There is something stirring in me. Some of it may be procrastination today, but the core of it is a struggle, I think. The realization of it started, oddly enough, with this book.
It's called "The Wilder Life," and it was written by Wendy McClure during her adventures traveling through the Midwest to the home sites of Laura Ingalls Wilder. This is not another Laura biography or a new expose of the Ingalls family. It is a journey of the heart taken by a woman much like me, maybe like you, reaching back to her own girlhood and searching for clues to what has shaped her and what will carry her. If you have never read the entire "Little House" series by Wilder, have never wondered what exactly a slough is or how to pronounce it, have never thrown on a dowdy, oversized Good Will dress just to look and feel pathetic while hoeing the garden with your little brother, you will not get it.
Every page I turned, I felt a flutter of familiarity as McClure described the wonder she found in the Little House series. . . and on the next page I was laughing my butt off at her and her boyfriend's 21st century take on it! As I recognized myself in Wendy's memoir, I began to see that something--maybe everything-- in these books had a little part in making me who I am too.
Maybe my longing to set up a neat and tidy little house complete with a smooth checkered cloth on the kitchen table comes from Wilder's explicit descriptions of setting up house in one of many new cabins on the prairie. I think that forlorn little chicken coop in my back yard has something to do with it, and need I say anything about the 5 button jars and trunk full of vintage scraps under this table I'm typing away at?
I want to make a living on this dadblasted Prairie, and I want to pull it up out of the already-tilled and depleted cornfields, the mail order chickens, and the thrift store curtains of these rural fringes of suburbia!!
Like McClure says, her obsession with "Laura World" is not about living a "simple" life. I'm not under any delusion about that either. What's so simple about darning your socks, churning your own butter, or leading the cows out into pasture every morning and back to the barn at night? I like my modern day conveniences and the Meijer just 15 minutes away via automobile, thank you very much, and just letting the dog out in the morning is enough for me.
Yet, the next book that landed on my night stand is this: Less is More: Embracing simplicity for a healthy planet, a caring economy and lasting happiness. Are you still with me after that lengthy title? (And is it just me, or is that title itself just a little ironic?) I'm afraid I'm not still with the book. After trudging through the Acknowledgments, the Preface and the Introduction, it became pretty clear that there was some kind of weird Henry David Thoreauism going on here. Don't get me wrong. I love the guy, but really, seeing a bug crawl out of my kitchen table is not something that is going to bring me epiphany. And you're not going to hook me by ending your first essay with this sentence: "If you're out and you've forgotten your travel mug, you don't deserve coffee." I guess it was the adorable little wooden bird on the cover that sucked me in.
Another segment of Less is More presents this definition of simplicity: "freedom from deceit or guile; [ok, ok, sounds good] sincerity [I'm cool with that]; artlessness [WHA?!] . . . done!
Here's where my worlds collide and my struggle seems to bubble to the surface. I do want to live a more simple life (why else would I have requested the stupid book from Interlibrary loan in the first place). I want to make less of an impact on this world. I want to learn to be content with less, to crack a warm blue egg in to my cast iron skillet in the morning . . . but I AM CREATING STUFF EVERY DAY in this little country cottage. MORE STUFF! For who? For the others who are trying to do more with less? No. Then it must be for those who are trying to do more with more. How hypocritical is that?
So how does an artist with these perpetual wheels turning in her head, this insane need to create, to envelope her world in the beauty of "thingy-ness," with china shepherdesses on the mantel and all, reconcile this to a world that needs less? Is it as simple as campaigning for consumers to commit to handmade, repurposed and upcycled art? Is my "passion" really a spiritual gift in any way, or is it something I should turn from? Who or what is it glorifying? And is the time spent making my art a business really just complicating my life? (my toilet is running right now and has been for an hour, but I don't want to stop writing. Will you hold it against me?)
I wish I could say--as McClure notes that Ma always did near the end of a chapter, "All's well that ends well," but today there is only lingering doubt. These are the questions I'm asking as an artist here and now. These are the reasons my work lies folded on the cutting table today . . . I'm off to "jiggle the handle" and pour a cup of joe into my travel mug. . . .

