You’ve Got Mail
I distinctly remember the exact time and place the idea (or rather revelation) to move to Russia struck me. In fact, it struck my twin brother at the same time like a jolt of electricity. We couldn’t interpret the strangeness of this experience in any other way except as some kind of sign. It felt like a command more than anything else, a command that had to be obeyed. Prior to that moment, I wasn’t thinking about moving abroad. I was so focused on the details of running my company and paying piles of bills, the thought of leaving the US didn’t occur to me – until that day.
It was spring of 2016. It was a typical warm and sunny southern California day. The kind of weather they write songs about. California dreamers from all over the world flock to the Golden State by any means necessary just to get a taste of its famous weather and lifestyle. While at the same time, millions of Californians tolerate unbearable traffic and astronomical living costs to maintain the lives they work so hard for. And there I was, pulling into my driveway absolutely bored of it all.
I had just come home from an exhausting day at work with the added bonus of sitting in a 2 hour traffic jam. I got out of the truck and walked over to the mailbox like I normally did. It rarely contained anything I wanted. I hated that mailbox. One of those bread box types with a squeaky little door making it appear like a flappy lip, mocking me with its mouthful of bills and advertisements. By the way, a US mailbox is a sacred icon protected by federal law. Vandalize one and you can be fined for $250,000 and spend 3 years in jail. It might even have rights. Whatever the case, it’s the preferred method of communication between you and someone who either wants something from you or wants you to do something. It just so happened on that day someone wanted me to do something. As I reached into the mailbox and pulled out the usual stack of insults…bam!
Suddenly a message hit me from nowhere. My brother was standing in the driveway several feet away from me and at that same moment he got the same message: sell everything. Go to Russia. Sounds crazy, I know. But that’s exactly how it happened. Except it wasn’t a voice with a Russian accent or anything. It was more like an instant knowing. I can’t say I was exactly surprised. By then I had already experienced so many strange things, moving to Russia seemed pretty reasonable.
Letting Go
“The things you own end up owning you. It’s only after you lose everything that you’re free to do anything.”
― Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club
The next day a real estate agent came over to list the house. We wasted no time. My brother and I started deconstructing our lives and our business. Item by item. Account by account. I needed to reduce a lifetime of stuff down to 2 large suitcases. That was no easy task.
Some of that stuff was very dear to me and took lots of time and money to acquire. Expensive guitars, amplifiers, microphones, you name it I had it. I loved them all and there I was, forced to choose only 1 guitar to take with me. It was like asking a father of 4 children to choose his favorite child and leave the other 3 behind.
Even something as simple as canceling a Netflix subscription felt like I was saying goodbye to an old friend. Me and Netflix did a lot of chilling over the years if you know what I mean. I didn’t realize just how attached I had become to the things in my life until I forced myself to let them go. It was an uncomfortable emotion to sit with at first. I’m not gonna lie. But once I got used to detaching myself from things, it got a lot easier.
So easy in fact I just started giving most of the contents of my house away to friends and family. It felt surprisingly good, like I was physically getting lighter. I realized I wasn’t just letting go of stuff, I was letting go of a former version of myself that was ready to die, something similar to a snake shedding its skin. In some morbid way I felt like a dude with only 6 months left to live and was administering my own Last Will and Testament to my beneficiaries before burying an old, obsolete version of myself, “To my dearest friend Lisa, I leave you my infrared sauna. To my dearest friend Steven, I leave you my Vitamix blender. To the guy who stole my truck in Mexico, I leave you the dried up husk of my former self.”
Why Russia?
Simple really. Southern Russia is the land of my ancestors and I already had family living there. 1,200 kilometers south of Moscow, this region of Russia contains millions of square acres of farmland. It checked off all my boxes. Lower cost of living. Built-in support system. Best opportunity to rebuild a life centered around nature and agriculture. The perfect place to slow down the pace of life.
Obviously hustle culture is not just limited to the west. Moscow is an enormous city filled with millions of movers and shakers just like New York. Hustle culture is a city thing. All cities have the same things in common: They won’t slow down for you. They’re all set to one speed – fast as hell. They don’t care if you’re sick, tired or both. You either keep up with their pace or get tossed aside like a defective gadget from an assembly line. They’re cold, machine-like and never sleep. Maybe that’s why people in big cities seem so unfriendly.
Looking down from an airplane, cities look exactly like the motherboard of a computer. Buildings look like microchips, capacitors and relays that are all connected by traces of solder which in turn look like streets and parking lots. Such observations began bothering me and eventually led me to ask myself the most burning question on my mind in those days: why am I continuing to allow this mechanical system to have full control over my time?
It’s a strange question. But the answer was simple. Time is the most valuable thing I possess. Nothing else comes close. Controlling how I spend my time, even if I’m doing absolutely nothing with it, is of the utmost importance. Time combined with a debt-free and uncluttered life ultimately sets the stage for being more imaginative, creative and self-aware.
In my opinion, imagination and creativity are an integral part of being human and, in turn, an integral part of good mental health. It’s the antidote to the machine world blues and it’s the reason why I walked away from what most people would consider a comfortable slice of the American dream. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have anything against the US or its economic system (the machine). It has its purpose. If it’s money and things you want, then it’s one of the finest systems in the world. With some skills, a few good ideas and a lot of hard work, a western consumer based economic system can give you all kinds of stuff. You’re free to start as many companies as you please. And you’re free to compete like everyone else in the marketplace. Keep in mind however, that it’s also a giant casino. Play at your own risk. One wrong move or an unlucky hand and the house takes all your chips. But if time is what you’re after, you might have to leave the casino and go play a totally different game.
It Takes a Village
Watching the cows and sheep grazing in a nearby pasture, I laugh whenever I think of myself as a villager. A large hawk flies above me in silent circles. I look up and say hello without a sound. Her high frequency scream pierces the air like a spear. Off in the distance a tractor mumbles along, cutting some grass. My neighbor honks and waves hello as he passes by. I wave back with a smile, grateful to be here.
The contrast between my life today and several years ago is so great that I’m not sure it’s the same person or even the same lifetime. For almost 20 years I woke up at 4:30 am, usually 6 days a week to rush off to one of several construction projects in progress at any given time. When I think back on the number of projects completed, it’s entirely possible 2 lifetimes of work could fit into those 20 years.
If someone were to tell me back then that one day I would be living happily in a Russian village, I would have laughed myself to death or at least driven them to the nearest psychiatric hospital. Ironically, I sometimes meet Russians who think I’m the one in need of a psychiatrist when they find out I moved here from the US. It’s always the same 2 questions: “Why would you leave America to come here? Are you crazy?” Then I start explaining my thoughts about the value of time and imagination and the machine world and the… After a couple minutes of listening to that, they’re sure they uncovered a secret US government program to send mentally ill Americans to Russia. Lol.
But the truth of the matter is: there is no such thing as a good place or bad place! Places are just places. A paradise for one person, can be a living hell for another and vice versa. The “right” place depends entirely on a person’s life experience, their age, philosophy and what they want in life…or rather what they need. I needed a village in Russia so I could have the time to focus on my own development and become more creative without interruptions. It could have just as easily been a village in Afghanistan and it still wouldn’t matter because it would offer me those things just the same. In short, we end up exactly where we’re supposed to be. Today it’s Russia, tomorrow it could be Antarctica. Who knows these days? But I know one thing. If you ever find yourself talking to your mailbox, it might be time to start packing your bags for a long trip.
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