A Meditation on Values
A friend of mine told me there were just two things to do in Taos — “Drive around and look at the scenery, and shop,” he said.
Not being much of a shopper, I looked forward to relaxing and seeing the sights on my short vacation in the Southwest. I was familiar with Taos’ reputation as a flourishing center for the arts, though, and along with exploring the countryside, I did want to see the shops and galleries for which it was known — notwithstanding the chance of being overwhelmed by the tug of expensive paintings, artifacts, and rugs — few of which I could afford.
New Mexico was as beautiful as I’d heard it was, and I soon decided it might be nice to have a memento of my trip. Imagining some small piece of folk art for my living room, I set myself a budget of $100.
I’m not sure if I was disappointed or relieved to find so few things in Taos I absolutely had to have, but I was glad to have avoided the usual struggle between my own, innate gimmee-gimmes, and my disdain for the let’s-experience-this-beautiful-spot-by-buying-something aesthetic.
In a shop on the Pueblo Indian reservation outside of town, I came across a native-made rattle of turtle shell, leather, beads, and wood. It was as beautiful as the tiny shop was quiet, and at eighty-five dollars, well within my budget. I made a mental note to come back for it if I didn’t find something I liked better. I felt proud of myself for my mature reserve in not having jumped to buy the first thing I saw, while at the same time having appeased the gimmee-gimmees relatively quickly, reasonably, and inexpensively.
My friend, Elizabeth, had previewed the shops in town the day before while I’d napped, so she led me on a tour of the Southwestern art, clothing, jewelry, furniture, lamps, books, toys, and cooking utensils Taos had to offer. Our favorite stop was the textile, rug, pillow, and gee-gaw shop where all the stuffed animals — from the traditional rabbits, frogs, and teddy bears, to the unexpected hyenas, opossums, and grasshoppers — were actually hand puppets. They even had a lobster puppet set at an angle on a glove, so that it walked sideways, with your fingers as its legs.
Liz suggested we get a pair of the praying mantises as a wedding present for some soon-to-be married friends. I saw the shopkeeper look up to see if I knew my entomology as well as she knew hers when I wondered aloud if they came in male and female. We decided to keep looking.
As we wandered through the secluded courtyards and romantic alleyways of Taos, we came upon a cozy shop filled with paintings and jewelry, similar to many stores we’d seen that day. We almost had to duck our heads to get through the doorway as we stepped down the stairs from the courtyard into the shop. Just inside, on its own small shelf in the jewelry case, was the most exquisite bracelet I’d ever seen; a wide silver band inlaid with a Native American bear fetish cast in white gold. It was elegant, subtle, and as lacking in ostentation as a piece made from those two precious metals could be; quiet, yet magnificent. I admired it for a time through the glass.
I wasn’t quite sure if it was a man’s or a woman’s bracelet, but I could tell it was at least a few — maybe five — hundred dollars or so, and more than that I didn’t need to know. I didn’t want to even be tempted to do something wild and out of control — like buy it — no matter who was supposed to wear it. I was never one to wear jewelry myself, and, though it crossed my mind to get it for Elizabeth, still, it was obviously much more than I could afford. We left the store and continued our search for the perfect wedding gift for our friends.
Later, I realized I wanted to see the bracelet again. It was getting dark, but we were scheduled to leave Taos in the morning, so we thought we’d try to find the shop again, and see if it was still open. We did, and it was. The shopkeeper unlocked the jewelry case and showed us the bracelet.
“Ooh, I have good taste,” I exclaimed when I saw the price. It was more than a month’s mortgage. Almost an entire year’s IRA. As much as a down payment on a new car.
It turned out to be a man’s bracelet. I tried it on. It fit.
“It’s a ‘power bracelet’,” the clerk said. “It’s not from around here — it’s Navajo.”
It felt good on my wrist — solid, but not too heavy. I began to wonder what it might be like to wear on a regular basis.
“It’s wonderful,” I said. “Could I just take it outside and walk around with it for a few minutes, you know, like you can do sometimes with shoes?” I asked, ingenuously. My smile belied my question, and she could tell I knew the answer.
It was not only out of my price range, it was out of the ballpark. The bracelet was out of this world. It looked beautiful against my skin.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“That’s not the question,” I replied. “It’s gorgeous, but it’s not in my budget.”
She started getting spiritual on me, saying that they’d had that piece in the store for a long time, and she knew eventually the person for whom it was meant would be drawn there to it.
