CHAPTER THREE
It’s hard to explain how quiet gets under your skin. It’s not that the silence is loud—no, it’s not like that. It’s the way it seeps into your bones, like the cold air when the fire goes out, or the way the sun lingers just a little longer at dusk. Quiet doesn’t ask for attention. It just is. But it’s always there, waiting.
There’s a rhythm to living off the grid, if you can call it that. It’s not the kind of rhythm you find in a job, or a family, or a schedule. No, this one’s different. It’s the kind of rhythm that moves with the seasons. You learn when to stop and when to keep going. When to chop wood, when to gather kindling, when to sit and let the quiet settle around you. The dog doesn’t need to be taught this rhythm. He’s a natural.
I never thought I’d get used to it. The stillness. You think you’ll get bored, right? Or maybe lose your mind. But after a while, you realize the stillness is its own kind of noise. It makes you hear things differently. You start to pay attention to things that used to be background noise. Like the rustle of leaves in the wind or the low growl of the dog when he sees something in the distance.
The world out here moves slower. People think that’s a bad thing. They’re wrong. Slowness gives you time to notice things. And I’ve noticed a lot of things, mostly things I’ve missed. You know how when you’re young, everything’s urgent? Every decision, every conversation, every day feels like it has to mean something bigger? I used to feel that way, too. Thought I had to make every moment count, every mistake monumental, every victory a milestone.
But here? Here, the victories are small. The mistakes are quieter. And that’s okay. That’s the peace I’ve found.
I remember the first time I felt real peace. I was about twenty-eight, and it wasn’t like some big epiphany. No lightbulb moments. It came after a long stretch of losing things—my job, a relationship, a house. You know, the usual. But one morning, I found myself sitting on the porch of a cabin much like this one, watching the fog roll over the hills. I wasn’t running away then, not exactly. I was just… stopping.
Sometimes stopping is all it takes. You don’t have to keep chasing things. You don’t have to fight against the world. You just sit, breathe, and watch the world go by. Maybe that’s what they mean when they talk about “being at peace.” I wouldn’t know. I’m no philosopher.
But what I do know is that the quiet lets you be yourself in a way the world doesn’t. Here, nobody asks you to be anyone else. There’s no need for pretense. It’s just you, the dog, and the land. The past is a distant memory, and the future… well, I don’t worry too much about that. I’ve learned that the future always arrives whether you’re ready for it or not. And sometimes, it’s just nice to be here.
I find myself thinking about the people I used to know. The ones who used to think I was running from something, looking for a place to hide. Funny how people can’t understand when you don’t want to be found. They assume you’re broken, that you’re avoiding something. But the truth is, sometimes you just need a place where you can breathe, without someone else breathing down your neck.
Maybe that’s why I’ve stayed here so long. Because it’s the one place I can truly breathe. No expectations, no demands. Just the air, the trees, the dog, and me. And sometimes, that’s all you need.
I think it's interesting 