One of the problems of a Type A existence is the desire for more. (To be fair, Type A existence usually demands more, more, MORE! — and not just now, but yesterday, dammit.) Being quintessentially Type A, I am all too familiar with the desire for more — more time, more money, more taking over the world, more shoes. Less sounds so unappealing.

But even I have realized that more may not be all that it’s cracked up to be. More time often means less sleep. More money coincides with more work (and thus, less time). More taking over the world gets exhausting. More shoes still sounds good — and it probably always will.

So I have tried an experiment lately. What if the opposite of more were not less, but really enough? Think about it. Rather than telling myself that I just need more time, I tell myself that I have enough time to do what’s important to me. Rather than planning total world domination, I look at my children, my husband, my dog, my friends, and my home, and I know that even without a red phone and a staff, I have more than enough.

I certainly have enough stuff for this lifetime (and maybe a second). If I remember that I have enough when I’m shopping, I find that I have enough to save for things that matter. I read once that things are far less meaningful than experiences, so I have pushed the family to travel, even if it’s just in a series of short weekend trips. I can tell you this: I remember many fun moments from a family trip to Athens, and I have no idea of what I would have purchased in lieu of that trip.

The money part of enough has been the biggest — and most pleasant — surprise. Given my personality, it is tempting to wait until I have more money to save any money at all. (Seriously: I used to tell myself that saving a paltry amount was no good, and that I wasn’t really saving until I had a three, and preferably four, figure amount to deposit.) But there is a real pleasure in watching a savings account grow, even if that growth is on the backs of small savings. When I order water with lunch instead of tea, I transfer $2 into savings — the cost of the drink. When I use a coupon at a store, I transfer that money into savings. I cut the house cleaners from every week to every other week and make a deposit on the off-weeks. I finished a book before a plane ride home, and rather than buying a book at the airport, I picked up one at the local Goodwill for 50 cents. Cheap? Maybe. But I have enough. And with every coin clinking in the coffer, I will continue to have enough.

Christmas tends to be a time of excess. This year, my husband and children are getting small tokens of my immense affection on Christmas day, a handwritten letter, and the promise of travel throughout the year. I am small making gifts for family and friends — a scarf here, a tote bag there, some homemade bath salts perhaps — or buying something totally consumable, like a nice bottle of wine or some expensive salt. This is comforting to me. Everyone on my list has enough: We all live in comfort with warm houses and full bellies and people who love us. As I make gifts, I think about the recipient: what’s her favorite color? what does she like? will she think about me when she uses it? As I buy consumables, I think about bottles of wine I’ve shared with the recipient or delicious meals we’ve eaten together. These thoughts give me more pleasure than overspending on something that may make its way to the donate pile lickety-split.

I think about enough a lot, including this morning on a cold and slightly rainy walk with my dog. He is old and slow and much beloved, and if he ever doubts my love, walks like the one this morning should set his mind at ease. At the low point of the walk — rain, cursed rain! — I saw a gravy boat. It was in excellent shape, and just the size I need to hold things on my bathroom sink. I took it, and I felt like I had untold riches. A free gravy boat! In just the right size! That will remind me of a dog I love dearly and a dreary walk on the day before Thanksgiving. The former owner clearly wanted it to have a good home: She left it on top (not inside) of a trash can. It felt like treasure.

It felt like enough.

My dog Buddy has an enormous heart whose size is matched only by his stomach. The heart does not get him into trouble; the stomach does. He has gained an embarrassing amount of weight, and the vet simply is not swayed by explanations that Buddy lacks all sense of self-control around food or that his newly expansive girth just gives us more of Buddy to love. Instead, the accusing finger points squarely at me, the holder of those pesky opposable thumbs that are only too willing to open a bag and express love by tossing Bud some foul-smelling jerky treat. In the 70s, love meant never having to say you’re sorry (a saying that now strikes me as complete and total bullshit). As a modern dog owner, love now means fewer calories, more walks — my way of saying sorry to Buddy for letting him get so very far from bikini shape.

Buddy does not understand; he only wants more of those foul-smelling jerky treats. But Buddy loves a walk, and I love Buddy, and under a transitive theory, I should love walking Buddy. Except that it’s hard. As Buddy gets older, his pace becomes more glacial than ever before. Paint dries faster, tectonic shifts have occurred more quickly, and entire species have disappeared in the time in takes to walk Buddy. And I (oh I!) am impatient and pressure-filled and focused on what’s next.

I felt certain that I could remedy my impatience and quell my anxiety with meditation — a process that got as far as my ordering a meditation DVD six months ago. The DVD arrived in two days; I noted its presence (hey! it’s my meditation DVD!) and placed it on a sunny windowsill — where it has remained, shrink-wrapped and warping in the heat. That damn DVD has generated its own degree of anxiety, what with my berating myself for not using it and making the entire purchase seem completely frivolous. And why in the world would I ever think that I would use a meditation DVD in the first place?

But Buddy’s weight was the more immediate problem, and after switching to half-caff iced tea one morning, it struck me: I could treat our walk as my meditation, and I could learn from Buddy. That dog, a creature unencumbered by any native intelligence, lives squarely in the here and now, taking pleasure from simple things: naps, walks, breezes, soft grass, cool dirt, human touch, sensory delights, companionship, and food.  Buddy has no anxiety, no concern, no worry about his place in this vast universe. Buddy just is.

So I tied my shoes and leashed my dog. And we set off. Let me confess: Constantly reminding oneself not to be anxious can be surprisingly anxiety-inducing. Oh, the pressure! So I focused instead on my surroundings. The late-blooming canna lilies by the trash cans in the alley. The friendly and chatty homeless man who collects aluminum cans from the trash cans in the park. The barking terrier, who reminded me of the dog that my friend Sharon had in law school. The goofy yellow lab who would given anything for her people to chuck the ball one more time. The skittering city squirrels (which I always tell myself are far tougher and shiftier than their country cousins).

And the universe rewarded me in a weird way, as it is wont to do. Left on top of a recycling bin was an empty glass piggy bank. As a five or six year-old, I had such a piggy bank, and I socked away every piece of change that I could get my grubby fingers on. I remember the sound of the money going into the bank, and picking the bank up as it filled up, and delighting at its heft, and trying to guess just how rich I was. What I remembered most was the day I decided to spend my money (all my money!) and my dismay at finding that the only way to get that money was with a hammer. So someone broke the bank and I was something like $7.38 richer, a small fortune for a young kid in 1974.

I had not thought about that bank in years. And after the initial reminiscence, all I could think about was this: Who lets a five year-old keep a glass bank in her room and then open it with a hammer? I could have gotten hurt! I could have cut a finger fishing glass shards out of pennies! It could have ended badly! With that dump of anxiety, I returned to myself. And I hid the meditation DVD when I got home.