Sometimes we have conversations with friends and family who live in bigger places. They tout the benefits of having a hospital close by, or a gaggle of specialty clinics, or good restaurants, or public transit, or easy access to airports. 

One of these conversations happened recently when we were traveling. We were meeting friends for lunch at a shopping centre close to a 55+ development area. Arriving early, we walked around gawking. That shopping centre had the normal Starbucks, grocery store, restaurants, and pharmacy; it also had an endless number of personal services. There were athletic clubs; places offering massage, acupuncture, orthodontics, sports medicine, pediatrics, and physical therapy; a huge emergency clinic; and a slew of places offering facials and nail care and aestheticians. 

It made me tired just looking at all that stuff intended to fix us. 

Earlier this summer, when our grandson was visiting, we had a conversation about scientific breakthroughs in longevity. Our grandson opined—as only a fourteen-year-old boy can—that humans could, and should, live to 130. After a beat of dead silence, George asked him, “Why would we want to do that?” Another long beat. Our grandson answered tentatively, “To do more stuff?”

Frankly, I don’t want to do more stuff. I sure don’t want to spend my final days fixing myself. Of course, I do know that some “fixing” is inevitable. Many of us need treatments and therapies and support as we grow older. We might need smaller places to live in; we will probably need help to stay at home; we will definitely need end-of-life care. And while I can appreciate certain amenities—a community swimming pool in the winter, a fulltime emergency room—I am willing to forgo such things. Because we have something better.

There is something to be said for limited resources. Limitations can force us to appreciate what we have, when we have it. This engenders gratitude. Just think of how grateful we all were for this summer without smoke and fires.

Limitations also force us to depend on each other. Mutual dependence is the necessary fabric of community. Taken together, gratitude and community will keep your heart alive and your soul supple. That seems way more important than swimming pools, or even speedy medical care (though I know firsthand how vulnerable we are without it). 

I have a lovely neighbour, a guy who swears even more than I do. He plows our driveway in the winter and gives our dog treats. Last week he told me that everyone on this continent needs to watch the entire nine seasons of “Little House on the Prairie.” (Twenty-one episodes each year, he noted: that’s a lot of hours watching.) “Those people f…ing knew what community is about,” he said. “They had nothing, and they knew how to take care of each other. The most important thing is f…ing community.”

Just saying. When the “For Sale” sign goes up on our house, rest assured we’re just downsizing. We’re here for the duration, deeply grateful for this beloved f…ing community.