What have we given up for comfort?

reflections from living on the land

After seven years of traveling and living abroad, I find myself putting down roots in rural North Carolina, on the land Jesse's parents bought in the 70s. Now five decades later, Jesse and I are building a house on that land, living in the same bus that his parents lived in when they built their house.

For five decades his parents have eschewed society's unspoken mandate that we must make life increasingly comfortable: they still live with a meager solar electric budget and no running water. And they don't seem any worse off for it. Far from it, actually—they are well-spirited, fit, and content—qualities rare for even the owner of a five-bathroom mansion.

a tour of the hobbit house we spend our days in ^

At first, living so close to the land frustrates me. I chafe at how long it takes to wash dishes, I'm squeamish about peeing in the woods at night, and I definitely miss wifi that's fast enough to satiate my desire for distraction.

But slowly I adapt. In Berlin I had been getting 6-7 hours of fitful sleep per night, thinking that that was just how it is getting older. But here on the land I sleep deeply for 8-10 hours per night, falling asleep quickly, and remembering my dreams upon waking. My knees—a perpetual source of complaint—stop hurting, and I eat heartily without gaining weight. Indeed, without doing a lick of intentional exercise, my body grows stronger just from walking, squatting, carrying water, and adapting to the climate instead of controlling it.

fetching water at the well

My mental health, too, improves. Without constant social media interruptions, my mind quiets and focuses. And the land buffers against anxiety: The world may be going to hell in a hand basket, but it’s hard to believe it here. Here frogs croak in symphony, yellow tigertail butterflies flutter, long black rat snakes slither, five sizes of ants crawl, and a big blue sky hangs above it all.

Here it is evident: life wants to live.

Instead of being interrupted by texts and social media, I am regularly interrupted by unexpected doses of wonder:

In the midst of a torrential downpour I glance out the window to see a great blue heron—called great due to its six-foot wingspan—walking along the edge of the pond, enjoying its solitude, and giving zero fucks about a little water.

great blue heron (photo source: Wikimedia commons)

On the trail back to the bus at dusk I hear a rustling, and glimpse the tan form of a coyote in the distance. We stare at each other for a brief moment, sharing the awareness that we're both inhabitants of this forest.

Even peeing in the woods at night becomes a source of wonder. I stare at a young branch of a maple tree, marveling at its perfect canopy of tiny and large leaves. Had I ever really looked at a tree branch before? And above the inky black silhouettes of towering trees, the stars glow.

I wonder: is life supposed to be like this, imbued with unexpected moments of wonder?

a lizard at the garden gate

And so life is less comfortable, yet my body and spirit are happier. I'm getting less done—less returned texts, less writing, less animation—but I am present more. I am not keeping up with online conversations, but I am receiving frequent updates from the warmth on the wind telling of summer's approach.

I write a poem about how it feels to be so offline:

   sorry i’ve missed your calls—
   the line’s been busy
   as the birds call all the time,
   and i pick up

the trail to the bus

When I visit the city, I am struck by how human-dominated the environment is. Everything is for the human, nothing for the squirrel or duck or ant or robin. Everything is made safe and convenient, but everything is bereft of wonder.

We have removed most other species from our habitat in order to make our lives more comfortable. But maybe we have removed a part of ourselves, too.

an uncommon insect whose false eyes say: “HEWOOO!”