tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5355033363683459172024-03-12T21:30:21.889-07:00Forever ArrivingLindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.comBlogger49125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-90552740900377216082018-12-21T22:05:00.000-08:002018-12-21T22:07:07.905-08:00The Shortest Day, the Longest YearHappy 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.<br />
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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.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnTGhYkPY0171S2KoabBVVw4JHpOzBfJ1fjvcvQ0p29c2KpwW3tSsCjinMx8VLGyU9eOUDl9Kx1lelxzda3qqJ9klYdezcUPkoWtyNRybzBRB1NHenphfO7r6VTLCl4eLVqi2YjNHt0fY/s1600/IMG_2959.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnTGhYkPY0171S2KoabBVVw4JHpOzBfJ1fjvcvQ0p29c2KpwW3tSsCjinMx8VLGyU9eOUDl9Kx1lelxzda3qqJ9klYdezcUPkoWtyNRybzBRB1NHenphfO7r6VTLCl4eLVqi2YjNHt0fY/s400/IMG_2959.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our garden under a blanket of snow.</td></tr>
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2018 has been something else. Twin Oaks has been rocked by more than its usual share of turmoil, betrayal, controversy, and loss. In the words of John Lennon, <i>Everybody had a hard year.</i> And as I recently wrote in a letter to the community:<br />
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<i>I'm emotionally spent. I began the year managing the rollercoaster that was my friend Jayel </i>[a member of Twin Oaks]<i>'s hospice, I lost a beloved aunt shortly after Jayel's death, and I came very close to losing the love of my life to a stroke at the end of July. Then an old friend of mine died suddenly at the end of October. In addition to caring for Jayel and my sweetheart, I've chosen to do some jobs here that have further drained my emotional resources. While y'all have been incredibly supportive (thank you!), I need a bigger break from Twin Oaks right now than our strained labor budget can provide. I need to spend time resting and focusing on my own needs, so I can come back with fresh energy for the work of community.</i><br />
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As you might read between the lines, I have a lot to be grateful for. Twin Oaks showered Jayel with love and care in her last weeks, and has had my back whenever I asked for help. The Handsome Communard did not die, and is recovering slowly (as one does from a stroke), on his way to better than ever. Twin Oaks' support allows him to focus on healing, rather than having to struggle to maintain a full-time job with a damaged brain. This is a wonderful and rare thing.<br />
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And with the community's care, I can afford to leave him here and take a long, much-needed break.<br />
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I miss my old home, back on what I frequently refer to as "the Best Coast." I've missed having the brainspace to write, or to even really focus on anything outside of community. I'm missing my niece's and nephews' growing up, my parents growing older, my grandmother's last precious years (she's 101). And I'm also restless. The past decade or so of my life I've moved on every 2-3 years, started over fresh, tried something new. I'm still drawn to that pattern, even as I'm drawn to life at Twin Oaks. Fortunately for me, the community has a built-in system to deal with this kind of wanderlust: for every 3 years you live here, you can drop membership for up to a year, and return without any sort of re-approval process, take on the same jobs or different jobs, even reclaim your old room if you want it. (I like my room.) <br />
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That's my plan. I am headed for Oregon in mid-January. I am going to rest, I am going to spend quality time with my family, I am going to write. I hope to have a book published by the end of 2019, but I am also working on being okay with myself if I don't. I am going to miss the Handsome Communard and Twin Oaks very much, and will look forward to returning to them at year's end.<br />
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So! If you live in the Pacific Northwest and you:<br />
<ul>
<li>want to hang out with me in 2019</li>
<li>want to offer me a place to stay and write for a month or two (would you believe I already have 3 offers? my friends are so kind!)</li>
<li>want me to housesit for you while you travel</li>
<li>know of short-term or part-time work I can take on to help me pay living expenses </li>
<li>know of something that's happening in that area in 2019 that I absolutely cannot miss </li>
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...then I would really like to hear from you!<br />
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A thing about writing (for me and I think probably most writers), is that when I'm feeling as low as I have this year, putting words together can feel like trying to build a graceful galloping horse out of Play-doh. When I feel like I have nothing worth saying, trying to say something anyway can be such a clumsy business. Even this blog post feels awkward and forced to me as I squish it into shape.<br />
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In the middle of November, out of the blue, I was handed an opportunity to write an article for a community-focused issue of <i>Missio Dei</i> journal. I was excited about that opportunity, but I was tired and distracted, and impostor syndrome had me by the throat. I ended up submitting something that I felt bore some similarities to a misshapen lump of Play-doh. Bless them, they published it anyway. If you're interested, <a href="http://missiodeijournal.com/">you can read it here</a> for the next several months. Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-81543237094648376972016-07-05T03:30:00.000-07:002016-07-05T03:36:07.981-07:00Interdependence DaySo much has happened.<br />
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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 <i>fine!"</i>). We left the <a href="http://grunewaldguild.com/">Grünewald Guild</a> 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.<br />
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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?<br />
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At year's end, we drove the two hours to <a href="http://www.twinoakscommunity.org/">Twin Oaks Community</a> and settled into our new spaces on the rural commune, warmly welcomed by its members. Twin Oaks makes much of New Years, and we were just in time for the party. For me the event announced the end of intermission, launching me into the next act with joyous cacophony. We greeted 2016 with about 60 friends, some of whose names I hadn't even learned yet.<br />
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Late winter found me dismantling beautiful things: cutting up meat from freshly-butchered cows, splitting logs harvested by the Forestry team. In doing so, I found new appreciation for the forms of mammals and trees, in some ways so similar. Forks and tendons, knots and cartilage forced me to slow down and admire their functionality. In all such things, it is easier to cut with the grain. <br />
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Splitting wood can be like cracking open plastic Easter eggs. You never know what you'll find inside: a mass of sleepy ants, a sleek lizard with stripes that run yellow to blue, a fat white grub writhing slowly in unexpected space. More reliable, and perhaps even more satisfying, are the rich wafts of scent that escape from split green wood: pungent cedar, pale tulip tree, fruity red oak. Occasionally my splitting partner (usually the Handsome Communard) caught me with my nose to the log, inhaling the essence of tree.<br />
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Now the wood is stacked neatly in walls to season, stout fortifications against next winter's cold. The beef warms our bellies at at mealtime. Cows graze placidly in the fields; trees stand sentinel along the path. I am grateful to them both, as well as to the humans who end the lives of trees and cows on our behalf.<br />
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As spring drew near, I began work on the land where we grow <a href="http://www.southernexposure.com/">organic seeds to sell</a>. Seeding, planting, and weeding became a regular part of my schedule. I quickly learned that freshly cultivated soil is friendly to feet, and began dropping my shoes when I picked up the scuffle hoe. The pressure of bare earth on bare skin, of the earth supporting you without intervention, has a rightness to it that feels significant, even after you've stepped on a thorny weed.<br />
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For one accustomed to coniferous forest, Virginia's deciduous woods in springtime are another revelation: shards of stained glass slowly converging into a glowing green vault.<br />
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I happen upon such astonishments almost daily, here in this new exotic land of Virginia <i>(ver-<b>jin</b>-yuh)</i>. All those childhood years I spent in Oregon, reading about strange creatures in <i>Ranger Rick</i> magazine (headquartered in Reston, VA!) and children's fiction from the East Coast, and now here they are: monarch butterflies, red foxes, copperheads, bobwhites. I've learned that those raised in the region may not share my delight over a tortoise with red markings, a pink and yellow moth, a long black snake sunning itself on the path; for them, it's purely ordinary. Still, I am continually in amazement. One night in early summer, walking a path I don't often take after dark, I was brought to a dead halt by the twinkling of fireflies in the trees ahead. I've seen fireflies on previous eastward travels (and aren't they something?), but here were so many that for a moment, I wondered if someone could have strung the entire wood with Christmas lights.<br />
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Life at Twin Oaks is varied, absorbing, demanding, rewarding. For better or worse, we live close to the seasons here, feeling the immediate effects of a short winter and a long, rainy spring in our garden crops, our work assignments, and our commutes by foot and bicycle to tasks around the farm. My days are filled with weather, and people, and many forms of work and play. <br />
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Any given workday in my week may involve cutting tofu into one-pound chunks for sale, or meeting with the Tofu Management Team to support the tofu business. It may involve sitting at a desk, taking orders for <a href="http://www.twinoakshammocks.com/">hand-woven hammocks</a>, or weaving the hammocks myself. Sometimes I even go to local crafts fairs with the Handsome Communard and sell hammocks to the masses in need of relaxation. I tend crops, I perform regular tests at our sewage treatment plant, I help our resident beekeeper look after two hives of bees.<br />
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On Monday nights, I may sit in silence with friends for an hour and a half of reading or writing, followed by discussion that may last hours -- unless it's karaoke night, in which case I'm all in for karaoke. Other nights, I might watch recorded episodes of a BBC costume drama with my housemates, attend a discussion on feminism, or join in a Star Wars tabletop roleplaying game. On Wednesday afternoons, I like to catch a ride to town so I can sit in a library or coffeeshop for hours of pure, uninterrupted writing time. On Sundays, I may attend a house church, the nearest tiny worship service, and/or a meditation session. Later, I'll attend an aikido lesson, and meet up with a boardgame buddy for dinner and cards.<br />
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To put a finer point on it: it could be a long time before I get bored here.<br />
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Though I am, as ever, wary of long-term commitments, I have a debt of sorts to repay. The Handsome Communard spent the better part of two years working at the Grünewald Guild with me; I told him the least I could do was try Twin Oaks for two years and see how it goes. And beyond that, who knows? Who knows.<br />
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Now, at midsummer, I'm celebrating my first half-year at Twin Oaks, and the conclusion of my provisional membership period. Today, July 4th, I was notified that the results of my six-month poll are in: the community has voted to accept me for full membership. <i>(Whew.)</i><br />
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On Friday night, I went with three fellow communards to watch the fireworks over Lake Anna. But today, it's not independence I'm celebrating -- not here, where our success rides on our ability to cooperate and find common ground. <br />
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For me, this is Interdependence Day.<br />
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<br />Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-39345042195320206512015-09-23T23:52:00.000-07:002015-09-23T23:57:15.052-07:00EquinoxAnother autumn is settling in at the Grünewald Guild. The forecast promises a few more balmy days, but the nights tell the truth: another summer is history. Days and nights poise in balance for an all-too-brief moment.<br />
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And, checking in here for the first time in a while, I realize I have an unblogged year to account for.<br />
