Shaking and Moving

I am tired. Not exhausted, not burned out. Just tired. There is so much right now, and its weight is heavy. Genocide and capitalism, winter darkness and cold weather. Seasonally, this has been a hard time of year for me and I’m grateful to say that I’m doing well with my mental health, but I’m still tired. I think we all are.

As the genocide against Palestine continues, and the stories of needless death continue to be live streamed over Instagram, I am so incredibly deflated. We, as a collective human species, have been colonized and forcefully subscribed to a way of existence that puts all our faith in the trust of a few powerful people who care only about upholding those systems that ascribed them power in the first place. The picture has never been painted so clearly, and it’s gut-wrenching. Today, it’s the Palestinian people; tomorrow, someone else. Trans people in Florida. Children in Sudan. Folks who need abortions. Indigenous people defending the land. No one is safe under capitalism.

This knowledge has been with me for some time, but seeing it in action is a constant reminder, and its weight is very, very heavy. I email my representatives. I share on Instagram. I lean into community. And I still feel so helpless. I *am* so helpless.

I haven’t written about moving yet. I think I’m avoiding it because I don’t want to have to justify it.

But we are moving; we are listing our rural home next week for sale and moving back to the city we left during the height of the pandemic. It’s hard to write about. We moved here because we had a chance to run a home business and needed space to store inventory and time to get the business up and running. We’ve done so, and it’s working well, so now we face the next challenge of running the business in the city.

It was never our intention to move back. We wanted to put down roots here, but they just don’t seem to be holding. All these things I’ve been writing about: finding community instead of subscribing to capitalist institutions; the challenges of making friends; the experience of isolated nuclear families - they all play a part in the decision. So does the price of gas. It’s very bitter sweet. And it adds to the weight; to the tiredness.

I don’t think for a second that moving back to the city will relieve the tiredness. Governments will still be governments. I’ll still be living in late-stage capitalism and dealing with all the struggles that come with this existence. Oppression will obviously still exist. I think what we’re hoping for is just a little bit more opportunity to support each other through these struggles. We have friends there who love us for who we are, unapologetically. We have family that misses us. We will be able to connect with other human beings without having to drive for half an hour. I might even be able to ride my bike again. Our kids will have more freedom, more opportunity, and more connection.

I suppose in some ways it will be a test: when we moved during the pandemic, it was that time when I started down this path of unpacking oppressive systems, catalyzed by both our unschooling lives and the BLM protests. Just like we’ve been piloting our business, I’ve been piloting a different way of living. But there are so many questions around whether the choices I’ve been able to make while living here will still be possible in a city space.

Will I be able to keep growing food? Will we be able to maintain our path to minimalism? (Not the aesthetic minimalism, but with a minimal footprint…) Will I be able to transport the community volunteer work that I’ve been doing here back to a busier place? Will there be community without subscribing to capitalist institutions? 

I think all the answers are yes, but I also know that new challenges will arise, and I’m mentally preparing myself for those as well. I don’t want to delude myself into thinking that a change in location will cure the tiredness, but it might provide new opportunities for change and growth, just as the move here did. So yes, I’m sad to leave but excited for new possibilities. As I said, bitter sweet.

If you’re feeling tired like me, I have no magic recipe or quote or path to set you on to help. I’m just as overwhelmed as you. I will encourage you, if you can, to lean into friends and family and into community. It will help dispel that myth of isolation, even if you’re an introvert like me. We need each other; we can help each other, and the more we build up those bonds of trust and support, the more resilient our little communities will become. <3