The Shortest Day, the Longest Year

Happy Solstice! Though we've had a good helping of snow already, today was warm here: 64 degrees, sunny and rainy by turns. The Handsome Communard and I signed out a car to go to the nearest public library for a couple of hours, so I could get some work done and he could do some health-related research (the internet's been unreliable at home lately). We stopped by the doctor's to get some paperwork straightened out, and by the grocery store for some snacks. We returned in plenty of time for dinner: soup and rolls, cauliflower and rice, chocolate chip cookies, homemade tempeh, and salad greens freshly harvested from our high tunnel. The near-full moon that lit our way home from the dining hall is hiding behind rainclouds now, but the night is so mild, there's no need to light the furnace. It's been a pretty good day, all things considered.

I'm coming up on my three-year anniversary at Twin Oaks. Life here has been full, challenging, rewarding, draining. It has never been even a little bit boring. I have loved life here, and at the same time, have wondered how I can make it more sustainable for myself. Maybe it's that I do too many different jobs; maybe it's that I get too emotionally involved with the community; maybe it's that I always want to do more things than I have time and energy for... regardless, I've found it increasingly difficult to maintain space for writing and other creative efforts in my head and schedule, especially this year. (As I review the past year's photos to find one or two to add to this post, I realize I haven't even used my camera much. Here, have one from March.)

Our garden under a blanket of snow.

Interdependence Day

So much has happened.

In November 2015, the Handsome Communard and I loaded up my trusty 1990 Volvo (overloaded, the H.C. would say, but my favorite Volvo mechanics scoffed: "No, it's fine!"). We left the Grünewald Guild and the tiny town of Plain, Washington and headed south, beginning a road trip that took us through a brutal storm in the Columbia River Gorge, a delicious Thanksgiving with my family, and joyous, all-too-brief meetings with loved ones from Portland to LA, from Silver City to Nashville, and finally to northern Virginia, home of most of the Handsome Communard's immediate family. We spent a beautiful Christmas with his mother, a profoundly gracious host. All was merry and bright.

For me, our two weeks in her home felt, in quieter moments, like an intermission, a held breath. My time in one community had drawn to a close; my life in another community was about to begin. What would that feel like? What would it bring?

How It Ends

Where did I last leave off? Santa Fe, was it? There was Santa Fe, and then there was Silver City, and my old friend Meep and my new friend the otolaryngologist. There was the Sufi retreat, and the Dances of Universal Peace. There was the big tiny house in Las Cruces, the transplanted friend who loves Albuquerque skies, the day-long drive to the Denver airport (which, it turns out, isn't even in Denver anymore) and the handsome communard who flew in from Virginia to see me again. There was tiny Walsenburg, and the Garden of the Gods, and then there was Denver again, and Boulder, an internet friend, and a dizzying array of housing co-ops and co-housing and Couchsurfing hosts. There was Wyoming -- no intentional communities in Wyoming, or at least none that want to be found. But an old friend lives there with his family, in Lander near the mountains, and I spent a happy Labor Day weekend with them. Then there was Boise and Permacultureland, and after that, just one more state line between me and home.

Stehekin!

"I have so many fun things planned for you this weekend!" Hannah declares as we walk briskly up the steep incline from the dock to her brother's house.

"That is exactly what I need right now," I reply fervently. It's May 4th, and I'm fresh off the boat: I've just waved goodbye to a village worth of friends, including my newly-ex-sweetheart. I knew today was going to hurt. That doesn't make it hurt any less.

Now I've landed in Stehekin, a teeny town at the north end of Lake Chelan, where I'll be spending the weekend. I first heard about it over a year ago from a sailor friend:

Roscoe: You should come visit Steheekan.

me: Steheekan?

Roscoe: It is an odd little mountain community. You either hike in for 2 days, or you drive 4 hours from [Bellingham], take a boat 4 hours up the river. And you have this pretty much self-contained little mountain community of probably less than 1000 people, spread around a place that looks astonishingly like Rivendell.
No phones, no newspapers less than 2 weeks old. Maybe 6 cars.

me: oh my gosh. this is definitely going on the list.

Season's Change: March and April

SPRING comes slowly to this high valley. The landscape reveals itself to me little by little, with new surprises every day: I didn't know that was there! My Holden is the village snuggled deep into white drifts; now I'm getting glimpses of the Holden most people see. Meltwater pools in the basements of a couple of central buildings (I am told this happens every year), while the French drains along the road run deep with cheerful streams just begging to be waded in. 

The Truth About November

Wow, a whole month since I posted last. I feel kind of sheepish about that, to be honest.

