May Essay: On Why I Chose Country Living

I’ve always had my life mapped out. I used to plan it out as a way to put myself to sleep-to drive myself forward. I designed it as I slept, a world where everything could be certain. Where everything was beautiful—where everything was safe.

 

That life looked different as I grew. For starters, I wanted a world completely apart from what I knew. You see, my expectations were low—I’d been shuffled through five different foster homes between the ages of four and six—only one of which I could deem half decent (meaning that the adults in charge weren’t completely deficit). I remember being no more than five, looking out at the grey-washed sidewalks of wherever I was and steadying my vision, blocking out the chaos around me, plotting out my future. I was determined to be more than I was. More than an unwanted little girl, daughter to an illiterate drug addict and the man who forgot about her soon after he finished.

 

So when I was adopted, I was lucky enough to be dropped into the lovely town of Knowlton, QC. Which, if you know it, is probably the closest thing to utopia a little kid could ask for. We weren’t wealthy, but my mum managed to deliver me to pony club and soccer club, while my dad tried like the dickens to help me appreciate the natural wonders around me, in his way.

 

You’d think my drive to live this country life would start there, right?

 

Except it didn’t. This girl wanted city life—editor job, nice car, overpriced condo. Trips on the weekend. I wanted everything exactly the opposite of what I knew. So I moved out of my home at 16, slupped my way through university via a series of jobs (that ultimately gave me my most wonderful friends and shaped my future career) spanning over nearly a decade. Then I turned 25. And all of a sudden, I couldn’t understand why everyone was in such a rush. Why everyone was so angry. And lord help me if one more person cat-called me while I walked my dog in my pyjamas.

 

Things were rising to the surface within me: my father had passed away, I had just gotten out of a very toxic relationship—and survived a significant car accident—a perfect trio of heartbreak. I was tired of the anonymity, the crowding, the sheer numbness of working to live. I have never been much of a ladder climber anyway—I have never much seen the point. I craved silence, the healing of the forest that had shaped my youth—the opportunity to walk beside an animal again. I didn’t need the attention that the city handed out—instead, I would stand behind the bar and sip a cocktail, trying to curb my social anxiety. I just didn’t know how to be a girl in the city. I wasn’t tough in that way.

 

So I changed my dreams. Something was calling me. I fell asleep to the construction of a rail fence, the oiling of a bridle, the fixing up of an old home full of spirits. I met my husband one night, standing behind the bar, serving cocktails, collecting tips and smiling just right. A warm smile—a battle scar that served as my last line of defense. He was like me—rougher, maybe. We were both broke, both big dreamers and stupid hard workers. So we made a pact to get out. We didn’t shake on it or anything—but we moved in the same direction over the next couple of years. He had an old house in his hometown that racoons had taken over, so we kicked them out and fixed it up, making a considerable number of mistakes. I tried keeping a horse in the garage. We lost a pony down the highway. I bought a lot of chickens, learned that roosters don’t lay eggs and also learned that I don’t love chickens. I got weirdly comfortable with death—the silent trade-off they don’t mention in the flyers before you start raising animals for produce.

 

But even with the chaos, I found I was comfortable. It made sense to me—it was a crazy that was reasonable, patient, even. Everything I needed to know was plainly in front of me, if I could slow down enough to pay attention. To the way a tomato might need more room to grow, or a sow might need help in her labor.

 

So the answer then—is to find solace in your crazy. To be outside of your comfort zone, but continue to stand there bravely, willing to learn. That’s why I’m here—it’s where I want to be. Animals make sense to me. The forest is reasonable. The trees like to whisper—but not gossip.

 

It’s home.