Where I’m from, it’s hip to live simply.

And, as a socially-conscious-urban-type, I usually don’t mind if simplicity is thought to be sexy: “the simple life” is a game I have often played. I have even congratulated myself for doing so—after all, if doing good doesn’t hurt my self-image…so what?

Plus, when I try to live simply, I am sometimes rewarded by even bigger amounts of small—money saved, chemicals reduced, simpler thoughts thunk, and so on.

Yet, moving from a population of 3 million-plus to a town of 140, has thrown me: after several monotonous days of sorting simple things to distribute to a community of people with simple needs (like food, clothes, running water, bicycle tires, and rides to the doctor), I’ve learned something about the simple life: it can be mundane.

I’m ashamed to admit my surprise that “living simple” is different than celebrating simplicity. The latter (that is, what I do in Toronto) usually results in a choice to buy local and organic food; a decision to purchase used furniture, clothing, books and music; and a desire to brew my own tea and coffee, or to ride my bike.

But when there’s no 24-hour grocery store, and—for goodness’ sake—no Tim Ho’s for the days I sleep in (dammit!), I find that I am no longer celebrating simplicity, but living simple.

Here are some examples that I hope will illustrate the difference.

I was sitting in “Karmeli Koguduse” church a few days ago with a headache that had started small but soon began to radiate (the electricity had been out all day and the combination of no caffeine and almost-24-hour sunshine had taken its toll).

As the minutes passed, the two-hour service transformed from an environment in which I was enabled to seek God into one where I didn’t care about anything—that is, except to run to out for a blessed cup of coffee, or even better, to a pharmacy that would sell me relief in pill-form…precisely what I could not do.

I was at the mercy of the environment I was in. I was living simple.

…Also, last week I finally got the chance to visit Rakvere, the biggest “city” around (that’s a population of 14,000, for you urbanites who would challenge my definition of city). I was in heaven, gliding freely through the “crowds,” and waiting in line to use the ATM; while Mati, aged 6 (who is always showing off and doing tricks on his bike at home in Avispea) nervously slipped his hand in mine in innocent, and gut, reaction to “all” the people.

As the day progressed, I began to notice more acutely something that I’ve been seeing since I arrived in Estonia (which is an unusual mix of “first” and “third” world at present—meaning the memory of living simple—the mundane kind—is fresh in everyone’s mind, even those who aren’t, anymore). What I have noticed is an awful lot of people dressed in sleek, hip hop, designer styles. Make no mistake—if you have the means to decide how to to express yourself, in Estonia, you dress to show your status.

Gradually, I found myself frustrated that no one, was appreciating my “I-don’t-care-what-I’m-wearing-je-ne-sais-quoi-urban-student” wardrobe…and suddenly it hit me: Oh snap!…What happened to living simple?

I was recently telling a roommate over breakfast that I often experience guilt over ‘never doing anything as well as I could.’

In fact, it seems that a sort of ‘performance anxiety’ follows gen Y-ers around, whether we like it or not. (Actually, I think most of us feel more comfortable with some anxiety. If you don’t agree, imagine a truly anxiety-free state of being for moment: …pretty stressful, isn’t it?)

…Later, washing the dishes, I began to muse: perhaps gen Y-ers are more likely to feel anxious today because it is no longer culturally acceptable to submit to authority?

Here’s what I mean: recently, in the West, we have collectively removed the power(s) of traditional forms of authority. Government leaders, monarchs, parents, teachers, and pastors are no longer permitted to speak from positions in which total influence is assumed by either speaker or listener. Now, undoubtedly, this provides our generation with many advantages: speeches delivered by ‘important people’ to crowds of graduates (or other kinds of listeners) no longer seek to provide trite words of encouragement (“The future is going to be difficult! There are tough times ahead! But don’t worry! [Insert goal here]…and you will be victorious!)

…Graduates have been educated too long on the topic of blind encouragement and its dangers.

Indeed, as a graduate of English Literature, what springs to mind is poetry that has sought to motivate, encourage, and inspire past generations. Written over a hundred years ago, Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade” stirs up powerful and conflicting emotions. Beginning with:

Half a league, half a league,
half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
…

And concluding with sobering and poignant words:

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made,
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.

The poem is both beautiful and odious.

There are plenty of other poems falling into this genre (Rupert Brooke’s “The Soldier” is a good one). Others (if interested, begin with the poems of Wilfred Owen and Sigfried Sassoon), oppose war with equally powerful words. Remarkably, Owen’s “Dolce et Decorum est” is reacting to and dismantling the phrase Dolce et decorum est pro patria mori, words that speak in perhaps the most authoritative language possessed by the West (if language can be “authoritative”).

And yet…encouragement and inspiration are a vital human requirement. Lines such as Tennyson’s, which no one would dare preach to our generation (and, I think, rightfully so) are remarkably comforting. They are an answer to my soul which screams, “Tell me what to do and I’ll do it!!”

Contemporary ears hear blind encouragement as infantile and backward. There are any number of reasons for this (existential crises; “God is dead,” the postmodern sensibility, Green Day music videos, etc). But for now, it suffices to say that I am grateful that I don’t have to believe in something, just because.

But, where does this leave us?…It seems that we are totally responsible for our actions, everywhere, and all of the time.

Consequences weigh heavy on us, exacerbated by the pervasiveness of laptops and blackberries, which bind us even more tightly to our daily tasks, while Babel-esque desires for Divine efficiency erode what little peace of mind we have left.

I wish it wasn’t so. But, existential crises and performance-related anxiety are the products of our freedom. Perhaps we have unknowingly replaced explicit accountability to authority with an implicit accountability to our peers; or at least, we have projected our own angst-ridden fears of judgment upon one another.

For me, this presents a strange challenge: I know that it is logically impossible to do all things well; and moreover, that my ‘need’ to succeed is often a projection, a figment, or an over-zealous anticipation of what I imagine others think. Thus, to be the most authentic version of myself, I can’t please everyone. And therefore, to do anything well (though not perfectly), I am actually capable of doing much less (quantatively) than I thought I could.

So…why do I want to succeed, anyway? Succeed at what? Says who?…What were we made for?

James says, “What do you know about tomorrow? How can you be so sure about your life? It is nothing more than mist that appears only for a little while before it disappears” (James 4:14).

Nobody is “mistier” than anyone else; and nobody, I say nobody, is perfect.

So, I guess we should stop feeling so anxious.

***

(p.s. Here’s why it’s wonderful and awful to be a gen Y-er:

“Theirs not to make reply / Theirs not to reason why, / Theirs but to do and die, / Into the valley of Death / Rode the six hundred.”

The six hundred were not able to choose why they died. Thanks to our newfound freedom, we can.)