Over the last few weeks, I’ve been settling into a new home.
Getting used to the sounds. The smells. The sights.
Or maybe more accurately... getting used to the absence of them.
It’s amazing how loud “civilization” is once you leave it behind.
I missed the perceived sounds of safety…
The breeze moving through leaves.
Birds negotiating territory.
The soft percussion of rain on a roof.
These sounds have weight to them, but they don’t demand anything from me.
For the first time in years, my nervous system seems to be exhaling.
I’ve spent the last three years “in society”.
After years of living off-grid, my husband and I moved downtown into an old railroad town. At the time, it felt romantic. Walkable. Historic. Easy.
The kind of place where artists are supposed to thrive.
Instead, from the very first week, I developed headaches.
I needed naps every day.
Sirens ricocheted between buildings.
Exhaust fumes drifted through the streets.
The building shook with every large truck that flew by…
An angry religious zealot regularly screamed sermons that echoed through downtown corridors like a fire alarm no one could turn off.
I couldn’t think straight.
At first I thought it was preference.
I thought maybe I had become too picky.
Sensitive.
Difficult.
Preferring the Wild of Nature.
But after enough time, I realized something important.
This wasn’t about preference.
It was about regulation.
My nervous system was not at ease.
So naturally I did what many of us do.
I tried to solve the problem with logic.
I tried to “fix” it… but that didn’t work… so…
Maybe a nicer neighborhood.
Maybe a more upscale district.
Maybe better retail shops and restaurants.
More culture.
Better aesthetics.
Surely that would help.
What I discovered was that more culture doesn’t necessarily mean more peace.
Sometimes it simply means more stimulation wrapped in prettier packaging.
The new backdrop may have resembled Downtown Disney.
Yet… the nervous system knows the difference.
What ultimately pushed me over the edge wasn’t noise.
It wasn’t smells.
It wasn’t traffic.
It wasn’t a new town crier.
It was a quiet man. Actually 4 of them…
But one particular man …far to young to be living the life that had become his…
A vagabond.
A schizophrenic drifter who became fixated on me.
At first, he was simply part of the scene.
The way many troubled people become part of the human landscape.
Everyone knew him.
Everyone had a story for him.
His mother died young.
His father was a good guy.
He went to California and never came back the same.
My favorite… “He is on a spiritual journey”
People explained him.
People sympathized with him.
People excused him.
What nobody seemed interested in discussing was the impact he was having on the people around him.
Particularly women.