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At the end of 2014, my sweetheart left for Virginia, home to connect with friends and family and with his own beloved <a href="http://www.twinoakscommunity.org/">Twin Oaks Community</a>. Those dark months apart came with heavy losses for us both. Supporting one another via phone and internet was difficult, yet we were both upheld by our respective communities.<br />
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We were reunited in the spring of this year, when I flew to Virginia to meet his family and to apply for membership at Twin Oaks.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Main office, Twin Oaks Community.</td></tr>
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For those new to our story, or in need of a refresher: I first visited Twin Oaks in 2013, and was very impressed with what I saw: an egalitarian income-sharing community, self-supporting and highly functional, providing a sustainable and fulfilling home for 100-odd members of all ages. I remarked at the time that if Twin Oaks was on the West Coast instead, I'd seriously consider applying for membership. <br />
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Meanwhile, the Twin Oaker I refer to here as the Handsome Communard was very impressed with me. I certainly enjoyed his company, but after my three-week stay ended, I was surprised by the faithfulness of his e-mail correspondence. We were able to spend more time together later along the road, and at my invitation, he took on a seasonal cook position at the <a href="http://grunewaldguild.com/">Grünewald Guild</a> in the spring of 2014. As that year progressed, we decided we wanted to spend the 2015 season (spring through fall) at the Guild together as well.<br />
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By the end of 2015, the Handsome Communard will have spent the better part of two years on the West Coast, primarily because I asked him to. Soon, I will return the favor and give life in Virginia a try. Like day and night trading hemispheres with the change of seasons, this, too, has a feeling of balance to it.<br />
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My Twin Oaks membership application was accepted, and the two of us flew back to the Guild for a busy spring, a hectic summer, and what looks to be a fairly full autumn. We plan to leave the Guild sometime in mid-to-late November, and to spend a little precious time with west coast friends and family before embarking on a road trip that will land us in Virginia sometime before Christmas.<br />
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If this is the first you've heard of this plan, you might have some questions at this point.<br />
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<b>Q: Will you come visit me on your road trip?</b><br />
<b>A:</b> Maybe. Do you live in the southern part of the United States? Let's talk.<br />
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<b>Q: How long will you live in Virginia?</b><br />
<b>A:</b> I want to give it at least a couple of years to see how it fits me. Beyond that... on the one hand, Twin Oaks is well set up to support aging members, and even has a hospice... on the other hand, I've still got the same restless spirit that sent me drifting around the country for two years. So, probably somewhere between two and sixty years.<br />
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<b>Q: O noes, you are going far away! Will we ever see you again?</b><br />
<b>A: </b>I hope to return to western Oregon at least once a year, so if you live there, it's very likely!<br />
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<b>Q: Weren't you <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2014/03/explorations.html">writing a book</a>? What happened to that?</b><br />
<b>A:</b> This year I've allowed the busy-ness of life as Guild staff, along with other factors, to interfere with writing; the book remains unfinished. I have not given up on it. I have plans to ensure that progress on it continues in this next chapter of my life.<br />
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<b>Q: Are you in looooove?</b><br />
<b>A:</b> [dreamy expression] ...I'm sorry, did you say something?<br />
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Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-87944273808461231412014-10-31T17:53:00.000-07:002014-10-31T18:01:54.458-07:00October Blues<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I always thought I liked fall, aside from that whole back-to-school nonsense. The heat of summer is no longer a threat, and western Oregon can be singularly lovely at this time of year. It's fun to get out your sweaters again. Rainy days can be an excuse to curl up and be cozy. But I've been thinking a lot about October lately, and I've started to wonder if maybe it just isn't my month.</div>
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<a name='more'></a>In <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2013/11/what-happens-next.html">October 2013</a>, I was in Portland, coming down hard from the high of two years of travel. I totaled my car, which I'd become very attached to in the course of my road trip, and received news that a dear friend died too young. Meanwhile, overhead loomed the spectre of this epic writing assignment I'd set up for myself. How was I going to begin?<br />
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In October 2012, I stayed with beloved friends in Nashville while they prepared for, experienced, and mourned the death of a family member. I grieved with them, my heart still raw from the loss of another friend the previous month.<br />
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In October 2011, I was in Los Angeles, where plans fell through and I struggled to connect with communities to write about. It took weeks to find <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2011/11/im-on-boat.html">a spot on a tall ship</a>, and when I did, the crew and administrative staff were prickly and tricky to work with.<br />
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It's hard to sort out previous Octobers from the unhappy blur of a career that didn't fit me, but I have enough evidence to suggest a pattern here. This year's October has brought a bad cold and a lot of gray days, but no major tragedies or stresses. Yet other aspects of the pattern continue. I'm still feeling stuck and discouraged and insecure. I'm still asking questions like "What's wrong with me?" and "Why is everything so hard?" I'm still experiencing low energy, lingering illness, trouble sleeping at night and getting up in the morning. I still want to spend most of the month in bed.<br />
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And I'm still, as in the past three Octobers, surrounded by kind and supportive friends, and leaning hard on their grace. I'm still given more than my share of bright moments and beauty: small gifts of comfort and delight, which remind me to look for brighter days. I'm still (mostly) aware that this discomfort, too, shall pass.<br />
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Occasionally, in darker moments, I allow myself to wonder, "Do I have an actual psychological problem? Is there a drug for this?" There may well be something I could swallow that would inject more gusto into my days, something that could carry me over this Swamp of Sadness without getting my feet muddy. As tempting as that sounds -- and with all respect to those who really do need drugs -- I don't want to miss my chance to learn what this time has to teach me. A similar malaise once led me to seek, to question, to re-evaluate my choices and, ultimately, to launch myself out of my comfort zone and into a new life. Who knows what gifts this gloomy season may have in store?<br />
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I grew up in a house where Hallowe'en was a bad word. It was a time when other people inexplicably celebrated the worst things: Fear, Evil, Death, and Sugar. In more recent years, I've learned how fitting it is that this season has a holy day for mocking and embracing our mortality, for looking our fears in the eye and laughing at ourselves, for sitting with the darkness and saying, <i>This too is part of life.</i>Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-36418212587259577072014-09-30T16:13:00.000-07:002014-09-30T17:01:03.356-07:00Half a Year's AccountingWhat has become of the past six months?<br />
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In April, the Handsome Communard flew to Seattle, where I met him at the airport. We headed south to visit friends and family in Oregon and Northern California, and drove all the way down to Santa Cruz for Easter.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKbXBE1ZOlQF_B1Ot_0X6ad6bQBLV8zhXRFSGK8cDtNqvVBu114tW7Jx1u6LFi0xUkPT3yVmvRlbEcaFHLuctkj6a5t9aX3a1RHBrWYZYNz0Nzp8LWhUQTHWziRgY2x_6a3RZ9C5OVJZQ/s1600/IMG_9418.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKbXBE1ZOlQF_B1Ot_0X6ad6bQBLV8zhXRFSGK8cDtNqvVBu114tW7Jx1u6LFi0xUkPT3yVmvRlbEcaFHLuctkj6a5t9aX3a1RHBrWYZYNz0Nzp8LWhUQTHWziRgY2x_6a3RZ9C5OVJZQ/s1600/IMG_9418.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Revisiting the Little Farm, <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2011/08/destination-middle-of-nowhere.html">where it all began</a>.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_CEcVOS_utZYIjwFf90zuJ-r02eBqTiZKVGGnDp8a4ix_gP39Om-aFrL5C7OvQhqH8HtrNtD_sYn63k49uioldio2xZprDQSsxE3khTzleFWBcQ5UOS1H3VYt_Egl9rnLRiE2oTnufZ0/s1600/IMG_9603.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_CEcVOS_utZYIjwFf90zuJ-r02eBqTiZKVGGnDp8a4ix_gP39Om-aFrL5C7OvQhqH8HtrNtD_sYn63k49uioldio2xZprDQSsxE3khTzleFWBcQ5UOS1H3VYt_Egl9rnLRiE2oTnufZ0/s1600/IMG_9603.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Handsome Communard skips pebbles into the Pacific.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What's a West Coast road trip without a visit to my favorite tall ship?</td></tr>
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In May, we returned together to the <a href="http://www.grunewaldguild.com/">Grünewald Guild</a>. Spring settled in while I was away, and my wonderful co-workers spring-cleaned the grounds in my absence. The Handsome Communard hung a few <a href="http://www.twinoakshammocks.com/">hammocks</a> and took his place in the Guild kitchen, while I worked on more cleaning and planning for summer.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDZqhwxEILcsob5F9yIR8JRODhBa2JPqkJY8ffE77BO5G1U9jHGVOIyY6GTqbEpFO-auQbD-V6DxKD33Dd0hVLHWBek-IO_i9j77PSm0LcIfwrzcQO1KO7CG-uimwsLFxsqTy-igcnRxc/s1600/IMG_9867.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDZqhwxEILcsob5F9yIR8JRODhBa2JPqkJY8ffE77BO5G1U9jHGVOIyY6GTqbEpFO-auQbD-V6DxKD33Dd0hVLHWBek-IO_i9j77PSm0LcIfwrzcQO1KO7CG-uimwsLFxsqTy-igcnRxc/s1600/IMG_9867.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Good morning, Mariposa lily.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMuAbz173wUwRlg_lyGtVrAedRpEzsl2q8kCUUuUAs97QqKBFaD2BA7P5kmh633KHP26bEctKTM5LUqb3OPycIVIaMOLpS_XXljwIbwNdJyPrz6KWjyxEifbER8fZeK0m7aHlEGvpM3Oc/s1600/IMG_9821.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMuAbz173wUwRlg_lyGtVrAedRpEzsl2q8kCUUuUAs97QqKBFaD2BA7P5kmh633KHP26bEctKTM5LUqb3OPycIVIaMOLpS_XXljwIbwNdJyPrz6KWjyxEifbER8fZeK0m7aHlEGvpM3Oc/s1600/IMG_9821.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A hammock: just what these trees needed.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Helping hands tend the garden on a community workday.</td></tr>
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In June we cleaned some more, hosted retreats, and took time out to visit friends in Chelan before summer classes began on the 23rd.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Library dorm, all topsy-turvy for carpet shampooing.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5BXnOc6QlR6gdvHpzIL9u0IWwNcCCoH7svv0JAtFF0skSFmUCoDZ2aEc6pvjvW3lqdmLsTyTsxQkwyGLtPqaFkyKNvGhpTVw1qNUZsIildF4eRSibkE5LHrP2Ju6xH_tkfd5rI6GiFu8/s1600/IMG_9918.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5BXnOc6QlR6gdvHpzIL9u0IWwNcCCoH7svv0JAtFF0skSFmUCoDZ2aEc6pvjvW3lqdmLsTyTsxQkwyGLtPqaFkyKNvGhpTVw1qNUZsIildF4eRSibkE5LHrP2Ju6xH_tkfd5rI6GiFu8/s1600/IMG_9918.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shallow, chilly lake water, seen from the bridge in downtown Chelan.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijZFy75h26c7Z3wuLF5fo5qHXbV_ErUQ9p2nBc2rxPDDYMsq3I6aQxM_5RodS_krBx6ke9G9bI4RrqQfJB_B6jYuBZQUkGqt2Dul7n1eQ-obOKod0CJ6dojXXXOsBpjKItB312Oj2DHgo/s1600/IMG_9924.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijZFy75h26c7Z3wuLF5fo5qHXbV_ErUQ9p2nBc2rxPDDYMsq3I6aQxM_5RodS_krBx6ke9G9bI4RrqQfJB_B6jYuBZQUkGqt2Dul7n1eQ-obOKod0CJ6dojXXXOsBpjKItB312Oj2DHgo/s1600/IMG_9924.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Solstice celebration at the Guild.</td></tr>
