Moderation – Week 2
In 2025, I will explore the four cardinal virtues from the Aristotelian, Stoic and Catholic tradition – wisdom, moderation, justice, courage – in thirteen cycles of four weeks, and share my learnings in the form of a reflective meditation.
My first week with moderation was a great success for cultivating sensory joy – but my attempt at fasting not so much. For this second cycle, I took a less austere approach. I had social gatherings all over the weekend, with food involved. I also learned not to plan days of productive work without a sugar intake. So, I picked Friday for my weekly fast. I had a morning bike service booked, and nothing pressing to do. As for practicalities, I set the bar low. Large breakfast, early dinner, and milk coffees allowed. In essence, I skipped lunch and called it a fast. But hey, it did feel like a celebration. After dropping my bike in North Carlton, I lounged around cafes in lower Brunswick, retracing the steps I took all through lockdown. I got some writing and editing done – and will remember that day as a moment of joy.
Moderation, which I framed as mindful eating and drinking, brought other moments of joy. Wednesday morning, I head to Nikos in Fairfield for focused editing and a galaktoboureko. I resist the instinct to get a second coffee there. Instead, I walk across the road for a bonus writing session in a shady courtyard. Through force of habit, I want to get a muffin, but the place ran out. I order a flat white instead, for something sweet and nurturing. “It makes sense”, the young person at the counter said when I changed my coffee order. Later again, I ride off to the Wellington Street Commons. I have the elements of a sandwich there. Along the way, heading downhill with warm wind in my face, I find myself anticipating the crunch of toasted rye bread, and the wonderful nutty taste of melted Swiss cheese.
That week taught me that I think about food a lot. Saturday, I’m at an Enspiral potluck – a facilitator get together in Eltham. There is homemade carrot cake, and Persian doughnuts, and melon, and caramel slice, and soft coffee scrolls. As we stand and talk, I keep grabbing pieces, cutting thin slices for good figure. We move to the lounge for a session. The sweets in the kitchen keep coming to mind. At the pause, I get myself a sneaky piece. I remember as a child, when there was cake leftover after birthdays or family celebrations, I was oh-so-well-aware of that sweet in the fridge, and would thin-slice my way through it over a day.
A few weeks back, I chatted with someone who had bariatric surgery. They lost about 60 kilos over a year. They described how their whole life used to revolve around food. Now they forget to eat. I heard Ozempic does that too. As I put effort to be more mindful when I eat, I laugh at the thought that it’s all just chemistry. Which makes me question the goal of moderation. Is it detachment – that food and other pleasures matter less? Is it enhanced sensitivity? Or is it self-awareness: not changing my relationship to food, simply noticing it?
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What I notice is confusion. On Monday, I buy three tomatoes, a piece of rye bread, and 10 slices of Swiss Cheese for 10$ at Coles. I can store them in the Commons’ fridge, and stretch them over three lunches. On Smith Street, the shops charge 15$ a toastie. I just saved myself 35$. For most people in my coworking space, that’s about 30 minutes of work I guess. In this phase of my professional life, it’s extra time in my runway. I spent a lot of my life on scholarships, and later running a small charity. This taught me the art of thrift. Money you don’t spend is money you don’t have to earn, which increases strategic freedom.
But is moderation simply cutting cost? Or more deeply reducing my dependence on external stimuli? As I finish the last of my three Coles lunch, I find myself with a slab of plastic, which I know will end up in the Great Pacific Vortex, or break up and clog someone’s brain arteries. True moderation might have taken me to an organic bulk store, where I could spend more to get less of something better, in an environmental twist of ‘French women don’t get fat’. Or deliberately pay more for my sandwich, so that I better appreciate it.
We’ve built a world lubricated by material abundance, treating nature as infinite bounty. As we come against planetary limits, we need a shift. Cultivating moderation is likely to be part of it. Which means, we must discern its nuances: when to spend and where, as we stabilise at lower regimes, without excessive loss of function.
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“Off with your headings!” This is the bad pun I kept repeating to myself, in the voice of a mad Queen of Hearts, as I helped a friend review their personal website. We were on a zoom call with their designer. I felt very seen. “You’re a true editor,” they said, “you like to cut things.” It’s true. Whenever a sentence or a paragraph felt a little bulky, I shouted “cut,” with an outburst of joy. Reducing the word count in a grant application or a personal bio is my favourite professional game, like a verbal Tetris. The joy comes from a deep sense that saying more in fewer words is aesthetically pleasing, and ethically right.
The stoics equate moderation with self-control. One of the traits I have least tolerance for is verbal incontinence. I once had a manager like that. In meetings and one-on-ones, they would regularly cut in, talk at length, then apologise for speaking too much. I reflected on this with a friend after the Enspiral gathering, as we shared our dislike of that behaviour. “What’s your take on it?” They asked. “Well, whatever time they choose to speak is time they don’t spend listening. Meaning, they’re likely to miss out on critical information, and make wrong decisions.” Maybe, then, moderation is not just about indifference to sensory pleasure, or a capacity to find joy in austerity. More fundamentally, it’s learning to control your mouth, as a necessary condition for wisdom, and trust.