With all of the imperialist wars and unnecessary violence happening in the world I haven’t much felt like writing. What is there to say with all of the words being splashed across our screens every day? And too much of it is designed to rot our minds. Trump, Putin and other would-be dictators cannot steal enough or kill enough to satisfy their puny egos, and too many people are happy to serve them in their delusions or at least leave them to get on with it—until it affects them. As long as American consumers are promised cheaper diesel, who cares who is bombing whom and who has caused the fuel shortage? And so I write this blog for all those who have hearts of compassion and who seek more in life than a zero-sum game.
All of this has caused me to reflect upon my life, as none of us is exempt from the desire to have more, be it wealth, possessions, or even peace and contentment. It all seems to come down to the price we are willing to pay. Years ago, in my late teens/early twenties I had two clear examples of people who lived truly contented lives. As an introvert and non-capitalist these encounters spoke clearly of a way I could survive in this world…a world in which I have never felt completely at home.
The first encounter happened in the small town of Stuart, Virginia, which is nestled in the lower range of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Our family’s farm sat a few miles to the south of Stuart. I was in the process of shoring up the original log cabin and needed a larger saw to cut some logs. I stopped into what here in France would be called a “brocante”—a mixture of second-hand items as well as real antiques. The owner was seated by a small woodstove and welcomed me to look around. He was a very pleasant chap, so I joined him by the fire. I learned that he divided his working time between his little shop and working as the janitor in the town’s one bank. At the bank he overheard things as he mopped and cleaned floors; and he saw the faces of people in moments of joy (a mortgage granted) and sorrow (homes and business ventures lost). It all came down to money…and how much was enough. Over the course of that winter (1973?) I visited the little shop more and more. The only thing I really needed was his wisdom. The man’s needs were few. He lived in a beautiful part of the world and could satisfy his basic needs. I came to think of him as a sort of monk or hermit; and although I have long forgotten his name, I still remember him and his words all theses decades later. And I did buy a bow saw.
The second encounter happened when I was hiking with some friends off the Blue Ridge Parkway north of Stuart. The trail took us across a dam on the Dan River. It had been built as part of the hydroelectric project to bring electricity to the remote communities of Appalachia in the 1930s. At the top corner of the dam, we noticed an open door which led into living quarters. The lone inhabitant noticed us and we were invited inside. It turns out that he managed the water flow for both the Dan River and the electricity output. (Remember, this was 50+ years ago.) Looking around what could be called a studio apartment, it was clear that he had all he needed. There was a bed, dresser, a place to hang clothes, an equipped kitchen and—if he needed it—a television. And when he stepped out the door he was surrounded by the nature reserve and the reservoir, with no other buildings in sight. (See below)
For the extraverts among you, this might sound like hell, but for me, it was heaven on earth. He had all he really needed and exactly what he wanted.
So what happened to me after getting to know these two men who were living my dream? Did I remain on the family farm and eke out a living? Most of you will know the answer to that question. In those days I suffered from both wanderlust and a lust for knowledge. I earned several degrees, worked in various professions, got married and divorced, changed countries a few times, and then Chris and I bought our little farm in Normandie, which we populated with goats, chickens and fruit trees. About 48 years after the above encounters, my lust for knowledge and travel completely disappeared thanks to our little bit of Eden in the rural Normand countryside. It has been wonderful to live without job titles and all of the things we think make us who we are. As I wrote in a previous blog (Peeling Life’s Onion), needing and having less ironically has a way of revealing who we truly are. My library, accumulated over 50 years has gone to a younger scholar, clothes have gone to charities, and…
As I write this we are in the process of one last major downsize. Having profited from less whilst living on our little farm, we are selling up and moving into a tiny, two-bedroom apartment on the coast of Normandie. Our ageing bodies and maladies have necessitated this move. The lessons and joys bestowed by living here will go with us. Our animals have already gone to bring joy (and eggs!) to other people.
When I was a 19-year-old undergraduate, a professor friend said to me words that I have never forgotten: Frère Jacques (his nickname for me), in this life you will have to walk the fine line between either being co-opted by the world and its values or being crushed beneath its wheel. I think I have just managed to walk that line.
Oh, and for the moment, I still have the bow saw!
