Von einer Tür zur anderen: Nun bin ich aus- und umgezogen. Die vertraute Tür in Tenna wächst so langsam zu, die Wohnung wird in eine Art Dornröschenschlaf verfallen bis ich dann im Winter wieder dahin zurück kehre.
Die neue Türe steht offen, das kleine Haus dahinter ist bereit mich für einige Zeit zu beherbergen. Dies ist meine Einsiedelei, der Ort der Stille, in den ich mich nun zurück gezogen habe.
My journey started more than fifty years ago in Switzerland. I was born the second child of four to parents who grew up still deeply embedded in the cultural fabric of a conservative Catholic society. The first fourteen years of my life I grew up comfortably and quite sheltered in a small town. My family was the perfect family: dad was working as an engineer (he was the first in his family to benefit from higher education, thus escaping the rural poverty of the peasant life or the hardship of the working class experienced by his forefathers). Mom stayed home after marriage, but before has mastered a professional qualification and has earned a living on her own (this was also a first in her family that had also very recent rural roots – her father was born into a migrant farm worker family with no possessions and very limited rights). They were very proud of their achievements and upward mobility in social class. They also had grand expectations for her children who were to be given all opportunities to make it to the top of modern society.
The Simplicity Institute put out a call for stories for a book which aims to provide more insight into the various ways people are living simpler lives. It is worthwhile to browse through these stories. If you have your own story to tell, please submit it here: Stories of Simplicity.
I am sitting with my black travel bag in front of me. I am checking the carry-on policies of the various airlines. The dimensions seem fine, a weight limit is not stated and I wouldn’t have a scale to check it anyhow. Later on the train and the ship, it won’t matter anymore. Good thing I am starting with the most restrictive mode of transportation.
As we were gathered in silence this Sunday, it was easy to listen to and to hear the raindrops outside.”
The reference to rain shows that I wrote this account of my thoughts back in October when I was worshipping with the Victoria Friends Meeting – here in the Yukon it is currently -35 degrees and no rain in sight!
I was contemplating on the various ways they follow their journey in their natural cycle. Some of them will fall on the earth, the ground that is receptive to soak them up, to store it for the plants, and to release it in the cycle later. Others will run off and pool in a depression, being available for animals to quench their thirst. Yet others will fall on a roof, go down the gutter, onto the concrete, run off the roadways, into the sewer system and the storm drains. Some of them will need to go through a water treatment plant before they are released back into the wild, allowing them to join the natural cycle again.
As I was looking in a contemplative gaze out the window – into a wintery morning scene with freshly blowing snow and some lights shining from the roof of a construction site across the street – I felt this gentle urge, this longing, to be doing something with my hands. I had this instant flash of memory of the project I was working off and on all summer long: a tiny house on wheels. I imagined how ideal it would be to have such an ongoing project set up and waiting for those moments where my hands call for meaningful activity.
But my little project is set aside for the winter. Choosing to embrace a simple lifestyle and not to maintain a permanent place to live has its consequences: I am not always in control and have to accept what the respective circumstances allow. Setting up the tiny house project within easy reach was not feasible this winter. Alas!