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.
