Grid

A powerline is nothing more than a rope for a house to the grid. It hovers parallel to the road, thrashing outward for buildings. They crisscross and carve the earth, ruling it, turning the land into tiny plots that grow smaller in cities.

This is not the standard in Amish communities, such as writer David Kline’s farm, which sits in the southeast corner of Wayne County. The earth is freer, assuming the form of long, sprawling rectangles. His farm, one of such polygons, is “off the grid” as he puts it. He talks of living a good life, which he has achieved even without our everyday gadgets. I listen to his words while cats and grandchildren spy on my class from the shadows of his barn. Kline’s voice is soft and difficult to make out over the growl of farm equipment, but his good life is as easily seen as it is told.

The good life is less cluttered. Gas hungry behemoths do not slumber in a garage on the farm, nor do glowing screens wrap around his living room. By unplugging, the farm leaves room for nature. It is not only a farm, but a sanctuary for others. Birds may nest in Kline’s barn undisturbed, and a mother fox may raise its kits in similar solace. The good life, a life of deliberate decisions as to what to live without, has turned nature back into neighbors with Kline alongside.

Is anything lost off the grid? I want to say yes, but this is putting my life as the standard, which would be unfair to the Amish. More is gained in their life than is lost. Where powerlines no longer sew the earth into an ugly quilt is where the good life is given the chance to begin.