Horsetail Thicket

The decision to live in my tent for the summer came like a flashbulb back in January; instantaneous is not my usual decision-making style, so I was particularly inspired. As much as I love living at home, it offers me no challenges, intellectually, physically, financially, emotionally. I live with people who unconditionally love me, know how to deal with me, have similar ideas as me, and let me live here for free. Living outside for multiple months seemed like some great fulfillment of my lonely childhood, longing for the outdoor adventures I read about, but could never quite have. I immediately started list-making, my ultimate outlet of excitement.
The details didn't come as quickly. Where should I set up camp? Close to the house, my source of fresh water? Close to the my livestock? After one night only feet away from the barn, I decided to move it several hundred yards north of the house, further from the highway and railroad tracks, in a clearing filled with horsetails, by a Russian Olive thicket. Horsetail Thicket. The long June days are the greenest of the year in Nebraska, the prairie grass keeping a constant but varied dance in the wind. My home, Freedom Tent, is surrounded by the remnants of an Indian campsite (and I mean within the last few weeks they camped there, not generations ago - although probably both). It is a serene location.
And suddenly the world became divided into people who could understand the appeal of a rugged life, and people who just didn't get why a person would give up a comfortable bed and regular candlelit baths. Why would you do that? Any dream of independence from my family is a complete farce. I come back to the house multiple times of day, continue to share meals with my parents, use their things. And besides, I'm a believer in inter-dependence, the connectedness of all humans, that no one person should or ever can stand alone. I don't necessarily enjoy being constantly scented of campfire smoke and goats. The mosquitoes and gnats chase me into my tent for very early nights. My run-ins with thieving critters haven't further endeared me to the virtues of nature. Cooking good food over a fire is a serious challenge and invites one to enjoy the flavor of burnt.
It's uncomfortable. It's smelly. It's inconvenient. Maybe even dangerous. But it's invigorating, and forces me to acknowledge the core functions of my life. When a person doesn't have a huge comfortable house with all the amenities (and I do), how does one live? Dealing with these issues is a reality for billions of people every day. My trying to echo their experience is a pathetic phantom. But it sparks something real and fundamental in me, a trivial experiment done in the name of life and solidarity.