When what we have is enough: Lessons from the Amish

In recent years, Maine, my home state, has seen an influx of Amish folk from other states. It is not uncommon to see their horse-drawn buggies, their homemade foods, and other handmade products, such as furniture and storage sheds. It’s also not uncommon to see the Amish themselves, in their distinctive plain clothing, at work on their homesteads or in their cottage industries. I have also encountered them when I ride the intercity bus.

I have long had a fascination with these unique people. America tends to swallow other cultures whole, endowing them with a good dose of homogenization – a Syrian refugee teen is just as likely as an American teen to be bent over his smartphone, impatient with his parents, and oblivious to the world at large.

But the Amish have accomplished the seemingly impossible: They maintain a strict adherence to their 19th-century customs, rules, and folkways, which largely eschew the modern world, and certainly its modern conveniences. In other words, yes, it is possible to live without a TV.

Every so often I drive out to Amish country. I go not only to savor the peace and quiet, but also to enjoy the understated character
of the Amish folk themselves. One of the lessons I’ve learned from my interactions is that the Amish do not readily volunteer information and certainly do not celebrate their accomplishments.

Case in point: An Amish woman once sold me an apple pie without extolling its virtues (“You’ll love it. It’s delicious!” a non-Amish hawker might have said). But when, on a subsequent visit, I told her
how much I had enjoyed the pie, she simply nodded, as if it would have been vain to take credit for such a simple, satisfying act as baking a pie.

So, is there something that attracts me to this community beyond its pies? I know I don’t want to become a farmer, I don’t want to give up my car, and I am fond of my wardrobe. But there is indeed something that speaks to me: Their life is uncluttered. 

Let me explain. On one of my trips, I took a friend with me. We looked on as some Amish men used air-powered (i.e., nonelectric) tools to fabricate metal roofing, one of their enterprises. My friend finally commented, “I fail to see how not having electricity makes you a better person.”

I think she missed the point. No electricity means no television, no radio, no computer, no humming appliances, and no blaring music in the background. This is what I mean when I say that their life is uncluttered. There are far, far fewer distractions because there is simply less atmospheric noise. This also yields an immense social benefit: Instead of interacting with electronics, they are more physically present with one another.

I observed this on a recent bus trip to Boston. The English (the name by which Amish people refer to the non-Amish) were universally
lost in their smartphones and devices, while the Amish were chatting with each other, admiring the view, or taking turns passing a baby girl around and doting on her.

Nowhere is this human, communal interaction more apparent than with Amish children. From an early age they are integrated into the
work of the home and farm. But they also have ample time to play. What struck me most was that they played outside, running and
laughing. They also struck me as undemanding because, well, what was there to demand, or be jealous of? There would never be an
iPhone or an Xbox occupying the center of their lives. Their families and the larger Amish community seemed to be enough, and the relative lack of “stuff” is what they all had in common.

During one of my visits, I crossed paths with an Amish girl of 11 or 12 years old, who was carrying some kitchen goods up to a farmhouse. “Does your family sell eggs?” I inquired. She nodded and asked me to follow her. Along the way I directed most of the conversation, but she smiled and giggled when I offered to help carry her armful of goods. “Oh, no,” she protested. “This is what I do.”

When I got to the house, six little Amish faces appeared in the doorway. When I asked about the eggs, they sprang into action and I soon had a clean dozen in my hands. It had taken seven children and a hike up a long dirt path to secure the eggs, but their smiles and the time spent in their company made it worth the effort.

I will not be seeking admission to the Amish community, but I still prize the lessons learned from my visits, the prime one being: What we have is sufficient. It is enough. And whenever I return from Amish country, my poor son looks on in wonder as I make my way through the house, culling and discarding, with the abandon of an Amish child exulting under the summer sun, in a field of green.