A Loaf of Bread, a Bottle of Wine… et Toi?

My Spanish friends and I had been stomping around the mountains outside Madrid all that cold day, collecting wild mushrooms. The last of the mushrooms now rested in pools of garlic-scented olive oil, next to the torn-off end of a loaf of pan rustica and more than a few bottles of red wine.

“What’s more attractive, a drop-dead gorgeous woman or a normal woman who feels good in her own skin?” Alfredo asked the rest of us, as we sat back in our chairs and drank in the warmth of the fire.

It had been, in the eyes of most of us, a perfect day – laughing and arguing boisterously as we hunted for the mushrooms, and then, back in the warmth of Alfredo’s house in the sierra, cooking and eating the earthy, garlicky mushrooms and drinking wine.

I was probably the only one who didn’t think it was the perfect day. All this eating and talking was fun, but shouldn’t we be DOING something? This was ten years ago and I’d already been living in Spain for several years. I loved Spain, but often had the sense that I should be Doing Something More Important.

My Spanish friends, on the other hand, seemed to believe that doing less could lead to more fun and enjoyment of life. They were masters, as on that day of the mushroom hunting, at having more fun with less. Alfredo had at least ten people over for dinner that night, but there was no spending the day stressed out, shopping and cooking. Instead, we had fun tramping through the countryside and then more fun cooking and eating together.

The “less is more” idea seemed to work with a lot of things – Spanish women were a lot more elegant than I was, and their closets were far less jam-packed than those of my friends at home. Spanish parents went to restaurants with their friends and held adult conversations, rather than trying to entertain the kids all the time… and the kids seemed relaxed and happy.

I admired what I saw as a sense of spaciousness and ease in many Spaniards’ approach to time and to life. There was a sense that you didn’t need a lot of stuff, just good friends and good conversation.

Alfredo’s attempt to start a controversy with his question about attractiveness fell flat. All the Spaniards at the table – both men and women – agreed that a normal woman who feels good in her own skin would be far more attractive than even the most beautiful woman.

I, however, sat looking into my wineglass and wondering what the answer to that question would be in the US. I mean, I could see that a lot of men are interested in women who seem natural and true to themselves. But still… a lot of the messages I’d heard growing up in the US had been around some version of “more is better.”

And it wasn’t just “work harder to have more stuff” (but a lot less time to enjoy it). “More is better,” when I was a teenager anxious to learn how to be a woman, meant firmer thighs, bigger breasts, better clothes, shinier hair, whiter teeth, more vivacious conversation, even acting “more natural”…

And for all of this, I had to exercise more, smile harder, “work” on my personality… not to mention working harder to make more money so I could spend it in the constant hunt for better hair conditioner and the perfect sweater (all with the intention, later, of having the perfect car and perfect family and perfect house).

Phew. When I write about it, it all sounds like a lot of work.

In contrast, Alfredo’s question, and the response of that table full of friends, seemed to fit into the “less is more” idea. To “feel good in your skin” is really just to be who you are and to be deeply comfortable with that, isn’t it? And when you have that, how much other “stuff” do you really need?

I think this applies to everyone – whether your “stuff” of choice comes in the form of a better car, or a really great meal, or more money in the bank. Not that any of those things are “bad,” just that… Are they additions to lives that already seem spacious and full of joy and love and all the other things we long for? Or are we using them to fill a space inside of us that seems empty? Are we using them to convince ourselves that we matter, that we are loveable, that we can command respect?

Last week I was in Paris, a place that offers all sorts of chances to consider these questions. For instance, is it really the cheese and wine that matter? Or is it that I have such a beautiful memory, from the last time I was in Paris, of sitting at a table in the springtime, drinking cheese and wine and talking for hours with a friend?

Is it possible that I’m trying to match that memory through the cheese and wine, rather than realizing that what mattered was the spaciousness and freedom and connection I felt – talking to a friend for hours and sitting bare-shouldered in the balmy air of spring?

Along with pondering these questions, this week I took the risk to:

1) Speak French (my French is rusty-on-top-of-bad-to-begin-with).

2) Extrapolate, in French, on a long-winded thought of mine, while aware that the two people listening might be gritting their teeth in agony.

3) Climb some very tall boulders in the Fontainbleau Forest.

4) Cook dinner for a French person (and therefore risking being considered evidence of stereotypes about Americans being terrible cooks…).

5) Think about the ways I spend my time and life energy that seem life-serving, and the ways that don’t. (Haha… it hasn’t escaped me that “spending my time worrying what French people think of my cooking and language skills” falls in the latter category).

6) Consider how my use of life energy affects my relationships (this was “scary” because the break-up I wrote about last week was due to his perception that I wasn’t investing enough time in it. How well do the things I choose to invest my time in reflect what I value? – that may very well be next week’s question).

**

It was ten years ago, now, that I sat at that table at Alfredo’s house in Spain and thought about the questions of feeling good in my skin, and of “less is more.”

One of the women sitting around the table with us that day was the daughter of a Marquis, though she would never tell you that. I’ve been thinking a lot, this week, about the way she looked when I saw her last – probably five years ago now. I bumped into her in a little park near her house in Madrid, in the springtime. She had one of her young sons in tow and the other in a baby carriage. She was wearing a well-worn pair of jeans, and she was just – enjoying the park, enjoying the flowers beginning to bloom, enjoying her sons. She looked like she felt good in her own skin.

But it was more than that. There was a sense of spaciousness, of enjoying the moment, that I long for – a spaciousness that I want to bring into my exploration of how I use my life energy, today and every day. 

As I step out into the day here in London, where life finds me this week, I will try to remember that.