At first I fretted. How could he discard his university education, job and home? Why? How would he survive without the comforts of modern life? Would he become ill, or be injured, or get arrested?
I saw him less often. I watched his hair get longer, his beard bushier, his clothes grubbier. I listened to his political outpourings, his cynicism, anger and obsession with fighting against consumerism – and the more I read, and the more I observed, the more I became aware of issues that had passed me by. He’s right about a lot of things: the world is pretty full of corruption and destruction.
I still worry, but now I accept his life choices: living off the land like a modern-day peasant, foraging, making use of stuff discarded by others, living without mains water or electricity. I learn new words, such as “permaculture”. I embrace his alternative lifestyle and his alternative friends. I wonder about their mothers, how they cope with the worry as they follow their sons’ and daughters’ campaigns against roads, fracking, runways, deforestation, developments on farms and all the rest of it.
I listen to the politicians who make a play of being green when it suits them. My apathy dwindles and my cynicism grows. It’s been an eye-opener being the mother of my son. I wish I shared his idealism, but at my age I’m more realistic about the hopelessness of it all.
I feel angry sometimes, but mostly I feel helpless. Someone needs to do something, but could I live off-grid with no bathroom, or join a camp of squatters trying to prevent yet another development? No.
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