Bonum Cursum

I’m a total resident of my village now. Total? Yes. I’m paying for trash pickup, I wave to neighbors I actually know, and I complain about the road like everyone else. But it wasn’t always like this.

When I first came here, I felt lost. I had lived my whole life in a big city. Everything was familiar there—my friends, my favorite cafés, the busy streets that somehow made me feel alive. And here? Just trees, fields, and silence. At first, it felt like nothing was happening. No people, no energy, no reason to stay.

But then something strange happened. I started thinking about buying land. Me—barely in my twenties, no idea about real estate, and suddenly browsing plots near the forest like it made sense. Why? I didn’t really know at the time. Maybe I just wanted space. Maybe I needed a change. Or maybe something deep down already knew this quiet life could be good for me. Looking back now, it was one of the best decisions I’ve made.

The neighborhood was quiet—almost too quiet at first. There was only one small shop, named after the woman who ran it. Not much to choose from inside, but somehow it was enough. People greeted each other by name, helped without asking, and knew whose cat was whose.

Back then, I was still living in the city, biking out here on weekends just to see what was new. What they’d fixed, what had changed, how the house was coming along. It was a simple life with its own kind of struggles—long rides, slow progress, fewer comforts. But even then, I started to appreciate it. There was something honest in it all. Something peaceful.

Over time, the visits turned into weekends, and weekends turned into staying longer and longer—until one day, I just didn’t go back. I had slowly built a life here without even realizing it. The forest became my favorite neighbor. The quiet that once felt strange became my comfort. I started waking up to birds instead of traffic. I planted things. I fixed things. I stayed.

I still remember the first grill we made here. We bought a tiny grill from the petrol station, nothing fancy. We laughed, drank cheap wine straight from the bottle, and grilled Polish sausages under the open sky. It wasn’t perfect—half-burnt food, cold hands—but it was one of the best evenings I ever had. Simple, messy, and full of real joy.

Now I know the rhythm of this place. I know when the foxes come out, when the shop gets fresh bread, and when the skies mean rain is coming. It’s not a perfect life—things break, roads flood, winters bite hard—but it feels real. It feels mine. And I truly love it.

Now, I have a family here. We live in peace, surrounded by the same quiet beauty that once seemed so foreign to me. The village has grown too. The infrastructure is still basic—nothing like the city’s—but it’s enough. Roads are better, the local school has a few more kids, and there’s always something new being built. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough for raising children, for living simply, for growing.

Of course, with time, we’ve also lost some friends. It’s natural. Not everyone can follow the same path, and some prefer the city life. But we’ve gained new people, new connections—people who share the same love for this place. Just like the trees we’ve planted here, we’ve grown, we’ve built homes, we’ve raised children, and we’ve created our own small world in this peaceful village.

Yet, despite everything, I miss something here. Sometimes, when I crave that city energy, we hop in the car and drive to the city. We need the noise, the crowds, the fast pace, just to feel like something’s happening. And even though it’s just for a moment, the hustle and bustle creates a kind of positive paralysis in me, as if the city is briefly holding time still. In those moments, I appreciate the simplicity of our life here in the village even more. The balance of happiness—between peace and chaos—sometimes is exactly what makes me feel whole.