17% Domesticated

A Musing About Living In The In-Between

Is there a scale at which one can determine how domesticated they are? A percentage? It just seems more accurate than “domesticated” or “not domesticated.”

Because while most would label me as domesticated because I’m a human in a first world country living with running water, electricity and a solid roof over my head, vacuuming and dishes a normal flow in my routine, I don’t feel that way. Not completely. Not mostly.

Because mostly I feel like a wild woman who wants to live among the trees, with dirt between my toes. Don’t get me wrong, I’m appreciating the ease of utilities at my fingertips. A shower isn’t a chore on my to-do list where I need to factor in the weather to make sure my dogs don’t overheat while I’m away. My full sized oven and stove top ready and waiting for my culinary explorations. Being able to pull a vacuum out of a closet, plug it in and within minutes suck up more dog hair than resides on my own head. These are truly luxurious. And I’m soaking up every damn ounce of them.

Because they’re fleeting, temporary. And not just in the way that all things in life are, the vague knowledge that nothing lasts forever, but because I plan to leave this grid of comfort one day and live among the trees with dirt between my toes, again.

It’ll be much different than our lives living in a rustic, low top, 1988 camper van for those two years, our home moving right along with my chase for swimming holes, hikes, hot springs and a new view of the starlit sky. Comforts will come from the quiet solitude of nature. The trees swaying above my head while I swing to and fro in my hammock. From walking with bare feet over the land. Dogs with the freedom to be dogs, roaming, running. From the home I’ll build with my hands.

And while my building plans include a full solar setup to power my quaint homestead, hopefully a well to supply our running water and a reliable source of gas where we’ll need it, it will be different. So different. Barely domesticated. Or would it even be considered domestic at all?

Because does anyone actually consider a composting toilet domestic? Or a bath house that’s only accessible from the outdoors?

If a sliding scale does, in fact, exist, does it factor in how long of your life you’ve lived less domestically or only how you’re currently living? Or how your brain might crave one thing while living another?

Labels only mean as much as we give them, and this is partly a small, slightly humorous, attempt at challenging the status quo of what we use labels for, why and when. And also, I really do believe that I’m just built differently than our mainstream culture and society likes to live.

I would trade these asphalt roads for dirt in an instant. I’d substitute sidewalks for wild, leafy lined single tracks without hesitation.

I’m only 17% domesticated, after all.

Want some unsolicited opinions? Read my musings here!

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