We were walking down a dirt lane, pretending hard not to be what we actually were: tourists from California, out gawking at the Amish. It was still quite early — the dawn sky was a sober pearl gray — and we were hoping to do some undetected snooping before the world woke up and caught us in the act.
Mike was there to check out the classic Pennsylvania Dutch barns, while I inspected tomato after heirloom tomato. We both come from farming backgrounds, but that doesn’t quite explain our fascination with this closed-off and seemingly antiquated culture. The capacious white farmhouses, the horse-drawn plows, the wooden water mills, the flower gardens spilling over with sweet peas and hollyhocks: these were powerful images, symbols of a better way of life, one that seemed hauntingly familiar yet completely out of our reach.
Then from behind us came the measured clop-clopping of hooves on pavement, and we realized to our dismay that the Amish get up very early indeed and that we were about to be engulfed by black buggies on their way to church. “Don’t turn around,” I whispered, embarrassed that these very private people had caught us on their private road. Before Mike could answer, the horse had trotted past us. Framed in the back window of the buggy were two small blondes, staring out at the strangers on their isolated lane. What were they thinking, these farm children of a bygone era?
I longed to run after them and ask — yet at the same time wished we could vanish on the spot. No matter how I wanted to deny it, the modern world trailed along behind us, inevitably mucking up whatever it touched. Our innocent desire to momentarily join them in their seventeenth-century lives could only do damage in the long run.
Yet years later, I was still thinking of the Amish, wondering what it was about them that seemed so compelling. I finally decided we’d been born into the wrong era; we were not meant to live in a society of blinking computer screens and jammed freeways. And indeed, we do live in an anxious culture, a “culture of despair,” as some have called it.
But my sense of longing that morning was not generated solely by the problems of modernism. For centuries, people of widely varying cultures and times have struggled to get clear, to find the secret to a simpler, more integrated life. Through much trial and error, I myself have slowly come to believe that no matter what the existing circumstances, we can not only find the simple path ourselves, but can transform our lives by taking it.
First of all, the simple life generates hope. In a consumerist society like ours, people who wish to live simply must make a series of intentional choices against what is habitual, like the unrestrained use of credit cards, driving when walking is possible, and the unchallenged notion that faster or newer is always better. In the process of saying no, they discover that they can successfully resist manipulation by faceless commercial or political forces.
Second, simplicity leads to greater unity, both within an individual and in society at large. When people control or set aside materialistic desires, when they let go of raging ambition, and when they challenge media-generated paranoia, they no longer feel torn in a hundred directions. Interior chaos subsides; the psychic battlefield goes calm and silent. They can begin to see others as compatriots (“My joy!” as St. Serpahim of Sarov used to greet every stranger he met) instead of as competitors.
Finally, when adopted with a whole heart and for a lifetime, simplicity leads to an often striking tranquility. This, in spite of the fact that such a life is not necessarily easy. Certainly, convenience and comfort are not its core values. Hard work, both manual and mental, has traditionally accompanied intentional living. Yet freed up from needless worry, people can think more clearly about what they do and how they do it.
Part of the “good news” that Jesus brought had to do with this kind of liberation. The New Testament is filled with reassurances that this world is a safe place for us to be. Time and again, Jesus reminds us that God loves us and will provide what we need. He promises that even when life seems to be a terrible struggle, we are not alone. “Do not be afraid any longer, little flock,” he says, “for your Father is pleased to give you the kingdom” (Luke 12:32).
May we act on that promise and dare to let go of unnecessary distractions.
Paula Huston’s most recent book is The Holy Way: Practices for a Simple Life (Loyola, 2003). She is also co-editor and a contributing essayist for Signatures of Grace: Catholic Writers on the Sacraments (Dutton, 2000). A National Endowment of the Arts Fellow in Creative Writing, she is the author of a novel, Daughters of Song (Random House, 1995) and numerous short stories. She is married, has four children, and is a Camaldolese Benedictine oblate. For more information, visit her website at www.paulahuston.com.
(This article was excerpted from The Holy Way: Practices for a Simple Life by Paula Huston (Loyola Press, 2003). Reprinted with permission of Loyola Press. To order copies of this book, call 1-800-621-1008 or visit www.loyolabooks.org.)