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By July, summer was in full swing, exuberant and exhausting. I made time for a class that encouraged wandering through the woods, both literal and spiritual. Later in the month, a week of classes was cut short by forest fires. We turned our evacuation into a vacation and had a fun couple of days in Seattle, while the firefighters held the line about five miles from the Guild campus.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfEymIiKuf0LpJPLuPJBG5YRqAvhX3BkvnXO8Bay249YM_RGqkHdOcFFsw9Jk1I3fRd6ZcqeaBr-bRf5HDztg8I_qokUgO4TMTmgxsDZYG11E71U4COP2cH7xL9RZAx3SxDSQGM8ZGBTs/s1600/IMG_0014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfEymIiKuf0LpJPLuPJBG5YRqAvhX3BkvnXO8Bay249YM_RGqkHdOcFFsw9Jk1I3fRd6ZcqeaBr-bRf5HDztg8I_qokUgO4TMTmgxsDZYG11E71U4COP2cH7xL9RZAx3SxDSQGM8ZGBTs/s1600/IMG_0014.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A contemplative walk for the class "Drawing on the Spirit Within."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuaRn8k4Ifujr-6QolMdFvsz_tUCBKL2eTxpuhP0n6l6o3e3mh7bcoX8V652o55EYFEzSlJZlssE9_ILNgVS4nC4EQ1zUS485dOw4QPDBGaZtQzGdWdd1sO5gyHmthFYpEtnosUuNwOXw/s1600/IMG_0038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuaRn8k4Ifujr-6QolMdFvsz_tUCBKL2eTxpuhP0n6l6o3e3mh7bcoX8V652o55EYFEzSlJZlssE9_ILNgVS4nC4EQ1zUS485dOw4QPDBGaZtQzGdWdd1sO5gyHmthFYpEtnosUuNwOXw/s1600/IMG_0038.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Forest fire smoke billows ominously toward the Guild.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS7ewX6U_SAqqIuF8_Llug3YpfkIsCgostcgzs3vE2BW43jpsy1vkhtYQTmpgVxxvql4gU-1U332vfTe7K6UFE4uSQsrmeBUa1fY_gWexPnrnP9-hQhwDAOREhsG45c-rax36RhpzJYG4/s1600/IMG_0053.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS7ewX6U_SAqqIuF8_Llug3YpfkIsCgostcgzs3vE2BW43jpsy1vkhtYQTmpgVxxvql4gU-1U332vfTe7K6UFE4uSQsrmeBUa1fY_gWexPnrnP9-hQhwDAOREhsG45c-rax36RhpzJYG4/s1600/IMG_0053.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When the sun met the smoke, it cast an eerie copper glow over everything.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
By August, the fatigue of summer weighed heavily on our shoulders. We concluded our summer program with triumph and relief, said reluctant goodbyes to friends, and shifted immediately back into retreat-hosting mode... though we still made time for fun.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikd1P0oeyuDOiXDV5Xk40TYfOv2GPeETgEsEcc4TmHh5JlYKlfr8k_jRrH9uHNGVmpTdDGmAxst0QApCTGoC8nQTFAlV_7MRP5que3uLM6xmtccAitnE5ABMNz92yXuITv7ecZ8pMspzg/s1600/IMG_0094.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikd1P0oeyuDOiXDV5Xk40TYfOv2GPeETgEsEcc4TmHh5JlYKlfr8k_jRrH9uHNGVmpTdDGmAxst0QApCTGoC8nQTFAlV_7MRP5que3uLM6xmtccAitnE5ABMNz92yXuITv7ecZ8pMspzg/s1600/IMG_0094.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful final Sunday service at the Guild.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYEQCa65ZLPDVajQc7j2KzxD5Jt83VXILZmhcMMcxB0V1GbeSINAv3hKsEzwtf55DG8q_Hxm3N9kExHET8f-LtukoLUCJLcSKzaYCWAkWMLgGHSx1hkqLZ0ZMT6lw83eHdRtffYfLVPwU/s1600/IMG_0115.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYEQCa65ZLPDVajQc7j2KzxD5Jt83VXILZmhcMMcxB0V1GbeSINAv3hKsEzwtf55DG8q_Hxm3N9kExHET8f-LtukoLUCJLcSKzaYCWAkWMLgGHSx1hkqLZ0ZMT6lw83eHdRtffYfLVPwU/s1600/IMG_0115.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Over the course of the summer, the Handsome Communard has perfected Taco Night.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVbXAM82Mo2XSiqbUHjn36D1Df4OdCYXBCeygczoe-n2wB0NEL-5G0vJu-rpu6nfJrsKPG8cTS3L3gclCm2v_BeHs3bUuHeVoR69qanqozu4pL1DPHz30RiTJcgkRWzN_CaEJmmOmzwWU/s1600/IMG_0114.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVbXAM82Mo2XSiqbUHjn36D1Df4OdCYXBCeygczoe-n2wB0NEL-5G0vJu-rpu6nfJrsKPG8cTS3L3gclCm2v_BeHs3bUuHeVoR69qanqozu4pL1DPHz30RiTJcgkRWzN_CaEJmmOmzwWU/s1600/IMG_0114.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wine-ding up August with a tasting.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In September, I drove south to Oregon to take care of some business, and
squeezed in a few visits with family, friends, and their cats. A few days after my return, I headed the other way, up to Prince George, BC for a
wedding. It was good to see distant friends there, but even better to get home
to the Guild again. I know this may sound out of character, but... I've had my fill of
road trips for a while.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDOJUnI2Ax7oR0SEda9KOASokGW9tlQDw1VpKg7LdO6cv1AMfwxCuBt2j9vVCtL2tDsSq5-nnNrzf6EYpw8RGI6fsrfFT-alWbsCJ9MgF2EqhYvJVyoIwpLvZPg0tEBGoaak6mEjcASzw/s1600/IMG_0206.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDOJUnI2Ax7oR0SEda9KOASokGW9tlQDw1VpKg7LdO6cv1AMfwxCuBt2j9vVCtL2tDsSq5-nnNrzf6EYpw8RGI6fsrfFT-alWbsCJ9MgF2EqhYvJVyoIwpLvZPg0tEBGoaak6mEjcASzw/s1600/IMG_0206.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Simone, making her best camera face.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPQGE9DMWcfeNRmSuklFmYJkLqSnA0Ww7MaFIc25KjZ3Vav6RBzBEivDMPZ5qMdhyphenhyphen1UI6at5AxO5JpVK6aBn1wchizHPJCrCN7Kmjph62WcDrtXse35Y_5HiHl-KaKpEysfLF21RGcKfo/s1600/IMG_0258.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPQGE9DMWcfeNRmSuklFmYJkLqSnA0Ww7MaFIc25KjZ3Vav6RBzBEivDMPZ5qMdhyphenhyphen1UI6at5AxO5JpVK6aBn1wchizHPJCrCN7Kmjph62WcDrtXse35Y_5HiHl-KaKpEysfLF21RGcKfo/s1600/IMG_0258.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bella tries to ignore the Big Bald Kitten.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO9quni4yvjoZr3qPJGZnsXNZv5kGjU1sQKAOsmWiZWR5oO22yfucIr8k3SnNW0IIDPhGrS170LfExyvKcDx8MdQQf8On8ZVJuYIPe1X5QNy33loBPYYVjink19lZr9Jw0WbXHJ9p1vHY/s1600/IMG_0352.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO9quni4yvjoZr3qPJGZnsXNZv5kGjU1sQKAOsmWiZWR5oO22yfucIr8k3SnNW0IIDPhGrS170LfExyvKcDx8MdQQf8On8ZVJuYIPe1X5QNy33loBPYYVjink19lZr9Jw0WbXHJ9p1vHY/s1600/IMG_0352.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Canadians in looooove.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Now September's nearly spent. I've been working, resting, looking forward to a calmer October, and anticipating a return to a schedule with room for <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2014/03/explorations.html">writing</a> in it.Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-49669278730531304562014-04-09T21:51:00.000-07:002014-04-09T21:51:04.632-07:00Considering the Birds<i>I've been considering the birds<br />Now that the snow is finally melting, oh<br />They shed their winter coats <br />And shape and shine their yellow notes<br />For sun's returning<br />Lean forward, spread their wings<br />To meet the change the season brings<br />Oh, Spring<br />Welcome, please come in.</i><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqEMjy8Nq6inyMUwMdur-3XI35idUB4rfAxVrR2M5YQKXj3fwgmLLwQStvF0z68x434bIHJ-aWEh3BwzE-yGqmozgSKThqsPInSKU4TcIgbUoHAp7Qu71k6Jzai7xYmBm5JoozlAXPMN8/s1600/IMG_9196.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqEMjy8Nq6inyMUwMdur-3XI35idUB4rfAxVrR2M5YQKXj3fwgmLLwQStvF0z68x434bIHJ-aWEh3BwzE-yGqmozgSKThqsPInSKU4TcIgbUoHAp7Qu71k6Jzai7xYmBm5JoozlAXPMN8/s1600/IMG_9196.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Late March view from the River House</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a name='more'></a>April has brought more sunny days, and the snow is retreating into smaller and smaller patches, lurking in the shade of the Ponderosa pines. It won't last long; rumors has it this week will reach 70 degrees. Everyone is elated. The garden's all clear now, and just a few days ago, I saw a passel of teenage boys run down to the river, doff their shirts and jump in to the icy waters. "You're hardcore!" I called to them, and they laughed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiavNyTJ0r1ntmJuYXNZkSf7M4ZA0f6yq_xGGoNvMWSFWbQ710EuF682VZc2ICOlegM6EKfa5DGSBEydB6iujQySt2U4pUA6XEosMTIIs9Z9cZa4QxmeMX_ka1TivD026xpTH4_cgoZH4I/s1600/IMG_9355.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiavNyTJ0r1ntmJuYXNZkSf7M4ZA0f6yq_xGGoNvMWSFWbQ710EuF682VZc2ICOlegM6EKfa5DGSBEydB6iujQySt2U4pUA6XEosMTIIs9Z9cZa4QxmeMX_ka1TivD026xpTH4_cgoZH4I/s1600/IMG_9355.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brave, cold April swimmers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
March galloped by us here at the <a href="http://www.grunewaldguild.com/">Guild</a>, and before I was ready, it was time for our Spring Songwriting Workshop. I've participated once before, in the summer of 2012, when we were given a handful of days to write a complete song and then perform it for an audience(!). So this time I knew what I was in for, and I was a little better prepared. I came in with a song concept, with a handful of disconnected phrases and bits of melody, and even that little bit was far better than having no idea what to write. I don't often write songs, but there's nothing like peer pressure and a looming deadline to squeeze out my creative juices.<br />
<br />
<i>You've come so far to join us here<br />Come in, take off your heavy sweater, oh<br />There's time to take a chair<br />And tell us what you saw out there<br />In other places<br />Then twist our heavy heads<br />And tumble fast into our beds<br />Oh, Traveler<br />Welcome, please come in.</i><br />
<br />
It was almost the same crowd as in 2012. Oh, there were a few faces missing, and a few new ones, including my good buddy Mitch from Chicago. But it was the same cameraderie, the same warm encouragement, the same good-natured ribbing, the same surplus of candy and tasty beverages. Mitch commented on the lack of ego in this group: everyone was invested in everyone else's song, and the cheers of the crowd at the closing performance, in the community living room Sunday morning, were loud and heartfelt.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZvK9eKcQuswed7RRjNuDF5P_ad4OxIU85CTygZHHKJ-hynVEO0BF7AsvzSYmeDn-7lzx7_BscHDlhs88YgKNKVPOnhKhFJocj1Mf0kymBOQdDvqvNHaBE3pI2WDsjEv9wIsbF6cZZa8/s1600/IMG_9368.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZvK9eKcQuswed7RRjNuDF5P_ad4OxIU85CTygZHHKJ-hynVEO0BF7AsvzSYmeDn-7lzx7_BscHDlhs88YgKNKVPOnhKhFJocj1Mf0kymBOQdDvqvNHaBE3pI2WDsjEv9wIsbF6cZZa8/s1600/IMG_9368.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunlight finds the front porch of the Centrum</td></tr>
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The resulting songs were pleasantly diverse, ranging from a simple peace chorus to a comical history of the Rambler automobile, from a somber Lenten hymn to a romantic lullaby for the zombie apocalypse. One song memorialized Pete Seeger, another lamented a lack of work/life balance, and yet another bewailed the anguish of algebra lessons. One of the nicest things about the Grünewald Guild is that it welcomes artists of all levels of skill and experience, which means that dabblers like me can sit beside musicians with many decades of hard work under their belts and not feel any less a part of things.<br />
<br />
<i>And oh... you know we've waited for so long</i><br />
<i>For you to come and hear our song</i><br />
<i>For you to come and sing along</i><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii2Gi-hePZCbF7ZIc3L5v2hPxylsgp5pMNyNSbq_qFdDV6UiCA0ck7tSFUqCaMq51P4I1cCz2nEfskzXlol6iRTAxDicVeCpC9pBkpWcHUv1dwpPPov-sABo4rhcyu3yDjmsG_M16lJIo/s1600/IMG_9357.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii2Gi-hePZCbF7ZIc3L5v2hPxylsgp5pMNyNSbq_qFdDV6UiCA0ck7tSFUqCaMq51P4I1cCz2nEfskzXlol6iRTAxDicVeCpC9pBkpWcHUv1dwpPPov-sABo4rhcyu3yDjmsG_M16lJIo/s1600/IMG_9357.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trees stretching and yawning</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My song sprang from the work of cleaning rooms for friends soon to arrive, from an old handwritten sign on a door, from two years of receiving warm welcomes, from eagerness for winter's end and excitement for all the things that are beginning. It's a love song for the Guild and its guests, for all my hosts, and for my sweetheart the Handsome Communard, who will be here soon, and not nearly soon enough.<br />
<br />
<i>I've been considering my heart<br />And how you fit so well inside it, oh<br />Now that you're finally here<br />We'll swiftly sweep the shadows clear<br />And throw doors open<br />We'll do our best to leave <br />A thread of kindness through our weave<br />Oh, Love<br />Welcome, please come in.</i>Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-91031974133869679382014-03-22T00:06:00.002-07:002014-03-22T11:20:21.862-07:00ExplorationsYesterday was the Vernal Equinox, when days and nights are of equal length. Soon, summer days will stretch out wide and bright here in central Washington... but for now, the paths between buildings are all slushy ice and mud puddles. A little more snow fell yesterday, which made us laugh and roll our eyes: <i>Springtime. What a card.</i><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7QouQG3BOY-no-6Q8rPsNRocK_9N2R1q9Lyvic7ryQlox7hCRrpoi750fJCrooWTZ3qB4B2xATh3yaNSZQAfJb51u-HJjqgzRRu2uPFtSFCqMw12cVcwYjygzxxBYbSluPOsiSrNZlM/s1600/IMG_9173.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7QouQG3BOY-no-6Q8rPsNRocK_9N2R1q9Lyvic7ryQlox7hCRrpoi750fJCrooWTZ3qB4B2xATh3yaNSZQAfJb51u-HJjqgzRRu2uPFtSFCqMw12cVcwYjygzxxBYbSluPOsiSrNZlM/s1600/IMG_9173.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Does this qualify as mud-luscious?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<a name='more'></a>The first day of spring is a fine time for spring cleaning. Yesterday I met up with a local pastor with a knack for organizing, and the two of us turned a storage room inside out, filling trash bags, consolidating containers, and taking armloads of miscellany to more sensible locations. <br />
<br />
"You like organizing things," she remarked. <br />
<br />
"I like organizing other people's things," I clarified. "Not my own."<br />
<br />
That's good enough to get me through this project. Any retreat center
will accumulate clutter, but a rural artists' community like the <a href="http://www.grunewaldguild.com/">Grünewald Guild</a> generates it at an alarming rate. There are closets
and cupboards and basements full of all kinds of art supplies. Some of
them look deceptively like trash: broken glass, scraps of colored paper,
half-empty paint tubes. Meanwhile, abandoned creations lurk around
every corner, pots and weavings and sculptures left behind by the
generous or the forgetful. That's why I needed the pastor: because she
knew which things weren't trash. (In one area of the community, anyway.
