As a child, I thought of myself as a city kid. When my parents divorced, and my mother moved us to her old small, rural hometown, I was horrified. Everything about rural life appalled me -- the plainness, the dirt, the isolation, the narrow-mindedness of the people I encountered, the simpleness (as opposed to simplicity), the slow pace, the harsh and unforgiving atmosphere, the oppressive religious attitudes, the rigid conservatism. I was under the impression that country life meant being backwards, being stagnant, being anti-progress. I believed that for the longest time, and promised myself that when I was in charge of my own destiny, I'd live in the city and be thoroughly modern, forward-thinking, successful, extroverted, and fulfilled. Never could I imagine that country life could ever appeal to me, because I saw only the negatives and refused to even consider that there could be positives.
I heard a saying the other day that made me stop dead in my tracks with how strongly it resonated with me -- If you're not a liberal at age 20, you have no heart; if you're not a conservative by age 40, you have no brain.
My heart steered me pretty badly for the first 30 or so years of my life (the only profound exception being the emotions I had for my children). In recent years, I've grown a brain...and doing so helped me realize that where you live -- city or country -- doesn't define how happy or successful or forward-thinking or fulfilled you are. It's how you live that matters.
I put too much stock in what I saw as the advantages of city life, and dismissed or flat-out ignored the disadvantages. Of course that was as thoroughly stupid as refusing to consider the good to be had in rural living. It took me an asininely long time to figure that one out.
And I was well into my thirties before I figured out the main reason I had been so determined to live in the city, something I never consciously realized as a child or a young adult but which drove me relentlessly: I was afraid of being truly and completely alone, and all too often I did feel abjectly alone. I never felt that I belonged anywhere -- not with family, friends, classmates, or any particular group -- except in rare and fleeting moments, for the majority of my life. I was certain (un- or sub-consciously so, but still) that living in a small town was a huge part of why I felt that way. And that view, and my accompanying fear of loneliness, helped irrationally fuel my distaste for country living because I somehow thought that being in a place with lots of people would mean that I was less alone.
Of course, quantity doesn't create quality, and living in a high population-density area doesn't eliminate loneliness. In many ways, loneliness is more common in the city -- precisely because the more there is of anything (including people), the less value people tend to place upon it. It's easier to depersonalize others in the city. It's more socially accepted to disapprove of, and to be angry with, others in the city. It's common custom in cities to dismiss others out of hand, and to view oneself as superior to others without reason. People in quantity are a faceless, nameless horde...and usually a stupid one.
I'm doing my best, in moving toward a commitment to making a rural home for myself and my loved ones, not to veer to the other extreme (from my anti-country stance) in idealizing a simpler and more rural life. I know full well it's not going to be all sunshine and sparkles and delight. The country is dirty, it can be harsh and unforgiving. But oppressiveness and rigidity and isolation and narrow-mindedness can be found anywhere, whether your neighbors are miles down the road or just on the other side of a shared wall. Loneliness and solitude are not synonyms. Simplicity is what you make of it. Who you are depends infinitely more on how you are than where you are.
As with most everything in life, it all comes down to priorities, and getting your priorities in line with what you actually need rather than what you think you want. It's even better if what you need and what you want can coincide. And I'm learning now what I need, and want:
My family of choice (some of whom are blessedly also my family by blood). A thirst for learning, and putting what I learn to good use. Freedom to pursue the insatiable curiosity that's as much a part of me as my blood or my bones. The opportunity, as a family, to become as self-sufficient as we can be. The time to make beautiful and useful things. Giving myself permission to develop serenity. Working in, and with, nature -- through the land and the creatures upon it, and recognizing the divine aspects of it all in doing so. Helping to make a home where everyone under its roof feels we do belong, to and with one another.
These may be goals that we could achieve anywhere, theoretically. But I'm becoming more and more hopeful that the "last frontier" will be the place we have the best chance for it.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Saturday, May 2, 2009
And for me...
I spent most of my childhood moving around the country and then joined the military for 13 years. I really don't have a hometown as such. For the last decade, Portland has been serving that function. Years before I even moved here, simply because it was the hometown of loved ones. And don't get me wrong, it is a nice city.
But, now, I find that I want more. Or less, as the case may be.
Less crowds. Less traffic. Less noise. Less restrictions. Less people. Less hassle.
A large part of it is dealing with a seemingly increasing issue of agoraphobia and panic disorder. Part of it is just losing patience with what appears to be an ever increasing amount of entitlement and "me first" behavior. I'm just tired. Tired of dealing with people that don't have the basic idea of courtesy. Tired of having to make accommodations for those that feel that they don't need to follow the rules of polite society. Just....tired.
