It’s not all blue eggs and honey bees and wildflowers in this life of mine. The choice I made to live away from the madding crowd comes with a dose of loneliness now and then. As I’ve said before, I’m not alone. I live in a community of elders who truly know me and truly love me. And that’s almost always more than enough. Almost.
I knew when I left the city to live on a homestead, age not-quite-forty, with no partner, no kids, and no like minded peers to share my dream with, that it was going to be a major step into a life that was just about me. Mostly that was a big win, because I was liberating myself from pressures to exist in a world I wasn’t suited to anymore. But quite frankly, I don’t want it to always be just about me. I want to share this dream with someone. I can’t help it.
I haven’t given up. I go on dates, and keep going on them even in the face of unfailingly disastrous results. I send overtures to friends back in the city in the form of real estate listings, or dates for concerts at the fairgrounds. I send them this blog. But over and over again I am reminded, sometimes painfully, that this life is my choice. My adventure, not theirs. I don’t think moving to the country on my own was a mistake, partly because I refuse to think it, partly because there is ample evidence that it was the right thing for me to do. But I didn’t move out here to become the Unibomber either, living in a cabin in the woods, writing my manifesto and forgetting to brush my hair. I’m only being slightly hyperbolic about that. Seriously, how do I continue to live among people, to encourage and attract companionship, having chosen a lifestyle most people think is slightly crazy and definitely boring? Where do I find the energy to keep reaching out, when no one wants to take my hand, and retreating into my little world of animal friends and tomato plants seems so much easier? I don’t know the answer. But I’m not giving up either. So that’s just the way it has to be.