Here’s the thing about small towns: the definition of “small” is relative. If you grew up in Chicago, like I did, Minneapolis is small town. Now that I live in an unincorporated town of 200 people, where the only business is a general store/gas station—and it’s the last northbound gas stop for 74 miles—my definition has changed. This place is small.
Moving to our remote mountain valley started as an idea: “Live a simpler life.” We wanted access to mountains, trails, and clear running water; a piece of undeveloped land big enough for growing our own food; no big-box stores or nearby destination resorts. Once we moved, we soon realized that living here also meant no cell phone coverage, frequent power outages, and roads that can go unplowed for days during winter.
Rural living can be pretty damn inconvenient, and soon we stopped telling our friends to get out of the rat race and follow in our footsteps. The first two years I felt like the proverbial frog that jumped right into the boiling water. But here’s the good news: Once you survive that initial learning curve, you are utterly changed. How you are changed is impossible to predict. Here are a few of the fundamental shifts that my type-A self, the one who wrote that “Simple Life” checklist before we moved, did not anticipate:
Increased Brain Space
Looking back, I can see that when we moved here, I was an entertainment junkie. But we got what we asked for in our new spot: no movie theaters, no Borders, no Starbucks. During winter the mountain pass that provides the quickest route to the nearest major metropolis, Seattle, closes for about five months (making the one-way drive a very long five hours). The isolation got to me. But I found that when the busy distractions of modern life were removed, I had more time to think. I grew, instead of mentally spinning like a gerbil on a wheel.
Redefined Identity
Since career paths are limited in a rural economy, the importance of work takes a nosedive. Not many potluck conversations start with that ubiquitous get-to-know-you icebreaker, “What do you do?” Here, more than likely, that first question is, “Do you ski (or climb, bike, boat …)?” At first I thought this was weird. Most of my adult life I had been defined by my job, so the loss of that inner bearing sent me on a soul-searching path. Not surprisingly it happened in winter, when, again, there’s way too much time to think.
Seasonal—and Ritual—Living
Unless you live in a southern small town, the world is grey, black, and brown from November to April. Snow is everywhere. So when spring rolls around, it’s truly a celebration. At my daughter’s Waldorf school—a 15-foot yurt surrounded by pine and fir trees—there is a maypole dance around a tree every spring. And it’s completely normal for men, women, and children to make wreaths out of newly sprung wildflowers, wear them on their heads, and weave their way around each other to wrap a tree in ribbons. No questions asked.
Scarcity and Abundance
The scariest parts of moving here were giving up my free health insurance and a regular paycheck. But out of periods of scarcity came a greater appreciation of how generous nature is, and how things can just work out. There are waves of local fruit, followed by waves of wild berries and morels, followed by all the stuff you faithfully plant in your garden. Pretty soon you’re drowning in all this food, canning it on 100-degree days, drying it on racks, and stuffing it into your extra freezer. This metaphor of waiting for abundance is now buried deep in my psyche.
Our New Spreadsheet
We rationalize living here because we want to be more like children. To be scared by lightning storms and thunderous whitewater; to devour local strawberries like there’s no tomorrow; to fall into bed exhausted from a day spent outside. I put these experiences in a mental column called “assets.” But experiences don’t gain interest in a 401(k). It’s like I told my brother, who’s a risk analyst: “None of this pencils out well.” Still, I wouldn’t trade what I now call “Big Living in a Small Town” for anything.