November was busy, yes; I had a six-day work week and typically drove to Long Beach to see friends on the seventh. And yeah, I didn't have internet access on the boat. Nonetheless, I could've made time to write and post. The real reason I didn't is that this is the first stop on my trip where I felt like things weren't going very well, and I kept thinking that maybe in a few days they would go better and then I'd be able to write a really upbeat post about boat life.

On the Road to Morro Bay: Excerpts from a Stream of Consciousness

OH man. I don't wanna leave the Little Farm. Don't wanna donwanna donwanna. Don't wanna leave that delicious food, don't wanna leave my doggie friends, don't wanna leave my people friends. I am sad, sad.

Is this what I'm setting myself up for with this road trip? One continuous series of painful goodbyes?

Actually, if goodbyes are the most painful part of this journey, I'll be lucky. In fact, if I don't visit some places I'm downright eager to leave, I'm probably doing it wrong.

Haha, remember yesterday when I didn't realize Maya let the pigs into the yard before I got the ice cream churn and the milk bucket put away? And then I was like, oh no, pig enthusiasm is threatening the well-being of the ice cream churn again, I cannot allow this to happen? Especially after that amazing bourbon vanilla ice cream we had at lunch? And then I let loose with a war cry and charged them at full speed? And then they didn't even glance up from the spilled milk until I was right on top of them. Pfft, all that hollerin' for nothin'.

Aw, those pigs. I still have mud on the knee of my clean jeans, from where Papa Pig smashed his snout up against it this morning. I like to pretend he was saying goodbye but really, I think he was looking for food and I was in his way.

I am glad I got to see the concrete poured for the new house/barn. I got to help a tiny bit digging out the trenches for it, so I felt kind of invested in it, and also it was interesting to see how that part of the process worked. Lots of people came out to help, and we had a huge delicious triumphant lunch afterward. And hand-churned bourbon vanilla ice cream. It was a good way to spend my last day at the Little Farm.

Why is that old guy honking and yelling at me. What is he yelling at me. Oh no. I bet it's... did I forget the... "Gas cap! GAS CAP!" Oh man. I shift into park, run around the back, crank it back in and slam the little door. "Thank you!" I shout, and point to the Oregon plate by way of explanation. He shrugs. I jump back into the car just as the light turns green, and a couple miles down the road, as he passes me, we exchange a friendly wave. Aw, I like it when people are nice.

But I'm still sad.

Come on, there are going to be plenty of things I won't miss about the Little Farm. Right? Right?
 - Mosquitoes. And flies. Flies and mosquitoes. Although I suppose they have those in other places, too. Hey, is that a fresh bite on my leg? Is there a mosquito in my car? Hey!!
 - Have to admit I'm pretty excited about returning to the land of toilets you can sit on. Toilet seats: I am such a fan. 
 - That stupid rooster.
 - Well actually I might kind of miss that rooster. A little bit. DANG IT

But there are plenty of things to distract me. There's music, because my parents sent me an FM transmitter for my MP3 player, and it works beautifully out here in the middle of nowhere. And there's so many things to look at. The mountains, shaggy with evergreens, fade away into a dryer, flatter landscape studded with oak trees. Then there are olive orchards.

A truck trailer is parked in a field with the words "HIS BLOOD WAS SHED FOR YOU" plastered across the side, which I guess is one way of getting around paying for a billboard permit. It takes me a while to realize that the picture below it is supposed to be a blood-drenched arm with a dripping hand reaching out. I dunno, I'm not entirely sure this is the most effective evangelism technique.

Look, a palm tree! Whoa. Only one, but still: that means something.

A casino billboard says, "YOU'RE ALMOST THERE!" Ha ha, very funny, billboard. You can't fool me.

I think I'll stop in Sacramento for lunch. I'll find myself a grocery store and get some healthy things to eat. Hmm, what do I want to eat for lunch?
 - Cheese. Yes. Cheese.
 - Oo, baby carrots.
 - Maybe some nuts? If they're not covered in weird oils.
 - Kombucha. Oh man, I could really go for some kombucha right now. I might have to find myself kind of a hoity-toity grocery store to get it, though.

The treeless hills in the distance look like crinkled brown paper.

A flock of birds swirls over the roadway, dividing and merging. A flock of birds is a very different sort of thing than you would ever guess based on observing individual birds, or even small groups of birds. Hmm.

Kombucha is maybe the most refreshing road trip drink ever. Even when it's warm. I wish I'd bought two kombucha bottles, instead of picking up this other juice drink at a gas station later on. Bleah, it's terrible.

More palm trees. I'm not even kind of in the Pacific Northwest anymore.

The dry hills are getting closer. Their curves, yellow with dead grass, remind me of... potato chips? Maybe it's time for a snack.