“Let me see what I can do on the price,” she said as she pulled out her calculator.
“I could come down to twelve hundred dollars,” she said, after a little clicking and whirring.
“I’m afraid that’s still out of my price range,” I replied, knowing that there was no way that bracelet was ever going to be something I could afford. And besides, I never wore jewelry.
“Well, what’s your price range?” she asked, as we returned the bracelet to the case. Her tone was friendly rather than pushy, and I could tell that, if I was the person for whom the bracelet was meant, she was not about to let a few hundred dollars stand in the way of Fate.
I knew my figure was impossibly low, but I floated it out there anyway, I suppose just to see what might happen.
“Oh, I don’t know, I guess around five hundred dollars,” I hemmed. It wasn’t a serious bid; I wasn’t a serious buyer. I had no hopes — or intention — of buying the bracelet, even at that price.
“Hmm,” she said. “That’s less than we paid for it.” She turned again to her calculator.
“As I said, we’ve had the piece for quite some time, and I know the owner’s eager to sell it,” she told us candidly. More clicking and whirring. “I could go as low as a thousand and fifty dollars.”
I thanked her for such a generous discount (down from sixteen hundred dollars), and said I’d think it over, still sure I wasn’t going to spend that kind of money on a piece of jewelry. Sure, it was beautiful, but what would I do with it?
Maybe it’s related to the Jewish prohibition against marking one’s body — no tattoos, that sort of thing. (Though not a religious person, I’m frequently surprised by the subliminal impact of my cultural roots.) But I think it’s more than that. Jewelry is an adornment, used to call attention to oneself. And, while I like attention as much as the next person (more than most, my friends would say), I was accustomed to relying on my wits — rather than my wrists — to get the attention I need. Wearing jewelry was just not part of my self-image, nor my way of presenting myself in the world.
And this bracelet was the adornment of a movie star. Far more beautiful than I could ever hope to be; something I could never live up to, there on my arm. It’s not that I couldn’t afford to buy it, it’s that I couldn’t afford to keep up with it! I’d have to replace my entire wardrobe, and my car — not to mention the plastic surgery!
I never really understood how people justified spending money on jewelry at all. One day I realized that it’s just what people do after they’ve bought everything else they could possibly want. I mean, once you’ve got the house, the vacation cabin, the sports car, and the boat, got your retirement secured, seen the world, and put the kids through college, what are you gonna do with all that extra cash?
To be concise, let’s just say I was not in that position. And besides, I didn’t wear jewelry.
On the way to the airport the next day, I realized that, unless I bought it, I would never see that bracelet again. As a piece of jewelry, I knew I could live without it. But this was a piece of art!
Recasting the bracelet in my mind, from a piece of jewelry to a work-of-art-that-happens-to-be-worn-on-the-wrist, suddenly made its purchase a possibility. Better, even, than a painting hung on the wall, this was art I could admire a hundred times a day. (Let’s see, a thousand dollars, divided by a hundred times a day, multiplied by… why that brings the price of this unique artifact down to just pennies per view!)
I could put it on my charge card. It could turn out to be a conversation piece. Liz said it would become something people would remember me by.
“You mean instead of just ‘you know, the bald guy’?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she replied, “you’d be remembered as ‘the bald guy with the bracelet’!”
When I was younger, having a bracelet like this would have been an ego trip. Ironically, as such, it would’ve made me too self-conscious to have enjoyed wearing it. I was happy to find that, now, any fantasies of what other people might think of me as the owner or wearer of such a bracelet had little bearing on my consideration of its purchase. I felt sure I was motivated by my own appreciation for the piece, rather than for any impact it might generate.
I did, however, remember a friend who’d had a beautiful coat made for him in dusty rose velour, and wherever he went, women would come up and actually pet him, just to feel that coat. While I could hardly expect such treatment over a bracelet — the medium being quite different (and besides, what are they gonna do, pet my wrist?) — I looked forward to sharing this beautiful work of art with friends and acquaintances of both sexes. (Should attractive members of the opposite sex imagine the wearer of such an object d’art to be endowed with powers beyond the ken of mere mortals, or otherwise find him somehow strangely appealing, well, I would just have to deal with that when it came up.) I didn’t expect, nor want, the bracelet to change my life, but I was nevertheless curious to examine the ways in which it might.
