In 2013 I spent the end of my summer in Thailand, half vacationing and half trying to gain a fresh perspective on life. It was my first time in Asia, and I was intrigued to see what sort of cultural differences I would encounter while travelling so far from home. What I wasn’t expecting however, was the stark contrast between the energy I’d felt back home and the immediate lightness I felt once I’d landed. I spent the better part of the trip trying to put my finger on what it was that made that place so serene compared to the West.
Ironically, my quest for mindfulness didn’t come where I’d expected it to; it wasn’t while taking in the tranquil atmosphere of the temples or while marveling at their brightly painted murals, and it wasn’t while admiring the monks in their long orange gowns with their selfless devotion to something greater than themselves. As markedly interesting as those experiences were, it was the mildly chaotic markets outside Wat Chalong temple where I found the understanding I’d been searching for. I walked around the grounds and browsed the adjacent markets all selling small gifts and souvenirs. I made my way through the individual stalls, their walls blending together, each owner calling, “Aussie, Aussie!” (to my not-so-Aussie-self) as I passed. And then amidst the bustle, I came across the quiet stall of a tall Thai man perched reading in the back.
I walked around his little corner of the market, enthralled by how almost paradoxical his place there seemed. Juxtaposed against the shop owners calling to passersby and people hastily buying souvenirs, the quiet man seemed entirely unaffected by the microcosm of commercialism encroaching him. I distinctly remember the care he took while telling me the different meanings behind each of the Buddha statues lining the shelves. I remember the way he explained the purpose of the mala beads and the significance of the number of threads. And I remember noting how, unlike the other stalls senselessly pushing merchandise, for him, the items possessed a greater purpose than merely being stuff. His need to impart some degree of understanding seemed to far surpass any concern for profit. And for some reason, that bigger picture resonated with me; it wasn’t just about the stuff.
It was shortly after that trip that I ventured down to southwest Florida and by happy accident stumbled across He, She & Me. Fairly new to the concept of fair trade, I wandered through the eclectically adorned shop, taking in the various pieces crafted and produced by global hands. I met Melody Hull and was immediately drawn in by her kind aura and her passionate advocacy for equal opportunity, sustainable development, female empowerment and the environment. And everything just sort of came full circle; it wasn’t just about the stuff here either.
And it got me thinking: why is this the fringe group? Why does fair-trade, the environment, and animal rights only exist as some small counterculture movement against a backdrop of consumerism? And how can we strike a balance between appreciating the finer things in life, while acknowledging that those finer things rarely have a glamourous path from production to our closets?
Now, before anyone pulls me from this too high a horse, let me make one thing clear: Coco, Yves, Louis, Gianni and Christian? Big fan. Their collections line my bookshelves, their shows fill my search history, and the things I would do to wear couture just once, are illegal in 49 states. Because to quote Bianca from 10 Things I Hate About You: “I like my sketchers, but I love my Prada backpack.”
Before shuttering its doors I made a point of visiting He, She & Me every time I was down south because each of my small purchases allowed me to reflect on my own privilege. The jewelry and articles of clothing I’ve bought over the years, while beautiful, are so much more than just stuff. They are a reminder that it is so easy to purchase things without much thought to where they come from, the environmental impact of their production, who produced them, and under what conditions. They are a reminder that it is far too simple to become entitled, to take for granted our own circumstance, to blindly ignore our own privilege and to falsely attribute our birthright to something within our own jurisdiction. For me, the small act of buying and incorporating fair trade into my wardrobe helps me to acknowledge that hard truth. It guides me, in a very small way, to live lightly by supporting an industry grounded on compassion.
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