Difficult Simplicity

Last summer I read Kristin Kimball’s memoir The Dirty Life: On Farming, Food, and Love, in which city-girl Kimball marries a farmer and her life changes forever. At that time last year I was in a dead-end job, staring at a computer screen with nothing to do for 40 excruciating hours each week, listening to griping and cussing and yelling and hatefulness every minute of every day.  Nothing sounded more wonderful than to get out and really, truly work. I would rather have been exhausted each day than numb.

Part of me continues to long for that life and part of me doesn’t know if I could handle it. I enjoy gardening but know that on a farming level it would be tiring and often frustrating. I love animals, but there are many disgusting things about taking care of them day in and day out, especially when they are much larger than you are. (Kimball's description of cleaning out a cow’s festering ear wound is pretty horrific.)

The work on a farm is harder than what most people can imagine and the payoff never guaranteed. And while I’m not exactly a city-girl, I would miss many aspects of urban life. It nice to have convenient options when I don't want to cook, plus shopping and entertainment just a few minutes away. But I can also see the pleasure in making a big event of it: planning a whole day around "driving into town" for shopping, dining and a break from the daily routine.

Though the days would be long and dirty and exhausting, I like the thought of quiet evenings with simple, delicious meals. Not worrying about going out or checking work emails or if the internet is fast enough to constantly entertain me. I'd enjoy the daily close-knit quietness and anticipate occasional events of joining together as a community for laughter and celebration. 

Even if it was just for a season, I'd like to try. I'd like to till something. Make my own soap. Wake before the sun and sleep when it sets. Plant. Grow. Harvest. I want to truly enjoy simplicity without constantly worrying about what else I might be missing. 

From the book: We boiled potatoes in their skins in the field, and served them steaming in napkins. We all warmed our chilled fingers on them, popped them open, invested them with quantities of butter and salt. If there is a more perfect way to celebrate the potato's earthy, sustaining essence, I have not discovered it yet.