Katie Abare: The Value of Simplicity
Since my senior year of high school, I had the dream of studying abroad. Being accepted into Kyungpook National University’s Spring 2020 semester felt like the culmination of years of academic diligence. So, the cancellation of my study abroad three months later due to COVID-19 far surpassed devastation. Despite feeling as though I was teetering on the edge of defeat, my desire to learn in an unfamiliar environment eventually led me to a six week work experience in Arizona and California. Even though I had intended to live and learn in an Asian metropolis, living and working on two rural organic farms has been the most enlightening experience of my life so far.
My work experience was epistemically and personally transformative because I had to abandon preconceived notions, relinquish my self-conferred specialness, and, as F. Scott Fitzgerald once said, “hold two opposed ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function” on a daily basis. I lived with strangers who had different beliefs than me in homes that were maintained differently than mine. I ate foods I never knew existed. I explored cities I had never heard of. For two months, I existed in perpetual unfamiliarity.
Even though I began my work experience with basic information about each farmer, I really did not know what to expect. There was a decent amount of blind faith that my hosts would be welcoming, my living conditions would be hospitable, and I would remain safe. Thankfully, these hopes became a reality. In fact, by the end of those six weeks, the strangers I had lived with had become genuine friends. Despite the streak of good luck and the growth of my social circle, though, there were still many differences between what I was expecting and what I found when I arrived at the farms.
The biggest difference of all was the living arrangements at Boring Farm in Sebastopol, California. The barn was not the classic red barn loft we know from children’s books but rather a dairy barn that had been converted into a space for, primarily, equipment storage. A few couches had been collected from donation piles on various side-streets and arranged in a semi-circle in the middle of the concrete slab. The butter yellow bunkbeds were bare except for a thin, unwashed mattress. The showers were in a wood hut; the toilets were communal port-a-potties. To wash clothes, we had to be driven to a laundromat in the downtown district. Wi-Fi was not provided; to send and receive messages, we had to sit in the knee-high grass nestled around the utility pole closest to the road.
After the introductory tour, I found myself meandering back towards that utility pole. I was searching for a semblance of familiarity, and that utility pole was the one place on the property that I had access to the outside world … to my world. As I leaned against it and surveyed the eighty-acre property in my oversized tie-dye tee and newly purchased blundstone boots, I began to panic. I felt alone. I felt underprepared. I felt immensely vulnerable amongst all of the unknowns.
With my phone in one hand and a raspberry popsicle dripping down my other one, I used the lifeline that that utility pole provided.
Mom: “Are you doing okay so far?”
Me: “I’m overwhelmed … I miss you …”
Mom: “I think this will be a terrific experience. I find roughing it makes things kind of easier. You don’t have to stress about your stuff or what to wear. You just wear your clothes over and over until laundry day. Good thing you have lots of underwear!”
Whirling around in my mind on repeat was the question: “Am I brave enough to do this?”
My mom seemed to think so. Despite my doubtfulness, I chose to think so as well.
Rather than focusing on how different the living arrangements were from my expectations and allowing those differences to frustrate and embitter me, I chose to embrace the reality of my circumstances. I chose to view those three weeks at Boring Farm as an opportunity to fully engage with living in the elements. By doing so, I realized living detached from modern conveniences can be peaceful, even preferable.
Despite my initial hesitations about the shower hut, showering quickly became something I looked forward to because the combination of chicken clucks and string lights created an irreplicable night-time ambiance.
I learned to appreciate the port-a-potties because, according to the sticker that I committed to memory after seeing it several times a day for twenty-one days, they save 125 million gallons of freshwater each day.
The night-time temperatures demanded several layers of clothing; bundling up meant the mattress’s thinness no longer mattered.
We turned laundry day into an afternoon excursion to Hardcore Coffee, Sequoia Burger, or Screamin’ Mimi’s – all staples in Sebastopol’s youth culture.
Most importantly, the lack of reliable phone service encouraged me to pay greater attention to the environment I was living in and the people I was sharing it with.
By the end of my three weeks at Boring Farm, everything that had initially made me uncomfortable had become sources of immense gratitude.
It is difficult to describe the entirety of my work experience with a single word, but if I had to, enlightening would be the most appropriate. My solo, cross-country adventure taught me unscheduled change can be a good thing, unknowns do not have to evoke discomfort, and vulnerability should not be feared. Most importantly, though, my work experience taught me to embrace life’s serendipity rather than try to tame it.
Katie Abare is a senior Environmental Science major and Chemistry minor. She completed her breakaway in New River, Arizona and Sebastopol, California as a farm intern in the WWOOF Program during Summer 2021. After graduation in December 2021, she is planning on pursuing an AmeriCorps or Peace Corps position to encourage environmental conservation, remediation, and sustainability. Katie is passionate about being a part of the positive change for the current generation and also for the future ones.