My 15-year-old daughter recently hit a major developmental stage: she decided she hates where she lives. She’s been mercilessly haranguing me: why do we have to stay in upstate New York? Our town is too small. It’s boring. She doesn’t relate to most of the people. The kids in her school are racist and homophobic. They use slurs and wear confederate flag t-shirts. Can’t we move back to New York City? She’d be happier there. I could get a real job again! I’d make more money. We could get an apartment—she doesn’t care how small. Why did we leave, anyway? 

Over a decade ago, writer Lisa Przystup traded city life for an old farmhouse in the Western Catskills. Her work here revolves around the rhythms of rural life—the steady bustle of markets, the chatter of neighbors, the intimacy of dinners at home. These small rituals, together, form something larger: a community and a lasting sense of belonging.

Is it my body, my mind, or my spirit? Or maybe it is defined by the power I wield.

By the time I entered my senior year, I was fully exploring—crisscrossing barriers and mixing references, pulling from all the women I had read about—Toni Morrison, Zora Neale Hurston, Maya Angelou, Lorraine Hansberry, Audre Lorde—and those I was getting to know at school. I joined an African women’s group and took African studies classes, amassed a collection of ankhs and started writing protest poetry (because, why not?).