Shelter : A Story of Downsizing

It’s interesting, as I sit down to reflect on slow spaces and what that means to me, what we’ve changed over the years, and what I’ve learned in the process. I’m once again drawn back to the picture of the little cottage, the garden, the piano, and the beautiful land surrounding. (For reference, I shared a bit of the back story in my narrative on slow fashion).  When I think about that dream place, it’s odd how I’ve never had any assumption of what was inside, apart from a piano. Every detail that pervaded my heart had to do with the surroundings, a place of peace and refuge for my soul. 

In The Lady Farm Guide to Slow Living,  Mary Kingsley address the “search for a deeper connection to the source of our well-being” in such a way that I have come to truly understand, but had never put to words. She says “ What you are longing for is not a place at all. It’s a feeling. Where we get all mixed up is in thinking we need a certain thing or situation to have it, but its not true. A feeling is just that, and it’s not a result of our circumstance or surroundings—but in how we perceive ourselves and those things that make up our lives.” 

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been an old soul trying to fit into a modern world. Like so many others, I’d often quip here and there of how I had been born in the wrong century, always pining after the ways of a bygone era. 

Six or so years ago I collapsed under the weight of exhaustion. For months I had been pushing myself to succeed at someone else’s dream. I hustled, networked, spent my hard earned dollars on evidence of my success. I boasted of this dream life, exceeded goals, moved from mentee to mentor, I was not yet 30 and I was making a living off of talent and grit. But when my first busy season came to an end I COULD NOT BREATH. I couldn’t recognize myself in the mirror, my cheeks and hips were puffier from excessive busyness, and my eyes had lost their sparkle. I couldn’t answer my phone, respond to text messages or emails or even leave the house, and worst of all, I COULD NOT DREAM. I’d fall asleep at night and drift off into a dream, and every night I’d show up to photograph a wedding and I’d be minutes into the job and  fall asleep standing up. I’d wake up in a panic that I’d missed everything, failed at my work, and would have no way of amending such a tragedy, and if this nightmare came true I’d loose everything I’d worked so tirelessly for.  I was so was exhausted, body, heart, and soul, it took my dreams to wake me up.

For months, I closed myself off from the world. I came back to my long lost journal, I prayed and prayed and tried to find a way to awaken my lost spirit. Soon enough I started hear the comforting hum of a familiar tune, “The Beauty of Simplicity”. I recounted my time in Mozambique and how the picture of a little cottage, a garden, a piano, and land all around had been painted on my heart. I started to uncover my old self, a self with passion and sprit and a deep longing  for time and space to create with intention.

I worked up the courage to ask my husband if he’d be disappointed in me if stepped back in my business goals and committed to less—allowing more time for nurturing my tender spirit. His loving permission was one of the greatest gifts he’s ever given, and I dare say not one of knew how it would change our future.

I took a magnifying glass to my “cottage ideal” to get a closer look. What did it mean, and how could I get there? During this exploration I came to the very conclusion that Mary discusses in her book, “what you are longing for is not a place at all, its a feeling.”

What I wanted out of that cottage life was space, quiet, calm, time, slow practices that enriched our days and nourished our bodies. I wanted to sit with books, and talk with loved ones—ceramic mugs in hand, no fussing over schedules or being interrupted by phones. I wanted away from the constant buzz, hurry and convenience of our culture.

Ideally in a cottage, yes. But nevertheless, everything I wanted was accessible from right where I was sitting. What I needed was a shift in perspective, and more importantly, priorities.

And then the hard part, I needed to act on it.

It takes a little bit of courage to say your dreams out loud, especially when they feel a bit (or a lot) counter culture. But making the changes to bring them to life, this requires a willingness and fortitude that may challenge every ounce of courage you once spoke with.

At the time, we lived in a beautiful craftsman rental situated in a lovely neighborhood, walking distance to everything. It was a dream of a home for us, one we had worked hard to find ourselves in. But when I started to analyze my priorities and my longings, I came face to face with the difficult question: is this beautiful space worth the cost? If I truly wanted to scale back on the number of jobs I took on, we would no longer be able to afford our charmed life. I loved the home, it had many of the old-time characteristics I’d hope to see in a dream cottage, but wooden beams and built in’s couldn’t offer the peace I was seeking. The walls were not my answer.

If my longing had not be so sincere, I think my pride would have convinced me to stay. But we found a pretty little (600 sq ft.) Victorian rental just a mile away, in another neighborhood that we loved. We sold off most of our furniture, and made the most of that cozy little space. But what left the biggest impact on our time there was my first commitment to living slower. I wanted that cottage feeling so desperately, and even though I could reach out my window and touch the building next door, I was determined start making changes. I called this “practice” for when our opportunity came. My first goal was spend as little time in the car as possible. I walked anywhere that was within 3 miles of home, and I rode my bike just about everywhere else—rain or shine, I was committed (unless I had to travel for work).

What I learned on those walks was that it took an awful lot of time to travel two miles by foot. Early into my commitment I found myself thinking about all that I wouldn’t have time for that day because of my choice to spend two hours (round trip) walking to a friends house. And it was within that time and with those thoughts that I realized how much I had been doing that meant very little to me. Walking was soothing, fresh air was life giving, rain was refreshing, sunshine was uplifting, time was irreplaceable, and my mind was abuzz with new inspiration.

As I fell more and more in tune with the rhythm of this new life song, I found myself craving more slow.

I had been agonizing over the weight of social media and the role it played in my life. I wanted to remember what it was like to live disconnected from a devise. I wanted to break free from the way it controlled my self worth and defined my identity, but I was (as many are) worried what that would mean for my business. I talked to a business coach about stepping away, and I was told that as an influencer (which I’ve never considered myself to be), I had a responsibility to continue to inspire those who are following my work. I let that pressure hold me down for a a month or so, until I realized I was never going to authentically inspire anyone, if I wasn’t inspired myself.

