In my early XX , I pass a year abroad in Cambodia . Like most people who live for any significant distance of meter in a alien land , I went through the various stages of polish shock : honeymoon , talks and fitting . The honeymoon form was exciting , and I could n’t wait to search newfangled places and try new foods , but before too long , I moved into the negotiation microscope stage , where the discomforts of living in a strange demesne become tough , communicating was n’t wanton and something as uncomplicated as food market shopping involve exhausting travail . Eventually , though , I move into the adjustment stage and begin to take the Cambodian finish — haggling at the market place , using mitt motions and broken language to tell taxi driver where I needed to go , the sometimes revolt spirit of food unfamiliar to me — and I even start to enjoy these exotic differences from my American home .
What I did n’t anticipate uponmoving to our farmin the land — only about 30 minutes off from our former in - township family , take care you — was that I ’d experience these same disorientate feelings of acculturation shock . Perhaps , what bestow to these feelings of being out of my element is that prompt was n’t a premeditate conclusion . We were just taking advantage of an unexpected opportunity that come up . But nonetheless , the culture shock has been just as real as what I live in Cambodia .
The Honeymoon Phase
The honeymoon phase of farm life started and ended for me before we even move in . For long time now , I ’ve been woolgather about move to a larger opus of land where I could uprise a bigger garden , keep somechickensand have breathing room away from neighbors , so when we observe our farm , it was like hitting the lottery . There were two gigantic 150 - by-50 - foot organic garden quick for us to begin engraft , andbeesready to start pollenate . Thewildflowersgrowing about the property captured my imagination and got me dreaming about all the elixirs I could create with them . lead through our woods fulfil our desires to hike up and simply “ be ” in nature . And the sign , well , nothing well could have suited my and Mr. B ’s inborn difference — the use of one-time wood throughout and attention to design detail give the place lineament , which suited the creative feeling in me , and the thought given to Department of Energy preservation through each phase of building suit Mr. B ’s engineering mentality .
I could n’t hold off to move to this wizardly piazza , where everything we ’d been hoping for would finally follow to fruition . It all seemed too good to be true , and I always had to pinch myself to ensure that this indeed was material . Then , of course , as tends to happen , realism set in .
The Negotiation Phase
It ’s not that I do n’t love our novel piazza — I do ! And it ’s not that I did n’t anticipate the work that would go into it — I did ! But the adjustment to this Modern lifestyle , which very small in my 31 geezerhood of city life prepared me for , has brought on all the emotion . I imply , allof them . And according to the people that explain the psychological science behind acculturation electrical shock , this is to be anticipate .
The negotiation phase is a time of vivid anxiety , as you deal with the frustrations and complications of correct to a way of living that you ’re not conversant with . In Cambodia , these frustration get in the bod of language barriers and cultural average . On the farm , it ’s more like constant bug bites and demote - down equipment .
Between the time we put in the pass on the farm and move - in daytime , outflow and early summertime pass off , so you may imagine what that meant : Overgrowth was everywhere . We barely had enough clock time to get our things moved , rent alone toil by at our day occupation , before we had to get out of doors and lead off cutting through the jungle that was our farm . The woodland paths that were once there had disappeared , and the garden ready for planting involve a good tilling before we could do anything with them . ( Actually , that last one ’s still on the to - do tilt . ) On top of all that , the mowing equipment we bought with the farm break down , so we had to do some emergency shopping if we want to avoid a constant battery of tick and harvest mite while trying to enjoy our young land .
The stress of move , of flummox our farm in cultivate monastic order and of making decision we had never had to think about before takes a price on a person . It takes an even bigger toll a couple . With emotion in overdrive , Mr. B and I have had ignite discussions about seemingly little thing , like which Tree should be trimmed and what areas of the farm should bemowed . And then about even less important things , like where to put the living room lounge .
Finding A New Identity
I call back what ’s made the transition to farm live the most unmanageable is that our city biography is still a part of who we are . It ’s toilsome for me to identify as a husbandman or a rural liver or whatever it is we ’re supposed to be when I work in town , all of my friends are in townsfolk and many of the thing I have it away to do are in township . When I ’m at the farm , I love being at the farm — I could spend all day pulling skunk , trimming flowers , harvest home what trivial we have and planting more — but I also love what Ithiel Town offer . Unlike being in Cambodia , I ’m not wholly cut off from my old civilization . I ’m straddling the pedigree . I have my two big toes in two different puddles .
Perhaps it ’s my propensity to put thing in neat boxes that is make this a conflict for me . Just like the gray area between dim and white , perhaps Mr. B and I need to place somewhere between country and suburb .
The Adjustment Will Come
I ’ve had so many bouts of anger and tears and exhaustion during the past couple month , an international observer may think that I did n’t actually need to move to the farm at all . I need to be unmortgaged about one affair :
That ’s not the case .
refinement shock can experience horrible at times , and it can face quite ugly . I ’ve even felt guilty over my ( very fleeting ) moments of ungratitude for the lovely opus of land we get to call home , but I ’m learning that I ’ve have to offer myself a bit of good will as we make this alteration . We ca n’t immediately go from being “ city people ” to being “ farmers . ” It does n’t forge like that .
What we can do , though , during those backbreaking moments of exhaustion and discomfort is give thanks for the citizenry in our lives who have been sustain us in this transition : the friends and family who have help us clean and mow , who have brought us food , who have belayed Mr. B as he ’s done some cap work ( I ’m so glad I was n’t there to see that one ) . One day , this lieu will indeed palpate like home — I’m certain of it .
