In these days of forced togetherness, I keep thinking of a friend who is obsessed with the “tiny house” movement. These minimalists espouse the belief that we all should eliminate the superfluous stuff in our lives, Marie Kondo-like, and boil ourselves down to our essence in lilliputian tiny houses that are no bigger than 400 square feet - barely enough room for a double take, let alone a second thought. During the height of the lockdowns of 2020 when so many of us had our adult children back in our houses, I would chuckle, thinking of my friend and her adult triplets all home and underfoot, and think to myself “I’ll bet your normal size house feels pretty tiny right now, Sister!” *

I scroll through tiny house websites, captivated by their efficiency. And I look at photos of young, groovy families who allegedly reside in these tiny houses. I’m all for minimalism, but I don’t understand how they can keep this lifestyle up for too many years. What happens when little Tommy becomes a large, lanky teenager and leaves his size 12 sneakers in the tiny living room? Will he save his allowance for his own tiny house behind the family tiny house? And little Rebecca? When she turns into a hormonal teenage terror, will there be enough room for her, her Sephora beauty products, her volleyball gear AND her attitude? I doubt it. I picture the scene from Alice and Wonderland where poor Alice’s arms and legs are shooting out the windows and doors of the house after she eats those funky mushrooms. 

Perhaps tiny houses are really just meant for one person? Now that I can understand. I have daydreamed of a space, just big enough for me, where I can write, think great thoughts, putter about. Uninterrupted. I’ve been reading Virginia Wolf’s iconic A Room of One’s Own these days. It is revolutionary how this ballsy woman takes on The Man, or rather Men, logically explaining that “a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” Up until the early 19th century, there were very few women writers, poets or artists of any renown. She calmly explains this is due to the fact that women throughout history and up to that point (1924) were not only often denied a proper education (and thus the financial independence that gave them space to create, dream, imagine), but they literally did not have the ROOM. Nowhere to hide, as it were. They were forever under the controlling gaze of fathers, husbands, brothers, children or were simply too damned busy and exhausted with domestic chores to create, write, dream. Exhaustion and misogyny kill a gal’s creativity right quick. 

Which brings me back to the tiny house movement. Looking over the stats, I found that more women than men (55% compared to 45%) are tiny house owners. Makes sense. Every woman I know would jump at the chance to get a home of their own, away from their families, if they could afford it. That’s what the “she shed” craze is all about. And that was before Covid Times. Years ago, when my older sisters were young mothers, they used to fantasize about pooling their resources and purchasing an apartment on the lakefront. The Escape Pod was to be a retreat from everyone and everything. They were going to fill it with their favorite books, movies and snacks. All the sisters and sisters-in-law with small children would have keys, but no one else was to know about The Escape Pod, especially their husbands. By the time I had young children I totally understood their hideout fantasy. They were yearning for “a room of their own.”

It turns out my husband has had these same urges and he has a tiny house of his own: a deer stand. Or, rather, several deer stands. Each fall, my husband, Tiny House Tim, has a deer hunting “men’s retreat” at our farm. After the first retreat left him shivering in a traditional deer stand (which is nothing more than a rickety ski-lift chair attached to a tree) he discovered these fancy, newfangled deer stands that are quite literally tiny houses in the air. They have windows with lovely views of the forest (and any incoming deer), a door, a chair, some space heaters. Everything a guy needs to be cozy and all alone in the woods, ready to kill something. Testosterone meets domesticity. But Tiny House Tim doesn’t need to be killing something in his bitty abode. He will escape into these hideaways to just sit and think, dream, listen to nature. When he returns from his mini retreats, he talks about watching the sunrise, listening to the forest animals scurry below, and the simple beauty of isolation.

During the nerve-wracking days of the 2020 Covid Lockdown, our family of five retreated to the farm property to hunker down. The thought was that with all that space in the house and the acreage around it, we would not only be removed from humanity’s Covid cooties, but have enough room to navigate around each other with our daughters’ remote classes, our Zoom meetings, phone calls, etc. Well, 24/7 time together in a house can make even a large farm feel pretty small after nine weeks. Tiny House Tim took to “checking on the deer stands” a couple of times of week, just to get the hell away from all the estrogen in the house. And, because it became obvious that the big, open communal spaces of our farm house enable noise to travel everywhere, our youngest daughter, Merriweather, started retreating to the tiny house tree stands to Face Time her boyfriend. I think during those dark lockdown days, it felt nice for her to have “somewhere to go.” Like a real date.

This past summer I was out for a hike in the woods and examined a deer stand for myself. I clambered up the ladder, yanked open the door and hoisted myself up into it, opening the five little windows to let the breeze move through. I took out my ear buds, taking a break from incessant chatter. Up there, with a panoramic view of the forest, I channeled Tiny House Tim and just sat and listened. Scurrying squirrels, a woodpecker in the distance, the buzz of a fly. A cardinal lilting his distinctive song. A passing butterfly. The constant thrum of 2020 all went quiet. I looked out into the thick woods and somehow was overcome with emotion and started crying from exhaustion, fear, gratitude. I can’t travel very far. I can’t be with my large tribe of people and hug them, touch them, laugh and cry all over them. I can’t wave a magic wand to protect them, me, us. But I can be still up here in this tree stand, in this moment, this tiny house. 

I think of Virginia Wolf writing “it is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.” I’ll have to claim one of these tiny houses and create something in a room of my own. The Hell with it, I’ll publish a book of my farm ramblings. Virginia also says “a lock on the door means the power to think for oneself.”

I’m going to need a deadbolt.

*Postscript: my friend read my essay and corrected me. “Oh no, no. My husband and children were never invited to my tiny house,” she said. “That was always a fantasy only for me!”