In a moment of serendipity, just as I was coming to my own truth, I came across a podcast called the Boredom Experiment by We are The Parsons, a husband and wife photographer who left social media for a one year experiment. I listened to all four episodes in one day, and that evening I told my husband about it while practically smiling through my words. He pulled out his phone and said, “I’m in”. We both deleted Instagram on the spot, and committed to a year of being unplugged. 365 days turned into 900+ days of living with intention, less distraction, and no pressure to perform for an audience.

During that time, I read more books than I had read in years, I carried two babies in my belly, we moved out of our tiny rental and bought a tiny bit bigger home (730 sq. ft). While building our little nest, I continued to crave slow, but this time from the inside. I started to get rid of chemical cleaners and plastics, replacing them with glass bottles and natural home made remedies. I taught myself to sew for my newborn babies, and gave myself permission to put business aside while I learned how to nurture my new role of Mother.

Life was really turning into something lovely, and we were growing very comfortable in all of our practices. But a longing came upon our home once more and this time it was not only mine. My dear husband had worked diligently for eight years at a job he felt no passion for. It payed well, the company took good care of him, and he was good at his work, but his spirit was down and the light had faded in his eyes, just as it had once left mine. I could see it more clearly than ever, and he was in agony.

He’d been dreaming and praying for an opportunity to go back to school and finish what he had started 15 years prior. I urged him on. We calculated numbers, assumed the risk, and took the leap.

With four month old twins in tow, he left his career, and stepped back onto campus for the final semester to his B.A. He worked through sleepless nights and long days on campus, but there was a hope and purpose guiding his steps, and one that gave life back to his tired body. Four months later we proudly cheered on our graduate.

If we had known what was to follow, I dare say we may never have had the courage to jump. Even my optimism and genuine encouragement could not find employment for my dear Mr. Hackett. We had set boundaries for what was important to us, such as the minimum pay we could afford, and not spending long days commuting. Finding work within these non-negotiable’s was proving almost impossible, at least within a necessary timeframe before our bank account would reach empty.

After months of disappointment and no right path in sight, we opted to sell our little home. We always knew we would at some point, but under the circumstances, it was more emotional than I had anticipated. We took our earnings and went back to a rental in a familiar neighborhood, where we could enjoy the freedom to walk about and bring our girls along for the ride. My husband took a job that would pay the bills, but offered very little toward our long term goals, and we worked to regain our footing.

After a couple months of living back in the heart of the city, I started to crave yet another step toward our dreams of slow. Our girls were finally old enough to fit into helmets, and I proposed with all seriousness, if we could sell our car and live on foot and bike. I was met initially with all the what if’s?! to which I had wisely asked myself and prepared a list of answers for. After a couple weeks of research and looking for used family cargo bikes, he finally agreed that we could try. Worst case scenario, we’d get another car, but save money in the mean time. Best case scenario, we’d love it.

And love it we did! There were challenges to be sure. But the way it set my heart free and gave me that feeling I was longing for, a feeling of intentionality and purpose and committing to living a way that mattered to me even if it was crazy to the rest of the world. Money can’t buy you that feeling. You can only live it.

But that wasn’t all that we gained from selling our car.

A few months later we found ourselves back to crunching numbers and questioning how we could maintain our current lifestyle while aiming to move forward with our future dreams. Jonathon’s work didn’t pay well enough for us to save much (even without a car), and our dreams for a cottage and a bit of earth were feeling farther and farther away.

But something about living without out a car had given me courage to believe we could step out in other “radical” ways. So I made another proposal. I was on my way out the door to meet a friend, but I when an idea burns, the lips cannot conceal. “What would you think about living in a tiny house?” I asked, as I kissed him and walked out the door. This proposal was met with delighted approval and a whole list of resources he had found while I was out to brunch.

When I first proposed this idea I saw a darling tiny white cottage. I saw the beginning of my vision coming to life. I knew it wouldn’t be the forever cottage, but a cottage it would be.

But as we researched our options, we found ourselves faced with a big financial decision; a tiny house would cost us between $50,000-100,000 or we could purchase a used RV and renovate for $10,000-$15,000. This idea was a bit harder for me to swallow. It wasn’t nearly as charming or romantic as I had envisioned, but I had to remember the long term goal, and even more importantly the immediate goal. The walls were not the answer. It was the life we would gain in making this change. The freedom it would give us to try new things, and to practice a slower pace in new ways.

Six months later, nearly all of our possessions were sold off. A few boxed up for storage, and just the necessities to fit in our tiny dwelling.

What I’ve come to learn in the 9 months that we’ve lived in our RV, is that the feeling really is accessible. I still dream of our forever cottage, but I’ve learned to delight in the now. My girls have taught me that more than anything. They don’t know or see any of the trials and challenges we’ve been confronted with over the past two years. But they know they’ve been loved mightily, and they’ve been granted the childhood of my dreams, with plenty of time and space to roam and wander, a garden to plant, chickens to feed, eggs to collect, and participating in many of our meaningful life practices.

We’ve had our challenges to be sure. But just the other day I found myself telling a friend, I’m more grateful than ever that things didn’t work the way we had orginally hoped. If they had, we wouldn’t be who we are today. And if the threat of running out of money was an opportunity to gain perspective, then I’d walk that path again and again because I want to always see the world through my new eyes. I’ve seen true beauty in the face of trial. And I’ve learned to know true comfort in the blessings of life.

Our home may be but tiny, and one day we will leave this little piece of land for another. But our now is so full. Full to the brim with meaningful works and time well spent. Our walls are only shelter.