I'm sure that I will write more later, but this was mostly to get certain people to quit threatening me, and it is becoming maudlin.
But, now, I find that I want more. Or less, as the case may be.
Less crowds. Less traffic. Less noise. Less restrictions. Less people. Less hassle.
A large part of it is dealing with a seemingly increasing issue of agoraphobia and panic disorder. Part of it is just losing patience with what appears to be an ever increasing amount of entitlement and "me first" behavior. I'm just tired. Tired of dealing with people that don't have the basic idea of courtesy. Tired of having to make accommodations for those that feel that they don't need to follow the rules of polite society. Just....tired.
I'm sure that I will write more later, but this was mostly to get certain people to quit threatening me, and it is becoming maudlin.
Friday, May 1, 2009
The aurora borealis calls to me.
Unlike my beloved Jaelle, I have not been bounced from house to house like a superball in a hurricane. Though I've traveled for as far back as I can remember, home has always been the Portland area. I grew up out here. I've seen my home town change drastically. I've witnessed the changes wrought on surrounding communities, as familiar landmarks are stripped away or mutated into something both alien and empty.
Also unlike Jaelle, I've never really found much joy or wonder in the city. Granted it has some pleasant benefits such as places to eat and avenues of entertainment, but the trappings of urban life tend more often than not to emphasize the "trap" portion of the word.
So why Alaska? Wyoming is way too flat and featureless, not to mention that my choice of likely natural disasters runs more toward tsunami and lahars than tornadoes. Besides, there is something frontier like about relocating to a rural chunk of Alaska. What that says about my sanity given the level of investment in personal responsibility such a choice demands, I don't know. What I do know is that it's something I've desired for pretty much my whole life.
Now, it looks like the wheels are finally starting to turn, bringing that outcome closer toward reality.
I'm excited. Aware of the huge investment laying ahead, but excited.
Also unlike Jaelle, I've never really found much joy or wonder in the city. Granted it has some pleasant benefits such as places to eat and avenues of entertainment, but the trappings of urban life tend more often than not to emphasize the "trap" portion of the word.
So why Alaska? Wyoming is way too flat and featureless, not to mention that my choice of likely natural disasters runs more toward tsunami and lahars than tornadoes. Besides, there is something frontier like about relocating to a rural chunk of Alaska. What that says about my sanity given the level of investment in personal responsibility such a choice demands, I don't know. What I do know is that it's something I've desired for pretty much my whole life.
Now, it looks like the wheels are finally starting to turn, bringing that outcome closer toward reality.
I'm excited. Aware of the huge investment laying ahead, but excited.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Why
I lived in Alaska when I was a little kid; my family moved away (due to my Navy father's transfer to another duty station) right around my 5th birthday. But from the time I was 3 until I turned 5, we lived on Adak Island (which at that time was Adak Naval Air Station).
My very first memory happened in Alaska. It was my 4th birthday, and I was reading on the couch. (Yes, I was really reading, not just pretending to -- my mother's ambition and a steady diet of Sesame Street had seen to that. Plus I had already learned that children who are seen to be concentrating on a book are very inconspicuous, and can learn a lot from overhearing indiscreet conversations.) My father walked into the living room and held out his arms; I went to him, and he swung me up to sit on his shoulders. He made his way out the front door, sauntering around to the back of the house, and went in the back door to the utility room, with me ducking at each doorway. When we arrived back into the living room, I saw a doll sitting on the couch, exactly where I'd been just moments before. She was nearly as big as I was, and was blond and blue-eyed like me. I named her Kimi, and I kept her until I was 14 (when I very ritually, and dramatically, sacrificed all my childhood toys to the garbage can).
My other memories of Alaska are blurred so badly that I can't tell if most of them are actual memories, or impressions from looking at photos of my childhood. We had a dog, but I don't remember him except in photos. There must have been other children there besides me and my younger sister, but I don't remember any of them, either. (Hell, I don't even have memories of my sister until we moved, and by then she was 3!) The only memories I'm certain didn't come from looking at photos are of being too short to climb into the swings in the play area, and a vague memory of smelling smoked salmon while standing inside the "cabin" that my mother told me we occasionally stayed in -- which was nothing more than a ramshackle quonset hut shared by the military families for brief vacations (the only alternative, on the whole island, to being on base). The island's name, I'm told, came from an Aleut word meaning "father," and I suppose it says something about me that my father is the only person of whom I have any concrete memory prior to age 5.
But all that was 35 years ago, and this is really about now.
