When I Knew.

The day I knew we would be moving our family to my wife's childhood home to help maintain the family farm was a dusty Saturday in July.  I'd spent the morning helping Bethany's father, Frank, and her brothers work cattle. That entailed herding the near 100 head into a large corral, separating the calves from the heifers, and then working them all through the head gate for fly tags and vaccinations.  It was hard, dirty work, and we were all thrilled when my mother-in-law, Mickie, called everyone in for lunch.

Over the clatter of kids chasing their cousins around the living room, we recounted some of the more amusing moments of the morning's work while washing up at the sink.  How wonderful it felt to finally sit down and noisily gulp ice water at the kitchen table.  As everyone gathered around for lunch, Bethany showed off the bags of sweet corn one of the neighbors had asked them to come pick, and how she'd improvised a baby carrier out of a checked tablecloth to get the job done.

And that's when it happened. Three generations came in from working on the family farm to have lunch together.  Sometimes the most natural things in the world can also be the most extraordinary.  Bethany and I had been searching in vain the last several years for a small piece of land to call our own, and here we were too preoccupied or short-sighted to see that the best fit was a place Bethany never thought she'd call 'home' again.

Box by Box

The biggest part of changing scenery is the actual moving. Packing up our lives and transporting them from here to there is more challenging than it should be considering how little we actually need. This mess in my garage is a fraction of what can be found in our house. We're shuffling around and hopping over tennis rackets and hole punches, puzzles and party hats. We've discussed the merits of juggling sticks and rarely played with toys, how many cookie sheets and DVDs we need, and which figurines are actually worthy of our precious shelf space. The more I pack the less I want. We are not "hoarders" but I have decided that our culture tolerates a high amount of packrat-ism before throwing that label around. We are slowly filling my parents' basement with our lives. Box by box you can start to piece together who we are. Two trashbags of yarn and 200lbs or fabric? What does this say about me? A hand-carved wooden hand with "Join the Grand Army of the Republic" painted on it. A small pewter girl feeding chickens. A complete collection of C.S. Lewis novels. Obsessively complete baby books. A Conan the Barbarian replica sword. A bust of Shakespeare. A beautiful and heavy tortilla press. A cross-stitch of a Laura Ingalls Wilder quote. A watercolor painting of a castle in Scotland. Piece by piece it goes into my car, journeying to its next stop. Where they will end up no one knows. We only hold these pieces for our short lifetimes. These things might finish their lives with vastly more interesting stories than I will ever tell. Stuff can be a chain around our necks but it can also be a catalyst for adventure. Packing is forcing me to make choices about the future potential of my things. It's rough, and the disruption of pulling belongings out of their "spot" creates chaos that I find challenging to live with. This is worth it though. Getting out of our suburban desert is the highest priority now. Simplifying is a necessity. It's becoming more real now, as I watch my walls and my shelves slowly empty. If I close my eyes I can see it all turning into vapor like a time lapsed film. Soon this house will be bare, staged strategically like a hotel, waiting for a new family to hammer nails into its walls and stub their toes on its baseboards.

Beautiful Inconvenience

The first argument I had about moving to the country was entirely about convenience. Living so far away from “culture” and “events” was almost a deal breaker for me early on in our conversations about rural life. Over time though I came to see that living out of town wasn’t going to change my life as drastically as I once thought. I’m a homebody by nature, and the few activities I cherish are not so far of a drive from our future farmstead as to be impossible to still do. As I write this I have a terribly sore throat. Sipping water feels akin to drinking broken glass and even though I live less than 3 minutes from my doctor right now, I am no more inclined to go visit her than I would be if I lived an hour away. Why? Because that’s just me. I’ll go if it becomes clear that I truly need to, but otherwise I’m content to let my body heal itself. I would make the drive from the country into the city for the same reasons, and have no reason to think I’d go to the doctor less. I wouldn’t go to fewer plays, or to the art museum less because these are things I only do a few times a year anyways. The convenience of having these options close to home hasn’t dramatically increased my use of them. As a child on the farm we made the trip to the city to go to the zoo, the mall, festivals, and lots of other events with as much frequency as my suburban self now does. 

Why this fear about inconvenience? The past couple years I’ve slowly began allowing inconvenience into my life, and my survival is what I lift up as evidence that it’s okay. I started with cloth diapers. I never fully abandoned disposables, but the slight inconvenience of laundering and drying cloth diapers actually felt nice. It touched on something within me that made me feel more connected to my grandmothers. We tried starting our garden plants from seed instead of relying solely on buying plants. This wasn't a universal success, but the seeds we did get to grow and thrive were excellent producers and I love that that we can claim that victory. Our tomato crop was superb! Sure it is easy to say that what you grow yourself tastes better, but as subjective as taste is I feel more comfortable saying that psychologically eating what you've grown yourself feels better. It's the very inconvenience that gives it more value. Another hassle I've taken on is cooking from scratch more. Preparing a meal made from basic ingredients gives me a sense of satisfaction that I can’t get from packaged meals. I also love to sew and although buying a dress is far easier it can never compare to making one. At some point convenience has taken the art and creativity out of living. We've forgotten that problem solving can be fun! I enjoy challenges, I enjoy frugality, and I enjoy nature. For me, having this in abundance can’t be seen as inconvenient. Living in the suburbs has removed me from the challenges and open-air independence that I need. I’m ready to face the challenging world and all the risks that such a venture entails. First on my current list of nuisances is preparing my house for sale so that we can take the next step towards the blessed inconvenience we seek.