Other areas will require input from other experts.) <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihG9YsNnvYihGdcHz2jM6BEsDpHYp7Xp_yUVRE8MTe8CLCF2HbMgJbVDDk8UaTgeCmZvLA1NmSzYCJ9EqXZyeToswLBAVXPezmMGGQWGPqykd1RWcdU9lhN_F0Iz4qyhbYw1w-VP4I2dU/s1600/IMG_9165.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihG9YsNnvYihGdcHz2jM6BEsDpHYp7Xp_yUVRE8MTe8CLCF2HbMgJbVDDk8UaTgeCmZvLA1NmSzYCJ9EqXZyeToswLBAVXPezmMGGQWGPqykd1RWcdU9lhN_F0Iz4qyhbYw1w-VP4I2dU/s1600/IMG_9165.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These are important supplies for dyeing fabric. Not trash.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In the summer, when this place is buzzing with art classes, well-meaning students and teachers will undo much of the work we did today. But for now, one more area is tamed, tidied, and ready to welcome them.<br />
<br />
I don't like organizing my own things because it seems like every object is a reminder of something I failed to finish or follow up on. But other people's things, or communal things, are free of that kind of baggage, and there's an exploratory aspect to it that draws me in: <i>What's in this vintage cookie tin? What's under that pile of fabric? How far back do the yogurt tubs go? So</i> that's <i>where all the hammers went!</i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdlpgerHyBOJJHh27Tx269sUBCtCktmNqlPDqyWYbZSnxqYBHt6nkWGqoN2Ea-Glcw29hyCJSr-8vk0uhSVSejH7ntMOvjhb7-jyl1SRo7NDPa5G2QE5XMFVGuKAcu6EjevKD28N5Q9aM/s1600/IMG_9149.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdlpgerHyBOJJHh27Tx269sUBCtCktmNqlPDqyWYbZSnxqYBHt6nkWGqoN2Ea-Glcw29hyCJSr-8vk0uhSVSejH7ntMOvjhb7-jyl1SRo7NDPa5G2QE5XMFVGuKAcu6EjevKD28N5Q9aM/s1600/IMG_9149.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The screened porch is where a lot of things went... but not the hammers.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It was with a similar sense of exploration that I signed on to Facebook earlier this week for the first time, ever. I'd been ignoring friends' pleas and demands to join for many years. I was already satisfied with my internet experience. What did I need Facebook for? Well, I found some reasons.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisFyqg5X7o4O0rnBFyixVwSCa1K-8srvbL-KI8Kxwkd6p3TVXTyCUQH0WuNYYyKfgSzHJNul296moj9MpYT06ihmg3e2ePLcJujow6HljXTsLJqMJZSn0FQaNhxt9V8sYcfzqtMTbLtuA/s1600/IMG_9151.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisFyqg5X7o4O0rnBFyixVwSCa1K-8srvbL-KI8Kxwkd6p3TVXTyCUQH0WuNYYyKfgSzHJNul296moj9MpYT06ihmg3e2ePLcJujow6HljXTsLJqMJZSn0FQaNhxt9V8sYcfzqtMTbLtuA/s1600/IMG_9151.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Springtime on the Wenatchee River ain't all bad.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For those of you who are visiting this blog for the first time,
here's the truth of the matter: I recently completed an amazing two-year
road trip. I visited intentional communities around the country:
communes and monasteries, housing co-ops and ecovillages, from LA to DC
and from Atlanta to North Dakota. It was a life-changing, world-opening
journey, and now I'm writing a book about it, which I hope to
self-publish next year. So I joined Facebook to let you know about my
book. I think it's a story worth telling, and I'm hoping you'll think
it's a story worth reading.<br />
<br />
Besides, the more people
who are expecting a book, the more motivation I have to work on it,
right? I'll need that motivation even more now that I'm the Volunteer
and Hospitality Coordinator for the Grünewald Guild. The job isn't
rocket science (as evidenced by the paycheck), but it does have a lot of
facets to get my head around, a lot of deep dark corners full of
cobwebs, and a lot of potential for improving things. Like any good new
job (or adventure), it's exhilarating and terrifying at the same time,
and has a tendency to be all-consuming. So while Facebook is (of
course!) a distraction, it's also the opposite: a reminder of my goals. <br />
<br />
I'll
be linking to my blog posts on Facebook, so if you want to keep up with
me, that's one way to do so. I also share them to Google Plus. If you'd
like more immediate notification, you can use the "Follow by
Email" box on the right to get copies of them in your inbox. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPW5dlAAfRJToP3KvlOmYic2bbY2kyt96Wk6ypETwdOCZxFNezSnTJQ8KOhLv2xlBNCcsOmrhCsKCis6I3-M-UVvjQX9fJBzuIs_xYIguN6aJ3gXMy6GjZsAMYtmYY1IbnhZ-7bSlWKoc/s1600/IMG_9176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPW5dlAAfRJToP3KvlOmYic2bbY2kyt96Wk6ypETwdOCZxFNezSnTJQ8KOhLv2xlBNCcsOmrhCsKCis6I3-M-UVvjQX9fJBzuIs_xYIguN6aJ3gXMy6GjZsAMYtmYY1IbnhZ-7bSlWKoc/s1600/IMG_9176.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grünewald Guild artists in residence on their way to dinner.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And for those of you who are <i>not</i> visiting this blog for the first time: Thank you, loyal friends! I'm very, very glad you're still around.Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-63721371225765976422014-02-25T18:34:00.001-08:002014-02-25T18:34:17.569-08:00Of Snow and SpaceshipsFebruary got quiet after <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2014/02/significance.html">the Super Bowl</a>. Two staff members <a href="http://www.apparentproject.org/artisan-guild/4572681109">went to Haiti to teach pottery</a>; another left for a wedding in the Austrian Alps. The other two full-time staff live off campus. So these days I find myself in the odd position of being the most seasoned resident at the <a href="http://Grünewald Guild">Grünewald Guild</a>, even though I just got here last month.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWiEimD7TlHlM7rDfhyphenhyphenaSoelcfO5xGJstw7tGGBt4w06jZGQGsThtbFl-WMWqR1XnlMMrTonRKz4wTTxzKzv6MRAuK0dnJIexJ6geN3SEkwMM4OhlCx3rqkxi7q2pFeoBs5eC8WZuRySk/s1600/IMG_8845.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWiEimD7TlHlM7rDfhyphenhyphenaSoelcfO5xGJstw7tGGBt4w06jZGQGsThtbFl-WMWqR1XnlMMrTonRKz4wTTxzKzv6MRAuK0dnJIexJ6geN3SEkwMM4OhlCx3rqkxi7q2pFeoBs5eC8WZuRySk/s1600/IMG_8845.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grünewald garden, sleeping under snow</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
It may be quiet, but a couple of things have kept my life interesting this month. One was the discovery of nits in my hair. I still don't know how I got headlice, but there they were. I embarked on a series of treatments, natural and commercial, and did heaps and heaps of laundry. Now I'm pretty sure my skull is de-infested. Whew!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghWvMC3dFIZ-8drtlG6ApTygkJJku2moX8SvwdrjjHViDcxv5VSvyEXlxpyWHqxy0sNNQJrohAyIAkT_5nlIiZaHK0PBUKX8awMZMTvqiYJ61p527IWHhbIqKR-Quvs60DdVUVq_2KNc4/s1600/IMG_8886.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghWvMC3dFIZ-8drtlG6ApTygkJJku2moX8SvwdrjjHViDcxv5VSvyEXlxpyWHqxy0sNNQJrohAyIAkT_5nlIiZaHK0PBUKX8awMZMTvqiYJ61p527IWHhbIqKR-Quvs60DdVUVq_2KNc4/s1600/IMG_8886.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The puppet on the right represents Pestilence.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The other thing is snow... which, I admit, I wished for. The locals have mentioned how weird it was to have a "brown Christmas," and January was too warm to bring much more. By the beginning of this month, the region had gotten only half of its average snowfall. But in the past two weeks, it caught up on the other half.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAVxcrySboT4HdSr0JgTJ19c8-92fkYGiEUqd0hcAbpvA69T0t_UeYwG-0x5Gs4roawyuzAcKBvvOqoBZH2xDJHCk6aJNc4sx8gffK2U524j6d-bP1NiiKAxhFVJsX2rPoVGloNCc7lOY/s1600/IMG_9081.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAVxcrySboT4HdSr0JgTJ19c8-92fkYGiEUqd0hcAbpvA69T0t_UeYwG-0x5Gs4roawyuzAcKBvvOqoBZH2xDJHCk6aJNc4sx8gffK2U524j6d-bP1NiiKAxhFVJsX2rPoVGloNCc7lOY/s1600/IMG_9081.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carrying clean laundry to the Homestead</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The pass to Seattle closed to vehicles without chains or four wheel drive, which made life exciting for some of our visitors. The fluffy white stuff is still coming down daily, and that's a good thing: the Wenatchee river won't run low this year, and forest fire danger will be greatly reduced. But we are reeeeally looking forward to it going away again.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxRLT455S53GNLAJBLIJ7qMWJsdPz_5cKLNw2lV_-PX27BetwigcNql5IPgPjxij4V7l3aAzkwyCxWP_FpdscV3eiBFiTKtiPeMDnq8IT39H4q_7ENX2wlv13vrSLIDSHxhmq3knsr8LY/s1600/IMG_9106.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxRLT455S53GNLAJBLIJ7qMWJsdPz_5cKLNw2lV_-PX27BetwigcNql5IPgPjxij4V7l3aAzkwyCxWP_FpdscV3eiBFiTKtiPeMDnq8IT39H4q_7ENX2wlv13vrSLIDSHxhmq3knsr8LY/s1600/IMG_9106.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We're not using this door much these days.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I've been at the Guild for almost two months now. This is the longest I've been in one place since I left <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2013/01/new-old-year-old-new-year.html">Chicago</a> over a year ago. <br />
<br />
A year ago today, a member of the <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2013/03/time-flies-lindsey-drives.html">Bloomington Catholic Worker</a> gave me one of the best compliments of the trip: "I'm excited for whatever community lands you." I don't know that I've really been landed yet, or even whether I'm truly land-able. But in three days I'll conclude my residency and become the Volunteer and Hospitality Coordinator for the Guild, so it looks like I may be here a while. I'm pleased. It's been a good place to work on my book so far, and it'll be nice to earn a little income again.<br />
<br />
One year ago, I drove from Bloomington to Ohio. On the road, my MP3 player kept me company, as it so often has; that evening, I journaled about a song that kept popping up on Shuffle Mode and making me cry. If <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2012/07/seasons-change-march-and-april.html">Rivers and Roads</a> was the theme for my first year on the road, Cloud Cult's "The Arrival: There's So Much Energy In Us" was the theme for the second. <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">[<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=udWIFQgAcYQ">YouTube</a>, <a href="http://www.last.fm/music/Cloud+Cult/_/The+Arrival%3A+There%27s+So+Much+Energy+In+Us">Last.fm</a>, <a href="https://www.hightail.com/download/elNMK0drQXA1aWFwSHNUQw">download</a> until March 4.]</span> </span>Before I began my trip, I dismissed the lyrics as overblown, new-agey sci-fi metaphor, but here it was, wrenching tears from my eyes as I journeyed farther and farther from home.<br />
<br />
<i>A million years it's been since the search began;</i><br />
<i>Still can't find it, still can't find it.</i><br />
<i>The fuel's nearly spent; check the maps again.</i><br />
<i>Can't let go of it, can't let go of it.</i><br />
<i>Now the crew is cold and drunk on chemicals:</i><br />
<i>Can't believe in it, can't believe in it.</i><br />
<i>And I heard the Captain say, I heard the Captain say,</i><br />
<i>"We're so close to it, so very close to it.</i><br />
<i>We still have energy in us."</i><br />
<br />
I can feel the fear and desperation in the singer's voice. The trip was glorious and intense... and draining: physically, emotionally, financially. I never really questioned what I was doing, but there were times, in the privacy of my car, when I spoke with that same quaver of desperation. The pace of the second year was tough for me, as I shortened my stays to fit in more communities. Still, no matter what, I was driven to keep driving.<br />
<br />
<i>Feel our hearts break as the engines fade...</i><br />
<i>Still need to find it, still need to find it.</i><br />
<i>We took the written words of our philosophers</i><br />
<i>and built a fire from it: let's get those engines lit.</i><br />
<i>We took the church's veil and built a mighty sail</i><br />
<i>to carry forth this ship... We're still losing it.</i><br />
<i>And I heard the Captain say, I heard the Captain say,</i><br />
<i>"We're so close to it, so very close to it.</i><br />
<i>We still have energy in us."</i><br />
<br />
The song doesn't specify what the crew of the spaceship are looking for, just that they're risking everything for it. That fit. I had a stated purpose, but I didn't really know what I would find, or what I would do with it, only that I needed to go... and that I had to leave a lot of things behind.<br />