Up until a few years ago, I was happy living in Portland. A city with tons of bookstores, lots of coffee places, more than a few fabric & craft outlets, and (I thought) a decent standard of living. I moved here at the end of 1998, after 20 years of living in various places throughout the counties around Portland (except for a 16-month diversion to the Southwest when my eldest was a toddler, and most of a year up in rural Washington state shortly after my youngest was born). When we moved to Oregon in 1978 when my parents divorced, the plane landed at night. Driving away from the airport, I had been entranced by the beauty of Portland's night vista...only to find that our destination was many miles out in the backwoods. I was horribly disappointed by the rural town I was plunked into for the next 7 years, and looked forward to the day I could live in lovely Portland instead of the horrid small town where I was so miserable.
Portland isn't the same anymore. And neither am I. It used to be home...but then again, I'm not very certain that any place you can find on a map has ever been home to me. For crying out loud, I'm not quite 40 years old, and I've moved more than 30 times in my life (and only 3 times, all within city limits, in the last 10 years). Home is where the heart is, they say...and despite the fact that almost all my dearest loved ones live here, my heart isn't much into Portland anymore. Possibly because most of my loved ones aren't likely to still be in Portland in a few years.
My youngest, Alice, will be graduating high school in just over 2 years, and I'm certain her plans will take her elsewhere -- whether she joins the Navy as she currently plans to, or goes to college, or winds up surprising us all with some other decision. My eldest, Einna, is 20 and unemployed, and has fewer clues than the rest of the family about where she'll be a year or two from now.
The ironic thing is that I spent so many years living in rural Oregon and hating it; now I can't wait to get back into more rustic surroundings and throw myself into farming. My best friend, Lyse -- soul sister, godmother to my children, and (she's joked) "platonic lesbian wife" -- and I started talking a few years ago about getting back to the land. My boyfriend/fiance, Fenris, has been less than thrilled about living in Portland the whole time he's been here...and (I suspect) largely has put up with it only because of my wanting to be here.
The ideas that he and I and Lyse have cooked up over the last few years started as nothing more than pipe dreams. In the early years of our relationship, when Fenris would talk about living out in the boonies, I would shudder, and bemoan the lack of civilized amenities out in the country that I was certain were necessary for my sanity. But living in a city that used to seem cozy and friendly and cheerfully odd, eventually turned into living in a city that seems militant and shrill and where being weird is no longer fun because it's mandatory. (Yes, I admit I have a "Keep Portland Weird" bumper sticker on my car. I have a lot of other stickers on that bumper that no longer suit me, either.) Our dreams of Something Better Than This slowly condensed into goals as we talked about, and suggested, and explored the ideas that we believe will make us happier, healthier, better people.
So why Alaska? Because it's big, and wild, and far removed from the rest of the world in many ways...and anymore these days, the rest of the world is going batshit crazy.
And because I can see a future there that I could never have here, with Oregon's insane taxes and ever-worsening crowding and ridiculous politics and asinine philosophies and militant liberals imposing their beliefs on everyone, no matter how stupid those beliefs are. With the anti-gun, anti-common sense, anti-self-sufficiency attitudes. With the rampant hypocrisy that still manages to astonish even the most jaded. With the gods-forsaken mandatory "weirdness" that has produced such gems as Rashneeshpuram and Elizabeth Diane Downs and Tonya Harding and the pregnant "man" (about to pop out kid #2) and Tre Arrow and Senator Bob Packwood (oh, the appropriateness of the name!).
I could go on and on, but why bother? I don't think that Alaska will be some kind of bright and shiny utopia. I just think that, in a state that's nearly 7 times larger in land area yet has only 18% the population of Oregon, it'll be a whole lot easier to avoid the kinds of people I don't want to deal with...and cherish the people I choose to surround myself with.
My very first memory happened in Alaska. It was my 4th birthday, and I was reading on the couch. (Yes, I was really reading, not just pretending to -- my mother's ambition and a steady diet of Sesame Street had seen to that. Plus I had already learned that children who are seen to be concentrating on a book are very inconspicuous, and can learn a lot from overhearing indiscreet conversations.) My father walked into the living room and held out his arms; I went to him, and he swung me up to sit on his shoulders. He made his way out the front door, sauntering around to the back of the house, and went in the back door to the utility room, with me ducking at each doorway. When we arrived back into the living room, I saw a doll sitting on the couch, exactly where I'd been just moments before. She was nearly as big as I was, and was blond and blue-eyed like me. I named her Kimi, and I kept her until I was 14 (when I very ritually, and dramatically, sacrificed all my childhood toys to the garbage can).
