We Can’t Do This Alone
When we decided to move from the city to the country and start farming, we were excited about the idea of being self-sufficient.
We talked about growing our own gardens, making our food from scratch, preserving, canning, freezing, and drying fruits and vegetables, raising chickens for eggs, cutting our own firewood to heat the house, and learning the skills we needed to fix and repair things instead of just buying solutions.
We were excited. Idealistic. A bit unrealistic. Overly optimistic. But definitely excited!
Even after the short time that we’ve been here, we laugh about just how idealistic we were. The effort, energy, and level of organization required to be self-sufficient is staggering. Within days of being on the farm we were overwhelmed and immediately felt like we were behind on everything.
We laugh, but our focus hasn’t been diminished. Not one bit. If anything, our experience is making us more resolute. But it’s also helping us understand and act with more clarity and maybe, if I can say it, a bit more wisdom.
You see, there’s a deep paradox to what we’re doing here. On one hand, we’re heavily focused on being self-sufficient. Yes it’s tough but it’s also rewarding beyond description. On the other hand, however, we have also learned that you can’t do it on your own. And that’s not a bad thing.
In any culture in any part of the world at any point in history, humans have come together to live, to survive, to grow, and to thrive. That hasn’t changed. It’s part of our nature.
The more we’ve come to understand that, the more we’ve come to understand what we meant when we said things like, “we want to be self-sufficient”. On reflection, we were saying, “we want to return to practices that made us feel more connected to the land” or “we want more direct involvement in core parts of our life, like growing food” or “we want to solve more of our own problems rather than just buy replacements.”
As we came to understand that it changed everything. Moving to the country wasn’t an act of isolation or withdrawal, it was an act of reconnection.
We may have been overwhelmed and ill-equipped and in over our heads, but we were also hands-on — everything. We were slowly figuring things out. It was hard and satisfying at the same time.
And as we did, something profoundly important started to happen: we began meeting our neighbours.
We didn’t know this area. The day we bought this farm was the first day either of us had ever stepped foot in the Pontiac. But as we got to know the region and the people who live here, we were stunned by their kindness.
We have gradually met our neighbours and they have been generous and patient with us every step of the way. They have shared their equipment, their expertise, their labour, and their friendship.
They’ve popped by for visits, asked questions, walked the land with us, gently offered their thoughts, shared their experiences, and helped us avoid some major problems.
If we’ve learned anything, it’s that we ultimately end up balancing our desire to do things on our own with the necessity — and the deep honour — of doing it in community.
Today, we’re as committed to strengthening our self-sufficiency as we are to connecting and supporting the community we belong to.
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