<br />
<i>The mission's over now; my breath is running out.</i><br />
<i>Can't let go of it, can't let go of it.</i><br />
<i>I didn't mean what I said, I didn't mean what I said:</i><br />
<i>I love you more than this, I love you more than this.</i><br />
<i>Then lights they fill the air -- or were they always there?</i><br />
<i>I finally see it. I finally see it!</i><br />
<i>And I heard the Captain say, I heard the Captain say,</i><br />
<i>"You're always close to it, so very close to it.</i><br />
<i>There's so much energy in us."</i><br />
<br />
As I listened on the road, I wondered about the song's ending. The crew finds what they were looking for, apparently, but do they survive the journey? These days, knowing that I did, I tend to hear the ending as triumphant. But on the road, I wondered: was the vision just one last brain-spasm before death? What became of the crew? Did they ever make it back home again? Was their journey really worth it?<br />
<br />
In the years before this trip, I had just about enough energy to go to work, slog through the day, then come home and plop down on the sofa. While I was first making plans to travel solo across the country, I privately wondered how I would keep going from place to place when I could barely drag myself out of my own bed on a Tuesday morning.<br />
<br />
On the road, I was so spent so often. Many days, I felt like that spaceship, running on dwindling fuel, my crew working overtime just to keep moving forward. But through grief and sickness, loneliness and fear, I still found the energy, resources, and help I needed to finish the journey. The energy wasn't all mine... but the Captain never said "There's so much energy in you." The pronouns were all plural.Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-31010003564541887222014-02-02T18:30:00.001-08:002014-02-03T12:24:17.823-08:00SignificanceToday, February 2nd, third day of the Year of the Horse, is Groundhog Day. Today is Imbolc, the heart of midwinter. It is Candlemas, the feast commemorating the day that Jesus was first brought to the Temple by his parents.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_GTFhYsWBn1TVvsA8h8gApz7IpNDsgfk6jSZyNdND2YFlx8BkQrJqEWPI_6c2FlhhkArFw4gZreAIekvMFXI5NJ-ENyJ5BYLIDqLk6hsjRnNnd27cShVUZm3hgOsAHKNjTjZzz99H1yQ/s1600/IMG_8907.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_GTFhYsWBn1TVvsA8h8gApz7IpNDsgfk6jSZyNdND2YFlx8BkQrJqEWPI_6c2FlhhkArFw4gZreAIekvMFXI5NJ-ENyJ5BYLIDqLk6hsjRnNnd27cShVUZm3hgOsAHKNjTjZzz99H1yQ/s1600/IMG_8907.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>And, today, most venerated celebration of all, is Super Bowl Sunday.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCuSoqbrREj94yl85ocTD5xD3ku51jtO1go94eeF5XMaLfOg0kxdWPe-Sx8XZRWXbAF_UQRoYQWmcYFFaTNT_ddFMKu6o8sQC-OiiLy_uWuybNUVvjEtYJdqVUP3Pqj52lCT3FOV6MiLE/s1600/IMG_8916.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCuSoqbrREj94yl85ocTD5xD3ku51jtO1go94eeF5XMaLfOg0kxdWPe-Sx8XZRWXbAF_UQRoYQWmcYFFaTNT_ddFMKu6o8sQC-OiiLy_uWuybNUVvjEtYJdqVUP3Pqj52lCT3FOV6MiLE/s1600/IMG_8916.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Super Bowl Sunday at the Guild</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
The director of the <a href="http://www.grunewaldguild.com/">Grünewald Guild</a> invited a crowd of locals to watch the game on the Guild's large-ish TV. A couple of staff volunteered to prepare onion rings and fried pickles ("frickles"), homemade pizza, extra-garlicky dip, spicy chicken wings. The locals brought cookies and soda and chips and cupcakes in garish Seahawks colors. In the quiet of the Guild's quietest month, we have ourselves a Serious Party.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *
</div>
<br />
We finally got snow again last week. It's a mere drop in the bucket of the region's typical snowfall, but it was satisfying to see everything blanketed in white fluff. I walked downtown with the other artists in residence -- to downtown Plain, that is, where there are two stores: Plain Hardware and Just Plain Grocery. We browsed the hardware store, which is about half souvenirs and coffeeshop, and then bought hard cider and a bunch of terrible candy at the grocery, which is really more of a convenience store. We had a plan.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpySi4MIu_4CGlRGsblLNMwtkVBPgYAi0R53h4TsGX2MHHxGY3GeP-xIkYQF2aR_7aM1iAV7WrwL3MKfhnKx-tdFm-o3HsrsnHybsO8B9OeBZAmbRH7A7gv0ZGyMPgpeSMgBYiIyGLkV4/s1600/IMG_8832.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpySi4MIu_4CGlRGsblLNMwtkVBPgYAi0R53h4TsGX2MHHxGY3GeP-xIkYQF2aR_7aM1iAV7WrwL3MKfhnKx-tdFm-o3HsrsnHybsO8B9OeBZAmbRH7A7gv0ZGyMPgpeSMgBYiIyGLkV4/s1600/IMG_8832.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wenatchee River footbridge</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
One of the artists in residence determined that we needed to put on a puppet show with an apocalyptic theme. We would have one hour to assemble our puppets, make up a plot, set the stage, and perform the show. Five of us made puppets out of candy, chopsticks, mini donuts, and irreverence. My characters were three of the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, masquerading as the Three Wise Men. There was a character named Sacrificial Bob, and another one named Meaty who was made entirely out of lunchmeat, stitched together and blow-dried. The resulting show was beyond ridiculous, and we didn't even open the ciders until afterward. Then we watched the video of it and laughed until we cried.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDuC3x5N4SLp-THJ51WERh4yadvYz5PH6Nt5Evl0SHpw21t1gCrcJQg6jTshPBvW-fllvosPxMQwyh91VgbE91SefAUulVFZhzeeI1O1XypTChOyftGIlt4nbC71-6UgN6HD4qgSBcW4/s1600/IMG_8884.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDuC3x5N4SLp-THJ51WERh4yadvYz5PH6Nt5Evl0SHpw21t1gCrcJQg6jTshPBvW-fllvosPxMQwyh91VgbE91SefAUulVFZhzeeI1O1XypTChOyftGIlt4nbC71-6UgN6HD4qgSBcW4/s1600/IMG_8884.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meaty, Death, War, and Famine</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In the spaces between outbursts of collective creativity, I've been writing, but I've also been poking at wheels and gears to see if they'll turn. One result of this prodding is that when my residency wraps up this month, I'll stick around and take on the position of Hospitality Coordinator. Another result is that the Guild's summer cook will be the Handsome Communard from Virginia (previously mentioned in <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2013/11/how-it-ends.html">this post</a>). <br />
<br />
It's shaping up to be a good year.Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-48119777838345763312014-01-13T22:59:00.000-08:002014-01-13T23:15:00.702-08:00December, January, and the InbetweenAt Willa's house, in November and December, I struggled to write. I banged out stilted sentences as reluctantly as if I were writing college essays on subjects I didn't care about. I seized upon a thousand distractions, brawled with my own fears of failure and success, and ultimately faced down the question: <i>Do I want to write this book, or not?</i><br />
<br />
Sometimes I went for walks on the gravel roads in Willa's neighborhood, and sometimes I found interesting things along the way: inquisitive goats, slow-moving newts, friendly abandoned vehicles.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmJQ3IcNhCzAHD8YdGNB9xe2ZMeN3gttFt90GT1yzbO7oHc825Lib561WYVjCvn9G4ZMrNCjmMpL7r5-gpcRD-ba8jK6ZVODQS4-F0g2L6rJPAYqaFswTV38z4kv-FGyCF1MUtXkayHAk/s1600/IMG_8546.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmJQ3IcNhCzAHD8YdGNB9xe2ZMeN3gttFt90GT1yzbO7oHc825Lib561WYVjCvn9G4ZMrNCjmMpL7r5-gpcRD-ba8jK6ZVODQS4-F0g2L6rJPAYqaFswTV38z4kv-FGyCF1MUtXkayHAk/s400/IMG_8546.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Construction vehicle, lost in the woods</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<a name='more'></a>Two strategies motivated me to write when I feared the project was a lost cause. One was committing to sending a daily e-mail to an old friend, updating her on my progress. The other was making a spreadsheet with a graph to visualize my daily wordcount. There's just something satisfyingly gamelike about making that little yellow average stripe climb. Eventually, having thoroughly considered calling a mulligan on the whole project, and conceding that it will take a lot more than four months to finish, I realized the answer to that question was still yes: I really <i>do</i> want to write this book.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGyITCvSnZir-FnMahJbNH6u_49ai-CesFMQBGfy6PH0rk3m111WHJGqg5lOKDFrLomK1xQi_fHOh2McirTdXPaUEl52GVTDJ-H4-Z2VZXBZzx90thIkPG2bh0KiYGP1SjK8gyTKvLC7g/s1600/IMG_8614.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGyITCvSnZir-FnMahJbNH6u_49ai-CesFMQBGfy6PH0rk3m111WHJGqg5lOKDFrLomK1xQi_fHOh2McirTdXPaUEl52GVTDJ-H4-Z2VZXBZzx90thIkPG2bh0KiYGP1SjK8gyTKvLC7g/s400/IMG_8614.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bonfire!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Willa and her family helped, by housing and feeding me, but also just by being around, and by being so incorrigibly themselves. Occasionally, I even helped them a little. I got to pitch in on a brush-clearing project that was a lot of fun; who doesn't like burning stuff?<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
The week inbetween Christmas and year's end always seems a little surreal to me. It feels like when you drive over the I-5 bridge across the Columbia between Oregon and Washington: now you're not in either place, so where are you? But when I drive over that bridge, I am highly alert, looking around me excitedly, occasionally even yelling "Wheeee!" The last week of the year typically flicks past while I am distracted with friends and family and getting extra sleep. When it's over, I typically have trouble recalling what-all happened, as though it was a dream that fades in the dawning light of a new year.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvZ5lkwBTw3RZsyT3RpcRzp0Y9zBrib4USI1o_my5q9Wd3VrIitKHW7h_wjgicah-x8H3286LHsfjpHlERiralTXzUA4MeJg036kZ3KgfFCEl6D7Cch9p0OkcRCKNJWoHGeroWffMNqdk/s1600/IMG_8703.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvZ5lkwBTw3RZsyT3RpcRzp0Y9zBrib4USI1o_my5q9Wd3VrIitKHW7h_wjgicah-x8H3286LHsfjpHlERiralTXzUA4MeJg036kZ3KgfFCEl6D7Cch9p0OkcRCKNJWoHGeroWffMNqdk/s400/IMG_8703.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rush hour on I-5, Portland, 12/23/2013</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
This year I was also inbetween locations, inbetween directions. The week was split between my hometown and Portland, and landed right in the middle of what was originally intended to be a four-month project. It was also a time I felt I ought to be revising my strategy for 2014, scrapping the old plans and drawing up new ones. I didn't. I looked after my friends' cat and ran errands and got checkups and oil changes.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_dhIvbRXxcAbN9vHv30Dc8wUImVbnJbu4AAn-S05O0VZ9lhuZCj6FSHRU0Jn5ECZJHVglbLpVNkGRwAHUe-HntgAFbxZp2Q-AP6zMO8xFSvHXBgKpLnlzEdNJeTrtLEzv1wG92rosXyA/s1600/IMG_8763.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_dhIvbRXxcAbN9vHv30Dc8wUImVbnJbu4AAn-S05O0VZ9lhuZCj6FSHRU0Jn5ECZJHVglbLpVNkGRwAHUe-HntgAFbxZp2Q-AP6zMO8xFSvHXBgKpLnlzEdNJeTrtLEzv1wG92rosXyA/s400/IMG_8763.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sleepy Simone</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I spent New Year's Eve with old friends, listening to old tunes and telling old and new stories, and January 1st with my parents in the hospital, as my dad underwent scheduled thyroid surgery. We were blessed: the operation went beautifully, and Dad was making bad jokes (slightly less coherently than usual) by the time he was rolled into his hospital room. He refused any painkillers beyond acetaminophen, and when he was released the next day, stole the keys from Mom and drove home against the surgeon's recommendation. By all accounts, the entire incident failed to slow him down in the slightest.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