Due perhaps to its native origins and the symbols with which it was engraved, both Liz and the shopkeeper alluded to it as a “power bracelet.” Personally, I don’t go in for that sort of mumbo jumbo, but I had my own ideas of the power involved in wearing it. As far as I was concerned, it would take a powerful person not to be overwhelmed by it! Could I wear it without feeling self-conscious? Was I confident enough to wear such an accoutrement, whose symmetry so outshone my own? And what would I do with it when I went swimming?
I was concerned it might also make me a more likely candidate to be robbed. You don’t want to go flashing a piece like that on the streets where I live, especially if you haven’t got a wad of cash to give up if you’re accosted. From what I’d read, those thieves can get pretty mad when they go to all the trouble to hold you up, only to find out you haven’t got any money; I didn’t even have an ATM card to let them use. And besides, I didn’t wear jewelry.
Outside of Taos, we considered turning around, gambling on missing our flight, and going back for the bracelet; but we kept driving. Up ahead, just about to come into view, was an obstacle I hadn’t anticipated: Guilt.
I’m ashamed to say I’d fallen somewhat short of my goal of tithing ten percent of my income to charity. I was in the habit of donating money every month to a broad assortment of worthy non-profit groups, but times had been tough, and I’d scaled back my giving, along with the rest of my spending.
But as we drove on, I realized I couldn’t in good conscience spend that amount of money on either a piece of jewelry or a piece of art without making an equal contribution to help those less fortunate than I. Such a contribution might assuage my guilt, but it would also make my outlay for the bracelet twice as much as the already-steep asking price; As much as a hot tub for my back yard; As much as a really nice pair of conga drums, or a laser printer for my computer; Twice the cost of the most elaborate ergonomic desk chair available, and ten times the cost of a mountain bike — purchases I’d considered over the last few months, and rejected as unaffordable. (Let’s see, should I go for the jewelry or the hot tub? — These are the kind of problems I like to have!)
Having found myself in somewhat tentative fiscal straits for a few rather harrowing years, following an expensive divorce and some unexpected business reverses, I’d just recently got myself back on firmer financial footing. I’d often kicked myself for having splurged on my ex-wife, friends, expensive restaurants, and a house larger than I really needed, and vowed that I’d watch my money more closely in the future — if I ever had any again.
With things now on a more even economic keel, I had an opportunity either to put my new plan into action, or to return to my free-spending ways.
But business had been good lately, and if my finances continued to improve, the bracelet, in perspective, could simply be seen as a little reward for having done a good job turning things around. (OK, a big reward.) When it came right down to it, unless things changed drastically, I probably could afford a little present to myself for having made it through a difficult time. (OK, a big present.) Should money once again get tight, though, it was easy to imagine the bracelet’s transformation into a daily reminder of what a fool I’d been — again — not to be more prudent in my expenditures.
But what bothered me was the thought of never seeing the bracelet again; I’d never know what it might have been like to wear it. I’d never know if it would have become one of my most prized possessions, bringing art and beauty into my life every day, or an expensive reminder of my own personal folly — and, by extension, that of the whole greedy, acquisitive, human race — ignored and forgotten in some dresser drawer.
If I were ever going to wear a piece of jewelry, it would be that bracelet. Would it change my life — my conception of myself? Would I be wearing it, or would it be wearing me? Would the bracelet be a remembrance of having survived a perilous time, or a daily reminder of what an irresponsible spendthrift I was? An elegant piece of art, or a discarded souvenir?
If I didn’t buy it, I would never know.
Soon we were in the air, on our way back home. At a roadside stand on the way out of town, I’d found a small sun-bleached skull that was perfect for my living room wall — something I’d wanted for a long time, and a good deal, too, at just thirty-five dollars. Liz had bought herself a pair of fuzzy slippers for the coming winter, and we’d settled on some kitty-cat drink coasters as a wedding present for our friends.
The exquisite silver bracelet with the bear of white gold was still back in Taos, on its own small shelf in the jewelry case, just inside the door of the cozy little shop, two steps down from the courtyard; Subtle, elegant, magnificent.
On the flight home I asked Elizabeth what she thought.
She said softly, “You know, when you’re hiking in Nepal and you want to take the mountains home with you, all you do is close your eyes.”
We were about to land. I put my seatback up. I closed my eyes. I thought about the bracelet. A thousand dollars. And I don’t even wear jewelry.
I had their number. I could call them…
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