When I moved to Arkansas, I knew not a person in the state. I’d found myself in this little-known corner of the country on the recommendation of a friend, carrying with me some small hope that I could make a home in this state I’d never been to. I had no real idea of how to find friends, or work, or lodging, but you might say that I had desperation on my side — when you’ve no option but one, it tends to be the one that works out. As Providence would have it, things did work out here in Arkansas, and soon enough I found myself employed and surrounded by new acquaintances who felt like old friends. I spent a number of weeks going from one house to another as opportune doors opened, after which time I took over a lease for someone in Fayetteville, and moved my meager possessions into my new home.
It was a change. A change from sleeping in my Jeep in grocery store parking lots to be sure, but a change also from living with new friends in a new place, sharing a space with other human beings who lived and talked and listened. I’d gone from being surrounded by people nearly all the time, coming home from work to be with more people, people who chose to invite me in, to returning every day to an empty apartment. Growing up with five siblings I’d never had a place of my own, yet now that I did I soon found the “luxury” a lonely one. It isn’t that I couldn’t see the blessing in what I was doing, the beauty of the life I was living, for there was much of it. I rode my bicycle to work every day, and even in the cold months I found this a joy, taking the five miles to work in the early hours as a chance at peace, some time spent awake and moving before most other people were out and about. Riding back home I reveled in the sunshine of spring and summer and the quiet of the Greenway trail system. I spent evenings with my new friends when I could, these people who had become my family. I paid my bills with the money I earned pouring lattes and washing dishes. It was not a glamorous life, but it was a simple one that I was learning to take joy in.
The romanticism of this quiet life was not lost on me, and yet I knew that I wanted something else, and every evening spent with friends reminded me of this.
On the first day of 2020 I boarded a plane and abandoned the life I’d been building in Arkansas. I tell people that this was when I started over, and for all the significance of that decision and the things that came of it, that story is for another day. Relevant to this piece though, is the fact that when I returned to Arkansas I really did have to start over. And the single person who most practically enabled me to do this was my friend John Bailey.
When I had nowhere else to go, John took me in. It was very last-minute, and though I owned only a backpack and a box full of books, these things added to my own self sleeping on the futon in the living room of John’s apartment that he shared with his sister and two cats made for a bit of a tight squeeze. Allowing me to share that space was an act of generosity, no doubt, and one for which I will always be grateful. None of us had a great deal of room, but for myself, it was a palace. I returned home from work every day to share in conversation with my roommates, enjoy meals together, and laugh together. And this was far better than merely having space to myself.
John and I lived together for roughly two and a half years. We certainly butted heads at times, particularly early on when I was learning for the first time to actually share what I had, and not impose my own ways of doing things on others. Yet for the most part our time together was a joy. We ate together, and I tried to get him into coffee. We watched movies, and I learned just how uneducated I was on cinema. When I worked in banking I learned to enjoy my mornings and evenings a great deal, and would frequently drive home to spend the night in my armchair with a cup of tea, and John and I would talk about our days. We fed each other’s obsession with vintage audio equipment, and at various times our apartment looked a bit like an old electronics store. The building we lived in was nothing special, in fact it was rather crummy, yet it was our home, the place where we shared of our lives, had spontaneous dinner parties, played music too loudly, and talked through our struggles. Our neighbors may have had the police called on them multiple times, but behind the door of C204, things were good.
It’s been more than a year since John and I lived together, but we still remain close. He is one of my dearest friends, and I never would have gained that had I been unwilling to share my home with another person.
Following my time at the affectionately nicknamed Berryfield Barracks, I moved in with my friend Austin Williams. Our apartment was a bit smaller than where I’d been with John, and learning to live with each other again posed its own difficulties, yet I continued to be stretched and blessed by a space shared with another human being. Austin taught me the joy of houseplants, and what fun cats can be. He also gives the best hugs I’ve ever had, and despite his being my junior by a good handful of years, his depth of wisdom continues to impress me even today. Austin and I have laughed together a great deal, and cried together a few times. Our stories bear a number of similarities, and we’ve healed through some wounds together. My time with Austin has been yet another reminder of the beauty of sticking with someone, even when it’s hard, and where there is pain. Truly, friendship is worth a struggle.
Austin and I moved into a townhouse last August, and were joined by our dear friend Raul on his return from Europe. In spite of this being the most people I’ve lived with for an extended period of time since my childhood, due to our living our own separate lives I often find myself at home without the roommates — and I feel the lack when this happens. As much as I enjoy having my own space, and feel blessed to have a room that’s set up to benefit me in my hobbies, the house feels empty and lonesome without my brothers in it with me. It is a comforting thing to hear Raul singing from the other side of my bedroom wall, or come downstairs to see Austin on the couch with the cats cuddling up next to him. Raul brings with him a great deal of cultural experience that remains a fascination to me, and a wealth of stories from his adventures in Arkansas, Liechtenstein and elsewhere. He also happens to make some delicious sourdough loaves.
Raul, Austin and I regularly express how grateful we are to live with each other. Our home is filled with life, and love, plants and music and good food and conversation. Whether hosting a dance party, or gathered round the coffee table in the living room to talk with friends while the rain patters outside, those who live and move in the Mountain House are truly blessed with the best. And this is my hope for any who enter our home: that they would share in what we have there, not merely the material blessings, but the friendship and beauty of life.
This brings me to my primary point: That our lives are meant to be shared. I think that too many of us have been taught that we ought to guard ourselves above all else, protect our privacy, and put ourselves first. Yet when we do this we move toward isolation and selfishness, and miss out on the blessing of community that humanity has flourished in for millennia. For all of human history we have lived in community, and found strength in the company of others. Today, at least in America, many of us can actually choose to go it alone, living by ourselves, working from homes empty of life, spending our leisure hours melting our minds in front of screens and filling our bellies with food that doesn’t satisfy our hunger. Our souls and bodies are starved. We are told that the world we live in is fractured and broken and that our neighbors are our enemies, yet we make no effort to bridge the gap or climb the wall of our own prejudice to learn what’s on the other side.
If we want a better world, we’d best start by becoming better neighbors. What a blessing it is to be able to learn to be so in our own homes, with those closest to us. I have lived on my own, and I have lived with others, and I can say with certainty that while I have my room, and Austin and Raul each have theirs, my favourite room in our home is the one we share, and my favourite time when we are together. Living with others reminds me that I am not an island, and that the strength and goodness found in me is only amplified when I share of it with others
I write on these subjects of community, technology and its intersection with humanity not merely as theory, but through the lens of my lived experience. As I continue to push against the norms that culture accepts without question, I discover life and depth that I’d not known before, and what I find I want to share with others. This Substack is my outlet for such discoveries, and however you’ve found yourself here, I hope you’ve gained something of truth, beauty or goodness from my words. I have not made use of AI to craft them or the accompanying photographs, and I hope you appreciate the effort that has gone into creating this piece and those like it. Know that I appreciate your time.
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Lovely and thought-provoking, as always Joel.
So well written, and inspiring. Love seeing the photos too!