On January 4 I headed north again: not to Willa's place in Port Orchard, but to the <a href="http://www.grunewaldguild.com/">Grünewald Guild</a> for a two-month artist residency. In July 2012, I spent three weeks at the Guild, volunteering, writing, and taking classes. I apologize to my long-term blog readers for not writing a post about that stay. Here's the three-word version: I loved it. So last fall I asked the staff if I could work on my book there, and they said yes, come be an artist in residence.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj-cfvw0947du2W8rMP8K0t53dA2aspf1TGL3L7df2dso8gSKnyL-5OVufnw0i-TWzOUjs4Kh6R5Ujf46RPDRYJTYsxe8fEnF6F0dPzmiT75vxtL_guMsr4gVvaSVb9qR3YCX2z9LxWgk/s1600/IMG_8778.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj-cfvw0947du2W8rMP8K0t53dA2aspf1TGL3L7df2dso8gSKnyL-5OVufnw0i-TWzOUjs4Kh6R5Ujf46RPDRYJTYsxe8fEnF6F0dPzmiT75vxtL_guMsr4gVvaSVb9qR3YCX2z9LxWgk/s400/IMG_8778.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Centrum, heart of the Gr<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: x-small; line-height: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">ünewald </span>Guild</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The Guild in summer is full of life and guests and art just happening all over the place, but at this time of year it's quieter. Often it's down to just five long-term staff and maybe a couple of artists in residence (I am currently one of four). Last week there were no guests; this week there's a silk painting class and another one called "A Theology of the Wilderness." I'm not taking either class. I've been cleaning the dining room, washing dishes, providing transportation into the nearby town of Leavenworth, and painting -- not silk, but walls: beige, two coats.<br />
<br />
And I've been writing. Last week, after meeting with other staff to discuss the projects we're working on, I set a new daily word count record. It's still a struggle, most days, but I've learned some tricks: <i>Listen to music. Sit in different places. Take totally non-productive breaks. Write stuff you know you'll probably cut later. Before you quit, think about what you're going to write when you start again. If you're hungry, for heaven's sake get something to eat, because you won't get a thing done until you do.</i><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_TYaTruEdk2omTN2fW4L8fCFTi-S8B4bgvxOyF2RMPVlHzD4PtmkH14TMcomKpc4GxLwhx9ZH0izxar58hU_vUqOCS7JhGhFe00PWCpFeJXQWHnUrP2z00qHt1HvWcnapSr5lMhLRQVk/s1600/IMG_8769.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_TYaTruEdk2omTN2fW4L8fCFTi-S8B4bgvxOyF2RMPVlHzD4PtmkH14TMcomKpc4GxLwhx9ZH0izxar58hU_vUqOCS7JhGhFe00PWCpFeJXQWHnUrP2z00qHt1HvWcnapSr5lMhLRQVk/s400/IMG_8769.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My current digs on the Wenatchee River</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And, without any real effort on my part, my plans for the year have begun to reinvent themselves. No spoilers, but it's funny how sometimes just talking about what you want can open doors you didn't even know were there.Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-30120134488411952832013-11-08T15:59:00.001-08:002013-11-08T15:59:34.467-08:00What Happens NextTwo years on the road. Two years of packing and unpacking. Two years of goodbye hugs and getting-to-know-you conversations. Two years of starting over, and starting over, and starting over again.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig9G4ee6P56grBZS0RrkbVxpdoaptA26lRjkT9sr7NxD1owIMurW6wLaCpW-GHbdMPkyGTk7Q0mZDNz8j2YKlzQ205ygnWAmyaIdYq6pnXA-pbIuJC1dlsm3Swt2eATA-SLEHz5UJr5oE/s1600/IMG_8430.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig9G4ee6P56grBZS0RrkbVxpdoaptA26lRjkT9sr7NxD1owIMurW6wLaCpW-GHbdMPkyGTk7Q0mZDNz8j2YKlzQ205ygnWAmyaIdYq6pnXA-pbIuJC1dlsm3Swt2eATA-SLEHz5UJr5oE/s400/IMG_8430.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Odometer reads: 259801.</td></tr>
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<a name='more'></a><br />
So, in mid-September, I take a break: a rest from my sabbatical, a hiatus from my vacation. Maybe that sounds a little weird; I've long since lost track of what "normal" feels like. That might be an unstated purpose for this downtime: to reclaim a little bit of normalcy... if there's any normalcy to be found in sleeping on the basement floors of various friends and family members for a month and a half. Like I said, I don't even know anymore. I do know that after all of this travel, there is tremendous comfort in stopping, spreading out, settling in; in the places and people you know best; in sorting through a year's worth of snailmail, sitting around playing computer games in your PJs in the afternoon, allowing yourself to internet until you're sick of it (note: for some of us this takes a loooong time).<br />
<br />
I guess what I'm saying is that it's really, really good be home... even if I'm not staying.<br />
<br />
Two weeks in my hometown, four weeks in the town I call home (Portland). The time is largely uneventful, and that feels good: quality time with loved ones, reacquaintance with old haunts. But one event does occur that rocks my world pretty hard.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixdc4YtYNBwc0usQx8I5Ft6RosmNu0hXPg8-vthMyRmMXQU8pjW4GaYrCNHt53JBYzVz0CLBLS9d5POmhSa3E-VsYzcuBcEQvEJfI5qz9bEABNBpHkY0mg_Sim-Nott9StmY7CHHNq0jA/s1600/IMG_8429.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixdc4YtYNBwc0usQx8I5Ft6RosmNu0hXPg8-vthMyRmMXQU8pjW4GaYrCNHt53JBYzVz0CLBLS9d5POmhSa3E-VsYzcuBcEQvEJfI5qz9bEABNBpHkY0mg_Sim-Nott9StmY7CHHNq0jA/s400/IMG_8429.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
It isn't a big accident, really just on the more impressive end of fender-bender, but my insurance company asserts that my 1990 Volvo is totaled. Totaled? How can that be? This car that took me zigzagging across the continent and back, that didn't miss a beat after I rammed it into a West Virginia hillside, that kept me warm and dry and safe in deep snow and summer monsoons, totaled? My home and most loyal friend for the past two years, totaled? You don't just deem your friends totaled and walk away from them. Besides, it still runs just fine, aside from the part where the wheel grinds on the body, and the gas cap door doesn't open anymore....<br />
<br />
A body shop provides an explanation: the rear quarter panel of a Volvo 240 is not easily removed. A replacement would have to be welded on, a time-consuming and finicky task. Apparently the insurance company's repair estimate of $3000 is actually pretty accurate.<br />
<br />
<i>Rats.</i><br />
<br />
On the bright side, after some tinkering with a 2x4, a crowbar, and a steel baseball bat (I love my auto shop!), the tire doesn't rub on the bashed-in panel anymore. "The damage is entirely cosmetic," points out one mechanic. "It's still a good car."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip7E1UfilPlKpV8kRH0Cia2JqIWG4H2HDa_zjRk73erkWE8JgtPnPHUmxmVnC5yVrUraU9JQXZoKU_yfBSxyg_NyMQwuoIr3ttfHw102YFtrnPPBtdgciGSwAhvhJY6sYsdXGuoJnBco4/s1600/IMG_8499_crop.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip7E1UfilPlKpV8kRH0Cia2JqIWG4H2HDa_zjRk73erkWE8JgtPnPHUmxmVnC5yVrUraU9JQXZoKU_yfBSxyg_NyMQwuoIr3ttfHw102YFtrnPPBtdgciGSwAhvhJY6sYsdXGuoJnBco4/s400/IMG_8499_crop.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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On the other hand, paying $3000 to repair the damage seems a little indulgent even for me, and as my dad points out, now would be a good time to replace it. I waffle, sulk, and pick through Craigslist ads, feeling naive and impatient. I test drive another Volvo 240; it's shiny, but it smells strongly of college-aged bachelor, and my mechanics shake their heads when they discuss the oil leak and the DIY wiring under the hood. "If you're going to replace your car, wait until you find something worth replacing it with," they tell me.<br />
<br />
So October runs out, and with it, my time in Portland, where I have easy access to trusted and generous mechanics. I load everything back into the car and head north. The trunk seems less watertight than it used to be, but to be honest, it never really sealed well to begin with. I've packed accordingly. It works out.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
After brief visits to old friends on the I-5 corridor, I hang a left from Seattle and get on a ferry to the Olympic Peninsula. My friend Willa lives there, outside of Port Orchard. She is four years old now, and she has a lot to tell me about. Her little sister is running around and forming complete sentences, and there's a brother I've never met before, who's crawling and growling and joyfully flinging food around at meals. It's all very exciting.<br />
<br />
Willa's parents have invited me to come stay at their house until the end of the year while I write. I get a big second-floor room with a desk and a view of the woods. There's a baby gate at the bottom of the stairs, guaranteeing me some space from the smaller members of the household. And this far outside of any urban area, there's very little else to distract me (especially when the internet goes out).<br />
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So now I've eliminated every excuse not to write about what I learned during two years of visiting intentional communities. It's time to relive that journey -- the hellos and goodbyes and everything inbetween -- in order to make it vivid for others. I hope the resulting book is something I'll be proud to share with you.Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-70306951539894143812013-11-01T02:47:00.000-07:002013-11-01T02:52:36.764-07:00How It EndsWhere 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.<br />
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Eastern Oregon is interesting enough in its own right: flora and fauna and a climate that all feel exotic to me, coming from the rainy western side of the state. My problem is that there's just so <i>much</i> of it. It's fun for the first few hours and then I'm restless and ready to be done with it, long before I hit Bend. After driving across Idaho, Oregon just feels incredibly wide.<br />
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But eventually, I get to Crater Lake.<br />
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The expanse of shimmering blue shocks tears into my eyes. <i>Finally. I made it!</i><br />
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I was born in Oregon. I was raised in Oregon. I've spent most of my thirty-mumble years in Oregon. But in all this time, I've never managed to get myself to Crater Lake, Oregon's most praised scenic attraction. When I planned this journey's endgame, I resolved to correct that. <br />
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I camp at Diamond Lake, far to the north, because the Crater Lake campsite is double the price. Diamond Lake is a beautiful spot, but my arrival is eerily reminiscent of <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2012/08/things-i-learned-during-two-months-of.html">another camping trip I took last year</a>. I'm on my own this time, and I don't bother with a campfire, and I don't get my car stuck in the mud amid hordes of mosquitoes. However, I do get turned around trying to find the place. I do stop for directions on the wrong side of the lake at dusk. I do pitch my tent with the help of headlights. No matter. A whole sunny day to explore Crater Lake is worth the trouble and then some.<br />
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I have one last community to visit before the end: Gypsy Cafe, a small community in rural southern Oregon that doubles as the publishing headquarters of <a href="http://wemoon.ws/">We'Moon</a>. Back in 1981, residents of a women's intentional community in Denmark hand-lettered a feminist astrological datebook titled <i>We'Moon</i>. They published it themselves and distributed it across the continent via backpack. Improbably, <i>We'Moon</i> has endured for over three decades, maturing into a lovely and very polished anthology of women's art and writing. The women of Gypsy Cafe work for <i>We'Moon</i>, but they also work to sustain themselves by building and tending the land. My week-long stay comes at a bit of a lull in the action, so there's time to sit and talk and read and learn, as well as can pears and picante sauce, pick apples, and haul firewood down the hill. It's the perfect place to pause, near the end, and reflect on what I'm doing before it's over.<br />
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A week isn't long enough to stay at Gypsy Cafe, but it's the time I've allowed myself. I wave goodbye to my new friends, promising to return, and head north.<br />
