The Weight of Empty Hands

In the nineteenth century, naturalists often spoke of the ‘economy of nature,’ a tidy, ledger-like view of the world where every creature possessed exactly what it required to survive. It was a comforting thought, suggesting that scarcity was merely a precursor to a different kind of abundance. We spend our adult lives accumulating things—objects, titles, anxieties—as if we are building a fortress against the quiet. Yet, I often wonder if we have simply forgotten how to inhabit the space between our own two hands. To be small is to possess a unique kind of wealth; it is the ability to find a kingdom in a handful of mud or a stretch of moving water. We look at the past and see deprivation, but perhaps we are the ones who are deprived, having traded the infinite possibilities of an idle afternoon for the heavy, static weight of our own possessions. When did we decide that having more was the same as being more? What remains of us when the ledger is finally cleared and the hands are empty again?