Signs in the fields read: CONGRESS CREATED DUST BOWL. I don't know what that's about, but I suspect it has something to do with the topic of a book my hosts were reading called Cadillac Desert: The American West and Its Disappearing Water. They said it was really eye-opening. Apparently the landscape of central California would look quite different if it weren't for how much water has been diverted by dams and irrigation.

Agh. You know what I hate the most about road trips? Not knowing for sure if you've missed your exit. Not knowing whether you should keep going or turn back. This might actually be one of the things I hate the most about life, too. Forging ahead when you don't know if you're doing it right or not is just excruciating. So stressful, all that second-guessing.

Hmm, wow, I never realized that about myself before. It's true. That is a thing I really can't stand in any context.

You know what, why am I even doing this to myself when it's totally avoidable? I'm gonna pull over at the next rest stop and buy an overpriced roadmap. I should've done that a long time ago.

Up close, the barren hills are mesmerizing, undulating, cloaked only in a stubbly layer of dry grass. They go on and on. They remind me of something. I want to say they're like the flank of an enormous beast, maybe a colossal camel or something, but that's not quite right. No, the grass isn't like a real animal's fur. It's too mangy. It's like... oh, I've got it: it's like the fur of a well-loved teddy bear.  "Hills like the hide of a giant, motley stuffed animal, worn with years of affection." Oh yup, better put that one in the blog.

There are a few trees scattered on the hills now. It's kind of exciting after so many miles of no-trees. A couple of trees, and then a few more trees, and then... vineyards! And finally, a sign that says Morro Bay, and a winding, hilly road that demands my full attention for a while. (Whee!)

I suspect this woodsy bit of the drive is the prettiest part, but I can't really see it because it's getting dark.

I wonder if my friends in Morro Bay will have any dinner leftovers they might want to share with me. I wonder how much of a monkey wrench I'm throwing into their lives by crashing at their place for the weekend. I wonder if we'll talk about anything besides tall ships and their new baby.

It's okay if we don't talk about anything besides tall ships and their new baby.

Destination: Middle of Nowhere

I finally hit the road Wednesday morning.

My CD player stutters and skips before the first disc ends. It's prone to overheating on road trips, but this is the earliest it's ever quit on me; I suspect the sun on the dash isn't helping. This is disappointing, because the mix I put in first was specifically designed for road trips and leaving-home-catharsis, but the drive itself turns out to be plenty cathartic. Alone in my car, I can be as emotionally messy as I like without disturbing anyone else, yet the forward motion reminds me I can leave the feelings behind as soon as I'm ready. This is important, because right now I'm very happy and very sad at the same time. All the leavings-behind and all the goodbyes seem very real, here at the brink of the new.

Traffic is minimal, and the miles roll by soothingly. The scenery is pleasantly rural and gorgeously forested, but because it's the same scenery I grew up with, it scrolls past my eyes without leaving much of an impression. Then, along about Roseburg, I round a hillside and am confronted with a perfect model railroad scene: gnarled trees arranged sparingly on a hillside of tawny crushed velvet. This is different. Now it feels like I'm getting somewhere, and I begin paying more attention to the scenery outside myself... which is good, because soon the road becomes more winding and hilly. My 1990 Volvo has to knuckle down to get us up those hills, but it gets the job done. The sound of the engine and the air blowing in the windows make a decent enough soundtrack, and when my thoughts start to spiral, I shove the CD back in to coax another song or two out of the player before it chokes to a halt again.

I greet the California border with a loud cheer. I pass border guards (do they really spend all day asking people if they have any fresh fruit?), a giant metal flower sculpture, and a barn with STATE OF JEFFERSON painted on the roof: Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore. My destination lies some 50 miles east of Redding. Near my goal, I overshoot a turn by about 15 miles and have to double back, and by this time the driving is really not that fun anymore, but almost there, almost there... twisting turning paved roads become twisting turning unpaved roads, and at last I'm heading up a long gravel drive, past the NO TRESPASSING signs and the cattle gates, to the Little Farm.*

Ray and Cotter meet me at the upper gate, Cotter with a wagging tail and Ray with a warm handshake.  Behind them, a cluster of tiny wooden buildings nestle into a valley walled with towering trees and carpeted with wildflowers. It's gorgeous, and when I tell Ray so, he concurs: "I know. Sometimes I have to pinch myself: is this really my life?"

I am introduced to Ray's partner Maya, and Beau, their helper for the summer, as well as Uncle Don, who's just here for dinner. The meal is almost ready, and while Maya finishes preparing it, we sit on stools around the entrance to the outdoor kitchen. Still dazed from the long drive, I soak in my surroundings, half-listening to Ray and Don's architectural discussion of their future house/barn. "We'll put the cows on the first floor and we'll sleep on the second," Maya explains, stepping away from the wood stove for a moment. "And then, when there's snow on the ground, you can just go downstairs and milk the cows!" I have to ask: "Won't the smell bother you?" "Oh, our cows don't smell bad," she assures me. "You'll see."