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Just one more stop before home: a brief visit to <a href="http://grovechristiancamp.org/">Grove Christian Camp</a>, the first place I ever got a taste of life in community (albeit a very temporary sort). For most of my childhood, this was my favorite place on earth. But when I left for college, my church started sending its youth to a different camp, and I never got to see it again. 20 years later, visiting this place gives a feeling of symmetry to the end of my journey. I meet up with the current caretaker, who gives me a tour of the place, showing off new buildings, ADA-approved walkways, improved bathrooms. It's all very recognizable, but very changed... much like myself, I suppose. <br />
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I can't stay at the camp, but that night I sleep nearby, at Dorena Lake. In the morning I clamber down the bank to put my feet in the cold water. It's September 15th, and everything is a birthday gift: the head-bob of a walking crow, the taste of a ripe Oregon grape, the glint of a lure tangled in a tree root. I roll up my tent and set out, at last, for my hometown. I remember trips to Camp taking for-<i>ever</i>... but after all this travel, it seems like a very short journey indeed.Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-67028638409822326952013-07-23T19:34:00.000-07:002013-07-23T19:50:07.579-07:00Westward Hey!<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.</i></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> - Inigo Montoya, "The Princess Bride"</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A</span>fter Atlanta, everything changes. <br />
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Oh, the lush greens and rolling terrain of the Southeast in early summer remain constant as I ricochet through Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, and back again in reverse order. But the journey has a different kind of momentum on the way west; the pendulum has swung to the end of its arc and reversed. I'm headed back toward home.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ruffner Mountain Nature Preserve, Birmingham</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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The communities I visit in Memphis, Atlanta, Birmingham, New Orleans, and Austin are all worthy of many words, but everything's moving faster now, too fast to blog about everywhere I've been, almost (but not quite) too fast to keep the journal going. And always now, beneath my joy in each new place, I feel that westward tug.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivMu7ObK-gg6nJJNuHVPQjobg2x9OtkkS8pY1ZE3W8Z_HOaTPoy2gvp-aU73zNZcU9x-Bk9FeG9VOu330c6O9HU2RoBikHO2Mdq-3Rq0Hmmt8IBP9Xp9d3_oX_yFZp1hx5kSELU2cChJM/s1600/IMG_7015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivMu7ObK-gg6nJJNuHVPQjobg2x9OtkkS8pY1ZE3W8Z_HOaTPoy2gvp-aU73zNZcU9x-Bk9FeG9VOu330c6O9HU2RoBikHO2Mdq-3Rq0Hmmt8IBP9Xp9d3_oX_yFZp1hx5kSELU2cChJM/s1600/IMG_7015.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rural Texas royalty, McDade Watermelon Festival</td></tr>
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Every place I visit fascinates me in new ways. This country blindsides me with beauty: the bayous and backwaters of coastal Louisiana, the phantasmagorical skies of Texas, the red cliffsides of New Mexico. And the people are beautiful, too. I am hosted and helped by many wonderful folks along the way, gentle souls and colorful characters, family and friends old and new; I sleep on couches and air mattresses and abundantly pillowed guest beds and my own little camping mat. I eat some of the best food of my life, and also quite a bit of crappy fast food. It's all awesome and exciting and, yes, exhausting. I would probably enjoy all this more if I were traveling more slowly, but if I did, the money wouldn't hold out. And also: <i>home.</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN1Tmj9aAj9Ga_Zcr0dfsRUgK_-ohR6fEiCbUkiX3yvT7wWEtTwShnBPuvgkr1VFcnfzbcj6boxz3UQEy_KYr8bdZ-JqV0EaWXU_JTpVUGZ_oNLvIPq49dAoMdu2RCBvbdsEbCy5e4EAc/s1600/IMG_6594.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN1Tmj9aAj9Ga_Zcr0dfsRUgK_-ohR6fEiCbUkiX3yvT7wWEtTwShnBPuvgkr1VFcnfzbcj6boxz3UQEy_KYr8bdZ-JqV0EaWXU_JTpVUGZ_oNLvIPq49dAoMdu2RCBvbdsEbCy5e4EAc/s1600/IMG_6594.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New Orleans grafitti</td></tr>
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Northeastern New Mexico reminds me of central Washington: row upon row of mountains, <i>real</i> mountains, bristling with pines and firs and studded with alpine lakes. I ease my car down the heavily rutted drive of <a href="http://www.hummingbirdcommunity.org/index.php">Hummingbird Community</a>'s campground, approach the sign-in table, and receive a huge hug from the friendly registrar. I'm here for Visitor Weekend, an event Hummingbird hosts rarely; the timing of this event is yet another reason I hurried through the South.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hummingbird Community visitors at Mediation Point</td></tr>
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I've been hoping and praying that the thunderstorm forecast for today will hold off until I'm able to get my tent set up. The raindrops start falling just as I'm getting finished. As I join other visitors and "Hummers" huddled under the pavilion, the sky cracks open over our heads, collapsing to earth in sheets and buckets of water and little round chunks of ice. <i>Welcome to monsoon season. </i>Exhilarated and soggy, we retreat to the aptly-named Sanctuary Yurt for palak paneer, chana masala, dal, and hot chai (dairy and non-dairy).<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sanctuary Yurt, Hummingbird Community</td></tr>
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As the rain hammers the roof of the yurt, I wonder how my tent is doing. This is the first real weather I've put it through. Will it leak? Rainwater is carving terraces into the bare earth outside the kitchen. Will it wash my tent into the stream that runs along the campsites? When our stomachs are full of delicious food, we introduce ourselves and express our intentions for the weekend, leaning forward to catch each other's voices over the noise of the storm.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hummingbird members (and visitors) make their own sunshine</td></tr>
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The rain lets up at dusk, and I slip out to see how my tent has fared. It's spattered with dirt and fir needles, but plenty dry inside. The mild, clear-running little stream I pitched it near is now a torrent of chocolate milk, but it's keeping its distance from my campsite. I'll sleep warm and dry tonight, my first night back in the West.<br />
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I'm writing this from Santa Fe, where I've taken a couple of days to sleep in a real bed and do some writing and travel planning. I've been lucky enough to stay next door to a studio where gorgeous leather books and bags are assembled by hand. The workspace is mesmerizing, full of gadgets and machines, fine paper, shiny buckles, and piles and piles of luscious, soft leather. It smells heavenly. If I were settling in Santa Fe, I'd be applying for work here, you bet. But I gotta keep movin'. Home calls.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scrap leather, Renaissance Art</td></tr>
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You can find the products of this studio at <a href="http://www.renaissance-art.com/">Renaissance Art</a>. Look and drool, ye bibliophiles!<br />
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Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-89639615038224690722013-06-17T22:03:00.001-07:002013-06-18T19:53:27.022-07:00Twin Oaks, Earthaven, The Farm, IDAIn April, car trouble in West Virginia makes me three days late to the <a href="http://twinoakscommunity.org/">Twin Oaks Community</a>. (The car trouble is an epic saga in its own right, but that story can wait.) Twin Oaks is an egalitarian community of about 100 people in rural Virginia. It's probably the most well-known secular intentional community in the country, but I'd never heard of it until last year, when a former co-worker mentioned buying a hammock there (thanks, Jeff!). "It's definitely worth seeing," he told me, and when I started digging up info on this place, I realized he was right. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Twin Oaks members and visitors gather round the Maypole</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<a name='more'></a>Of course, the one place I visit on a pre-planned schedule is the one place I can't manage to arrive when I'm supposed to. Twin Oaks hosts several three-week Visitor Periods a year, crash courses on life in this very particular, uniquely structured setting. Missing the first three days, and showing up exhausted and stressed out, makes for a very rough beginning; but once I get my feet under me, things get better. I make new friends and learn new skills, like how to weave a hammock harness and how to inspect tofu packaging for imperfections, and a milking machine breakdown allows me the opportunity to improve my hand-milking technique. There's a lot to appreciate about Twin Oaks, which has had 46 years to get its act together, and which runs like a well-oiled machine built of crazy found parts. It has its quirks and glitches, but consider this: under the inevitable "Criticisms" section of its <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Twin_Oaks_Community">Wikipedia article</a>, the worst thing anyone has to say about it is that sometimes it's not very tidy. (Having now visited 17 communities, I can authoritatively say: it could be <i>much</i> worse.)<br />
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Attending a Visitor Period with a group of guests is very different from showing up at a community on your own. At Twin Oaks, visitor groups are housed in a single residence and are encouraged to form community with one another, so I get to know the other visitors really well. This has its downsides -- living in close quarters with loud voices and big personalities is a challenge for someone who needs as much sleep as I do -- but it also sets me up with a great storyline. Seven of the nine visitors are applying for membership, which means they're in constant suspense about whether they'll make the cut and be invited to join the community. The whole thing has such a reality TV feel to it that I occasionally find myself eyeing corners of the room for cameras. Who is the Weakest Link? Who will be the Survivor? Plot twists, memorable characters, and sordid details abound. Writing the Twin Oaks chapter of my book is going to be <i>fun.</i><br />
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At Twin Oaks, I meet a woman from <a href="http://www.earthaven.org/">Earthaven Ecovillage</a> in North Carolina, a place I've looked into but never quite figured how to visit without paying a lot. (Finding cheap/free places to stay is one reason I'm approaching the two-year mark of this trip with a decent amount of money remaining in my savings account.) "I've been wondering," I ask her, "how would I go about visiting Earthaven?" She beams: "You talk to me! I'm the Visitor Coordinator." Thus, after Visitor Period is done, I head for Earthaven, in the mountains of western North Carolina. Krystal, my roommate from Twin Oaks, meets me there. We settle into the perpetually-under-construction Medicine Wheel House, formerly the Guest House before the hepatitis scare of 2007, when the Health Department said Earthaven couldn't invite the paying public to stay overnight anymore. But we are not the public; we are here as personal guests of the Visitor Coordinator, a smiley woman known as River Otter.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cob construction at Medicine Wheel House, Earthaven</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Earthaven is quite a contrast to Twin Oaks; founded in 1995, it's still trying to come to consensus on what kind of community it wants to be. Its members are scattered across 329 acres, which means that they're more casually friendly (you get a wave from every vehicle rolling past at 5 mph), but less unified in their lifestyles. (Meanwhile, at Twin Oaks, everyone is so crammed into each other's personal space that some members will avoid eye contact when passing on the paths, in order to get some downtime from interaction.) Some Earthaven residents live in trailers, some in handbuilt earthen homes, some in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cohousing">cohousing</a> apartments. After the regulated egalitarianism of Twin Oaks, the contrast between the facilities of Earthaven's fancier homes and the crusty composting outhouses at Medicine Wheel is a little jarring. Because members' finances are independent, everyone at Earthaven is scrambling for money (unless they have a pension, alimony, or a trust fund), so nothing is free. This, too, is dramatically different from Twin Oaks, where everyone gets (and is limited to) the same small monthly allowance and the same access to shared resources.<br />
