bar-mitzvah-like ceremony on the eve of your Depth Year, which would create a bit of accountability. Oh, Sam is starting his Depth Year this winter! Maybe he’ll finally read his copy of Moby Dick, and start learning complete songs on guitar instead of just bits of them. Someone’s Depth Year would be a celebrated cultural moment in their community. You learn not to be so flippant with your aspirations.īy taking a whole year to go deeper instead of wider, you end up with a rich but carefully curated collection of personal interests, rather than the hoard of mostly-dormant infatuations that happens so easily in post-industrial society. Having completed a Depth Year would be a hallmark of maturity, representing the transition between having reached adulthood chronologically and reaching it spiritually. People are already getting sick of being half-assed about things, I like to think. In the consumer age, where it’s so easy to pick up and abandon new pursuits, I imagine this Depth Year thing really catching on, and maybe becoming a kind of rite of passage. We could call it a “Depth Year” or a “Year of Deepening” or something. You turn to the wealth of options already in your house, literally and figuratively. The guiding philosophy is “Go deeper, not wider.” Drill down for value and enrichment instead of fanning out.
You finish the Gordon Ramsey Masterclass you started in April, despite your fascination with the new Annie Leibovitz one, even though it’s on sale. You pick up the guitar again and get better at it, instead of taking up the harmonica. You read your unread books, or even reread your favorites. You consume media you’ve already stockpiled instead of acquiring more. You improve skills rather than learning new ones.
Instead, you have to find the value in what you already own or what you’ve already started. No new hobbies, equipment, games, or books are allowed during this year. After you’re established in your career, and you have some neat stuff in your house, you take a whole year in which you don’t start anything new or acquire any new possessions you don’t need. I keep imagining a tradition I’d like to invent.
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