One of my favorite reads in recent weeks has been a reread of Scott Savage’s A Plain Life. It was published in 2000 so it couldn’t have been just all that long since I read it the first time but there was a lot to chew on. Scott and his wife Mary Ann walked away from an yuppie urban existence to embrace a Quaker lifestyle as a result of their “pursuit of a more meaningful life together and the spiritual gifts… uncovered along the way.” He tells the story of their journey in the context of his physical journey, by foot, from their small town in Ohio to the DMV in Columbus where he deposited his driver’s license. His reasons for doing so, particularly since the day he arrived was the day the license was due to expire anyway were personal rather than practical and articulated as he walked.

The first read for me was a bit of vicarious thrill. Here was a family thumbing their noses at public perception of progress to seek a simpler, saner life of less power (both physical and social) and more connectedness. The second go ’round reveals a broader message, even for a woman like myself who spends a fair amount of time in a 15 passenger van. He poses thoughtful questions about relationships, authenticity, and offers nonjudgemental reflections on the range of personal responses to such challenges.

The writing easily moves between humor and concern. Introspection mixes with the reality of negotiating a horse and buggy in a zoom-zoom world. I could have written his description of themselves at the journey’s beginning:

MaryAnn and I had always shared a great unhappiness with modern American culture. We couldn’t find a comfortable place for ourselves amid the shallowness and cynicism masquerading as coolness and irony many of our 20-something peers bought into. We also didn’t like the sheer ugliness of modern life. We both valued old: old houses, old forests, old neighborhoods, old people. The more close we got to old the better we could compare it to the new. And something about the new, in the most pervasive way, didn’t feel right.

Nope it doesn’t. Though of course, ultimately our response to that pervasive problem of ugliness in all its literal and figurative incarnations will be as unique as each of us is.