My other memories of Alaska are blurred so badly that I can't tell if most of them are actual memories, or impressions from looking at photos of my childhood. We had a dog, but I don't remember him except in photos. There must have been other children there besides me and my younger sister, but I don't remember any of them, either. (Hell, I don't even have memories of my sister until we moved, and by then she was 3!) The only memories I'm certain didn't come from looking at photos are of being too short to climb into the swings in the play area, and a vague memory of smelling smoked salmon while standing inside the "cabin" that my mother told me we occasionally stayed in -- which was nothing more than a ramshackle quonset hut shared by the military families for brief vacations (the only alternative, on the whole island, to being on base). The island's name, I'm told, came from an Aleut word meaning "father," and I suppose it says something about me that my father is the only person of whom I have any concrete memory prior to age 5.
But all that was 35 years ago, and this is really about now.
Up until a few years ago, I was happy living in Portland. A city with tons of bookstores, lots of coffee places, more than a few fabric & craft outlets, and (I thought) a decent standard of living. I moved here at the end of 1998, after 20 years of living in various places throughout the counties around Portland (except for a 16-month diversion to the Southwest when my eldest was a toddler, and most of a year up in rural Washington state shortly after my youngest was born). When we moved to Oregon in 1978 when my parents divorced, the plane landed at night. Driving away from the airport, I had been entranced by the beauty of Portland's night vista...only to find that our destination was many miles out in the backwoods. I was horribly disappointed by the rural town I was plunked into for the next 7 years, and looked forward to the day I could live in lovely Portland instead of the horrid small town where I was so miserable.
Portland isn't the same anymore. And neither am I. It used to be home...but then again, I'm not very certain that any place you can find on a map has ever been home to me. For crying out loud, I'm not quite 40 years old, and I've moved more than 30 times in my life (and only 3 times, all within city limits, in the last 10 years). Home is where the heart is, they say...and despite the fact that almost all my dearest loved ones live here, my heart isn't much into Portland anymore. Possibly because most of my loved ones aren't likely to still be in Portland in a few years.
My youngest, Alice, will be graduating high school in just over 2 years, and I'm certain her plans will take her elsewhere -- whether she joins the Navy as she currently plans to, or goes to college, or winds up surprising us all with some other decision. My eldest, Einna, is 20 and unemployed, and has fewer clues than the rest of the family about where she'll be a year or two from now.
The ironic thing is that I spent so many years living in rural Oregon and hating it; now I can't wait to get back into more rustic surroundings and throw myself into farming. My best friend, Lyse -- soul sister, godmother to my children, and (she's joked) "platonic lesbian wife" -- and I started talking a few years ago about getting back to the land. My boyfriend/fiance, Fenris, has been less than thrilled about living in Portland the whole time he's been here...and (I suspect) largely has put up with it only because of my wanting to be here.
The ideas that he and I and Lyse have cooked up over the last few years started as nothing more than pipe dreams. In the early years of our relationship, when Fenris would talk about living out in the boonies, I would shudder, and bemoan the lack of civilized amenities out in the country that I was certain were necessary for my sanity. But living in a city that used to seem cozy and friendly and cheerfully odd, eventually turned into living in a city that seems militant and shrill and where being weird is no longer fun because it's mandatory. (Yes, I admit I have a "Keep Portland Weird" bumper sticker on my car. I have a lot of other stickers on that bumper that no longer suit me, either.) Our dreams of Something Better Than This slowly condensed into goals as we talked about, and suggested, and explored the ideas that we believe will make us happier, healthier, better people.
So why Alaska? Because it's big, and wild, and far removed from the rest of the world in many ways...and anymore these days, the rest of the world is going batshit crazy.
And because I can see a future there that I could never have here, with Oregon's insane taxes and ever-worsening crowding and ridiculous politics and asinine philosophies and militant liberals imposing their beliefs on everyone, no matter how stupid those beliefs are. With the anti-gun, anti-common sense, anti-self-sufficiency attitudes. With the rampant hypocrisy that still manages to astonish even the most jaded. With the gods-forsaken mandatory "weirdness" that has produced such gems as Rashneeshpuram and Elizabeth Diane Downs and Tonya Harding and the pregnant "man" (about to pop out kid #2) and Tre Arrow and Senator Bob Packwood (oh, the appropriateness of the name!).
I could go on and on, but why bother? I don't think that Alaska will be some kind of bright and shiny utopia. I just think that, in a state that's nearly 7 times larger in land area yet has only 18% the population of Oregon, it'll be a whole lot easier to avoid the kinds of people I don't want to deal with...and cherish the people I choose to surround myself with.
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