I didn’t choose to live tiny. Tiny living chose me. Seven years ago, during the most brutal year of my life, I was knocked on my rear by an onslaught of life-changing circumstances: divorce at 50, laid off from my job, losing my house and downsizing into an apartment that was one-quarter the size of my home. With the help of family and friends, I emptied my house and donated half of my stuff.
Settling into my new, tiny life with no house to tend, I had time to try new experiences. I started paddling on a women’s dragon boat team, the Mighty Women. It tested my physical limits and emboldened me to challenge myself more. I tried belly dancing, sang karaoke, skated in roller derby tryouts and even jumped into online dating. Eventually, I met a mountain man who lived in rural Eastern Oregon 300 miles from my city home. We shared a sense of adventure, and when we got together, we had fun — from swing dancing to backpacking into the Elkhorn Range to camp among mountain goats.