I take another swig from my glass of cool, delicious spring water and do a double-take as two small black piglets trot by. Moments later, a squat, hairy mama pig with pendulous teats trundles past, grunting amicably, followed by a herd of wee piggies. Everything about them is hilarious, from their dainty gait to their big floppy ears to their surprisingly deep grunts. My instinct is to point and say, "Ohmygosh, you guys, look!" But everyone here is already accustomed to the sight.

We eat dinner on a picnic table in the shade: extra cheesy frittata and flavorful homemade kraut. Dessert is baked apples and cream, whipped at the table with an eggbeater. Conversation is pleasantly laid-back. On the way here, I reminded myself that if I don't like these people immediately, it could still work out really well. After all, some of my favorite people grated on me the first days or weeks I knew them. Remembering this now, I chuckle: I hope it's not a bad thing that I find them all utterly charming, right from the get-go.

* Out of respect for their privacy, I'll be using pseudonyms for the Little Farm and its residents.

How It Begins

IT is 8:30 on a Sunday night when I finally cram the last of my possessions into my car.  I take one last pass through the house, looking for anything I might have left behind, but there is nothing.  The house is more empty and more echoey than I have ever seen it; when I bought it, the previous owners left behind some unwanted furnishings at my request, but now there is nothing. "Oh, House," I begin fondly, and then, swerving clear of nostalgia: "make me some money."

I expected to feel sad at this point, locking up my home of nine years for the last time; but getting this place fixed up, cleaned up, and moved out of has taken so darn long, so many many hours of work, that I'm just relieved.  And tired.  I've done little else for the past several weeks, and many of my friends have devoted spare hours (in some cases, hours they could barely spare) to the cause.  (That, more than anything else, has made me question this plan of mine: looking around at all the people who lavished time and energy on this house-prep project of mine and thinking, Why am I leaving all these people who love me so much?)  Now I'm over 24 hours past the time I'd hoped to be finished, and a cot is waiting for me in a vacation rental on the coast, and I'm eager to get on the road.

The summer light is already fading as I cruise gently through my neighborhood for the last time.  My car is very heavy, I observe, accelerating a little extra to get up the hill south of my house, but my heart is very light. I keep checking in on it: How are you feeling? Okay? How about now? Still okay?  But every time the answer is still relief, relief that this massive project is finally over, relief at having crossed a sufficient number of things off the list that I can drive away now, relief at having the bulk of the goodbyes behind me.  When I begin a trip, I always wonder what I've forgotten -- did I pack my deodorant? my comb? my checkbook?  But this time, I am plagued by no such questions.  Everything is with me.

At the gas station, I fish out one of the mix CDs I grabbed for the road when I was packing.  The first song is in Icelandic, and I have no idea what the lyrics mean, but it's clearly all about anticipation.  Its chiming refrain urges me on toward the freeway, toward the coast, toward the Next Thing.

* * *

My name is Lindsey, and I'm leaving home to have Adventures. I quit my job and rented out my house so I could travel and learn more about the world. Right now, what I'm most interested in learning about is community -- the kind of community people deliberately build together, community in which people share resources and living spaces and themselves with one another.

As a single, middle-class thirty-mumble-year-old, I have worked most of the past two decades to be independent, to be able to provide for all my own needs, to not need anything from anybody. I found it exhausting and largely unsatisfying, and I never felt like I was much good at it. Furthermore, it left me with little time and energy for other people. Oh, I've always been blessed with excellent friends, but community is a different sort of thing, and I have felt its lack.

Therefore, in planning this new phase of my life, I decided community was the thing I most wanted to investigate. Specifically, "intentional community," an awkward catch-all phrase that includes everything from communes to monasteries to kibbutzes to utopian efforts to eco-villages to farming co-ops to co-housing developments to... well, once I started researching the subject, I found there were a lot of subcategories. And they all sounded pretty interesting, in one way or another. I started putting pins into a map and found I could identify something worth visiting just about everywhere.

So, after a lot of thinking, this is the plan I landed on: I am going to visit a series of intentional communities, and I am going to stay long enough with some of them to get a feel for what life is like there, and I am going to exchange labor for room and board whenever possible, and I am going to write about my experiences, right here on this blog. In the interest of making the money stretch as far as possible, I'm restricting my travels to North America (just the US for now, though there may be some border-crossing later).  I am planning to do this for as long as I can manage, which I anticipate to be about two years.  I don't know what will happen after that. But I have a feeling that by the time I get that far, I'll have some ideas.