About a year ago I read Deborah Levy’s memoir The Cost of Living: A Working Autobiography in one full sitting. At the time, I was staying at my parents’ house, alternatively feeling comforted and startled by (bless them) what seemed to be an unspoken, collective bedtime of 8 p.m. One night, left to my own devices at ten till eight, I decided to rifle through my dad’s bourbon cabinet and open Levy’s book. 

I’d enjoyed reading Levy’s fiction (particularly her eerily beautiful novel Swimming Home), but this was my first dip into her nonfiction. Unsurprisingly, having read it over a year ago, I don’t remember many of the memoir’s specifics, but one of Levy’s expressions struck such a chord with me that, to this day, her words still pop into my head. At around the midway point in the book, as Levy is reeling from the fallout of a divorce, her children leaving home, and the shock of her new life as a single, middle-aged writer, she comes to the realization that what she needs is enough of the right things. 

Enough of the right things. Upon reading those words, my first reaction was to interrogate them: What are the right things? How do you define ‘enough?’ Is she implying we should all settle? But, before I could completely tear apart Levy’s sentiment with my logic-hounding, I had a secondary reaction: I felt, deeply, that these words were somehow staggeringly solid, and true. 

To the outside observer, my life probably looks relatively seamless (we can all thank social media for that, I suppose), and by all accounts I have been extremely fortunate. But…there’s always a but, and this is mine: I’ve spent a significant part of my twenties lining up all of the things I need to do, achieve, or master before I can begin to live a fulfilled life. Even if you’ve been living under a rock, sheltered from the rain of modern self-help articles (and podcasts! and newsletters!), you most likely understand that a fulfilled life is composed of more than the satisfaction of filing away a shining, tidy checklist. But there’s often a frustratingly wide gap between understanding a concept and living it. 

Levy’s words were a stark reminder of this gap that stretches between comprehension and action; through her journey of identifying and executing “enough of the right things,” Levy was demonstrating the active, contemplative nature of composing a meaningful life. Levy’s “right things” were often simple: cooking dinner for her daughter, writing into the night, a small apartment she could call her own. Everyone’s life reads as a narrative in the mind, and Levy was leveraging her understanding of story to re-write portions of hers. Through her efforts to unearth what is truly valuable in her life, Levy calls attention to the symbiotic relationship between our life’s circumstances and what we tell ourselves about them.

As my parents snored on in the next room, Levy’s words were a call to action to name the “right things” in my own life. And I found that seeking out “enough of the right things,” is twofold.

First, the identifying and executing. Ever since I read Mary Oliver’s assertion that “attention is the beginning of devotion,” I’ve made an effort to write down the things I give my attention to (and, thus, my devotion). Here’s the short-list: being in communion with others (family, friends, coworkers, fellow mid-winter, bundled-to-the-brim outdoor café-goers), walking beneath trees, cooking the same vegetables seven different ways each week, running at dusk, reading, writing, having a few early morning hours to myself, exploring tiny Portuguese villages with my partner, building a loving home, watching my dog frolic on the beach. These are my “right things,” though I often overlook them.

One of the reasons we put limitations on our satisfaction with life (I’ll be happier when I get that job, I’ll be able to enjoy life once I’ve made enough money, I’ll have the life I want when I’m older) may be because we’re actually quite frightened by the idea that we already have “enough.” What would be left of our lives without all the striving towards future happiness? What pieces of it would bear the weight of the present? And if they aren’t simply a linear progression, then what shape do our lives really take? And, of course, all of these questions are complicated by the fact that many people in the world still don’t have nearly “enough” resources (such as time, basic necessities, and safety) to choose or cultivate their own “right things.”

Which brings me to the second part of my seeking “enough of the right things.” To have the luxury–and privilege–to pursue my interests and compose a peaceful life is not enough in and of itself; this privilege comes with obligation. To try to untie, as much as I can, the tangled webs of oppression, racism, and classism that are inherent to our current social, economic, and political structures. Through learning, teaching, voting, counseling, cultivating friendships, being present in my community, and through active listening, I hope to address the obstacles that prevent others from seeking their own “right things.” I know that unless I help others obtain that freedom, I will never reach the fullest, ripest, most connected version of my own life.

The Cost of Living was a reminder that we’re all always writing our “working autobiographies,” regardless of whether we’re putting them to paper. To fill your autobiography-in-process with “enough of the right things” requires contemplation and action, and I believe we’re bound to share that abundance with others. In short, to steal another Mary Oliver quote, I aim to “Pay attention. / Be astonished. / Tell about it.”