In 1929, a Berlin doctor named Friedrich Ritter and his companion, Dore Strauch, left Germany for Floreana, an uninhabited island in the Galápagos. They wanted to get away from civilization, live simply off the land, and spend their days thinking and writing.
Ritter prepared thoroughly. He had all his teeth pulled before the trip, to see if his gums would toughen up in the wild. On the island, Dore’s teeth rotted and had to come out too. In the end, the two of them shared one set of stainless steel dentures.
Newspapers loved the story, and soon others followed, including a self-styled baroness with two young lovers, a revolver, and plans for a luxury hotel. Within a few years, the island at the end of the world was full of jealousy, gossip, and feuds. Dore later wrote a book about it called Satan Came to Eden.
They had gone halfway around the world to get away from other people but ended up bringing all their old troubles with them.
Most of us won’t move to a deserted island, but we all have a Floreana in our heads. It’s the “if only.” If only we lived somewhere sunnier. If only we had a different job, a bigger house, or a longer vacation. If only people stopped leaving candy wrappers in the fridge.
Wishing for a different life feels harmless, even pleasant. But as mindfulness teacher Jon Kabat-Zinn put it, wherever you go, there you are. The “if only” keeps us living in a life we don’t have, and it makes the one we do have feel smaller.
A new place doesn’t come with a new us
When I wrote about the mirage of greener pastures, I noted that we tend to overestimate how green the grass is on the other side and undervalue what we already have. Behind every perfectly curated Instagram post, there’s a pile of laundry waiting to be folded.
Researchers have tested this. David Schkade and Daniel Kahneman surveyed nearly 2,000 college students in the Midwest and Southern California. The Californians were far happier with their weather. But when it came to life overall, both groups were about equally satisfied. Students in both regions still guessed that someone like them would be happier in California.
When we imagine a different life, we forget we’d still bring along the same habits, worries, and in-laws.
Takes us out of the present
Every hour we spend in an imaginary life, where everything is perfect, is an hour we’re stealing from the only guaranteed one we have. We sit through dinner thinking about next summer’s trip, or come back from a vacation and start planning the next one on Monday afternoon. Instead of cleaning our kitchens, we scroll through other people’s. Instead of living, we seem to be preparing.
In my post on balanced escapism, I confessed that escapism is one of my favorite armchair sports. For sure, a good book, a weekend away, or a night in a hotel where someone else makes the bed can refresh us. Our need to escape is fundamental, because human lives can be taxing. The problem is when the escape becomes the place we live, and the laundry, the bills, and the hard conversations pile up back home.
Acceptance still leaves room to act
If changing our circumstances doesn’t do the trick, the alternative is making peace with them. Not in a passive way, though.
Accepting where we are doesn’t mean we stop fixing things. We still should call the plumber or look for a better job if the one we have is making us miserable. What we need to stop doing is adding a second layer of misery to our already less-than-ideal situation. Resentment (that this is happening at all) and daydreaming about a life where it wouldn’t have happened has never made anyone happy.
While the leaky faucet takes twenty minutes to fix, wishing we lived in a house without one can take up a whole weekend.
The takeaway I keep coming back to is Kabat-Zinn’s two-word question.
When the “if only” starts, ask, “Now what?”
Then do the next small thing in front of you.
Minor, day-to-day rubs, like a smudge on the just-shined stainless-steel refrigerator, or an empty candy wrapper tucked away inside it, still bother me. But instead of thinking, “If only my family would learn,” I can choose to wipe the fridge and have the conversation (or better still, learn to let it go). Maybe it will help. Maybe it won’t. At least I’m not putting my life on hold in the meantime.
The Now what reframing moves us out of the life we’re wishing for and back into the one we’re living. I still plan vacations. I’m learning to not expect those to fix my life at home.
do you think that i would change / my present freedom to range / for a castle or a moated grange / wotthehell wotthehell
Don Marquis, the song of mehitabel, archy and mehitabel (1927)