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During our ten days at Earthaven, Krystal and I have no trouble finding interesting things to do: lending a hand with household labor at Medicine Wheel, alternating sweating in the sauna and freezing in the creek, making papier-mache masks for a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transition_Towns">Transition Town</a> parade, driving in to Black Mountain or Asheville for sightseeing and a contradance. We are also not at a loss for interesting people to talk to. We enjoy getting to know the various residents and interns of Medicine Wheel House. We get a tour of <a href="http://rrylander.com/">Rod Rylander's "Hobbit House"</a> from the architect himself, and have a chance to get hands-on with one of his paper-clay building techniques. I have a good long chat with Derek Rowe, director of the <a href="http://withinreachmovie.com/home.shtml">Within Reach</a> documentary, which chronicles a young couple's quest to visit 200 sustainable communities in two years... while circumnavigating the boundaries of the continental U.S. on bicycles. Their journey makes mine look very sane and sedate by contrast. Years ago I donated to the project via <a href="http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1745972855/within-reach-movie-finishing-funds">Kickstarter</a>; it's very satisfying to finally see the end product, get to hear Derek's perspective on how the project evolved, and share thoughts on on storytelling and our observations of community. I'm likewise delighted to meet Christie and Adrian, a couple who recently embarked on their own community-based quest. Like Ryan and Mandy from "Within Reach", they are looking for a community to settle in; but like me, they're traveling in a much more practical, deliberate manner. I thoroughly enjoy getting to know them and comparing notes on our journeys. I'd also like to mention that they are a little more conscientious about keeping up with <a href="http://christieandadrian.wordpress.com/">their blog</a> than I am.<br />
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Twin Oaks is hosting a <a href="http://www.communitiesconference.org/">Communities conference</a> Labor Day weekend; I wish I could attend, but I am planning to be considerably farther west by then. However, <a href="http://www.thefarm.org/">the Farm Community</a>, south of Nashville, TN, is hosting a smaller conference on Community and Sustainability over Memorial Day weekend, and that timing works out pretty well for me.<br />
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The conference at the Farm is a good opportunity to get a guided tour of the Farm and an overview of its history, as well as a great opportunity to network with about 20 other people who are interested in the possibility of life in community. I'm not the only writer at the conference; <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Sundeen/e/B001H6NDFK">Mark Sundeen</a> is here doing research for a book about simple living and the back-to-the-land movement. It turns out that Mark is the guy who wrote the biography of <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/national/archive/2012/03/homeless-by-choice-how-to-live-for-free-in-america/254118/">Daniel Suelo</a>, a chap who lives pretty much entirely without money. I haven't read the book (yet), but back when I had time to ramble the wide fields of the internet, I found lots of food for thought in <a href="http://zerocurrency.blogspot.com/">Suelo's blog</a>. It's good to have an opportunity to hang around with a successful professional writer/journalist, to observe how he pursues leads and teases out interesting threads in conversations. It's extra good because our planned end products really don't overlap at all, so we're not in competition. (Whew!)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Visitors inside the "Wholeo" at the Farm School</td></tr>
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I stay a few extra days after the conference to get to know the Farm better. The name is deceptive; it's not a farm at all, these days. The Farm was once a for-reals hippie commune with a population numbering well over a thousand, but after upheaval and economic crisis, it reinvented itself as something considerably closer to the mainstream. I attend a community potluck at the Swimming Hole and see nary a hairy-legged woman the entire time. With only about 175 residents, the place seems deserted as I cruise the gently rolling paved road on my bike -- though one member assures me it's easy to get overwhelmed with social events here. It's tough to imagine this place as it was in the '70s, crowded with bodies grungy from fieldwork... and babies, babies everywhere. The Farm has long been known for its groundbreaking <a href="http://www.thefarmmidwives.org/">Midwifery Center</a>, founded by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ina_May_Gaskin">Ina May Gaskin</a>, which trains midwives and provides top-notch care for women during childbirth. No expecting mother has ever been turned away for lack of funds, and for many years, the place was jam-packed with babies and mamas. "I came here to have my baby, and I never left" is a phrase I hear from more than one member.<br />
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Like at Earthaven, you get friendly waves from passing cars on the Farm, but it's not so easy to get to know the folks who live here. Also like Earthaven, community members have independent finances, so nothing is free, and finding a source of income is the key to survival here. For every beautifully constructed cob home, there's a shabby trailer. Though the Farm is also different from Earthaven in some ways, there are a lot of parallels, and I eventually come to the conclusion that if Earthaven is an <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ecovillage">ecovillage</a>, well, so is the Farm.<br />
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The thing at the Farm I get most excited about is <a href="http://www.thefarmschool.tv/">the Farm School</a>, a homeschool of about 20 K-12 students, including kids from outside the Farm. At $3500 a year, the Farm School happens to be the cheapest private school in the nation (and will even take work trades to supplement tuition). It may also be one of the coolest. The man who gives us the tour, Peter Kindfield, proudly introduces himself as the Principal and Janitor of the Farm School. He says that the Farm School fully engages students in all levels of decision-making, uses <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nonviolent_communication">non-violent communication</a>, focuses on social development and group sharing, and operates on student-created "agreements" that everyone, including the staff, has to abide by. "Every summer," Kindfield tells us, "we have a whole-school meeting, and we reinvent the school." The end result is that students take ownership of their education and get excited about it, rather than enduring it. I'm amused to discover that their "outdoor classrooms" are actually classrooms they never finished building, so classes are often taught in in roofless classroom-shaped spaces containing gardens, picnic tables, and murals painted by students.<br />
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On June 6, while staying with friends in Nashville, I make a day trip to <a href="http://idaisida.tumblr.com/">IDA</a>, a small rural LGBTQ community about an hour away. IDA is in the process of hosting Idapalooza, an independent music and arts festival, so I figure this is a good time to visit without violating a sanctuary of sorts. IDA is in a gorgeous and very rustic location, one of those places where they tell you to just pee anywhere (I've been to a few of these now). The clearings in the lush green woods are full of tents; Idapalooza has only been happening for a few years now, but every year more people show up than the year before, and this year's attendance must number in the several hundreds. I'm completely boggled by how IDA's handful of members manage to put on such a huge yet well-run event, with programmed and spontaneous workshops and performances, valet parking, volunteer labor, and enough tasty vegetarian food for everyone. Volunteers wearing pink armbands are on call for anyone who needs a sympathetic ear. Announcements are made, and politely listened to, before every lunch and dinner. Stuff gets done -- not in a particularly orderly or punctual fashion, but nobody seems too stressed out about that -- and the air of unabashed hedonism is inextricably interwoven with a prevailing culture of respect and care for others.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waterfall near IDA</td></tr>
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I don't identify with any of the letters in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LGBT">LGBTQ</a>, so even though no one is checking for credentials at the door, I feel very self-conscious about infiltrating a minority's safe space. I also feel conspicuously square in my everyday don't-draw-attention-to-yourself attire (not to mention <i>old;</i> this crowd tends heavily toward early-to-mid twenties). It helps to connect with a friend from Twin Oaks who drove out from Virginia for the event; he introduces me to some other people, conversations happen, and suddenly I don't feel like such an outsider anymore. Still, though marvelous sights appear around every corner, I leave my camera in my bag; I don't want to be the journalist who comes to gawk at the weirdos and then put them on the internet so everyone can talk about how weird they are. These folks are clearly enjoying expressing themselves in a safe atmosphere... in all the astounding diversity and oddness that implies. Early in the day, I look around at what everyone's wearing and think, "This could be just another day at the park in Portland." Toward evening, I look around again and reconsider: "No, even Portland doesn't typically get this outlandish." There are all sorts of gender representations, from high femme to burly-butch to wild mashups of the two, an impressive range of tattoos and piercings, shaved and semi-shaved and shaggy scalps, people in exuberantly elaborate outfits and people wearing not much at all. After a while I give up trying to fit the people I meet into a gender pigeonhole, and every time my brain starts picking at the he-or-she question, I silence it by saying, "Person. This is a <i>person."</i> The mental shift is difficult, but deeply rewarding. In an atmosphere where everyone's a person, I'm not nearly as likely to be marginalized or objectified as a woman, and that makes me feel safe in ways I don't get to feel on an average day.Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-40394059852232976322013-04-08T21:11:00.000-07:002013-04-08T21:38:06.178-07:00Postcards from Hare Krishna LandThere are many doors into the Sri Sri Radha Vrindaban Chandra Temple at <a href="http://newvrindaban.com/">New Vrindaban</a>. When you enter the building, no matter which door you use, you take off your shoes. There are shoes in the entryway to the ashram, shoes in the hallway with the administrative offices, shoes in the main entrance.<br />
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I have yet to fully explore the temple building, but as far as I can tell, there are only two ways to get from one side to the other: you can walk through the vast, ornately decorated central hall of the temple, or you can put your shoes on, go out and come back in through a different door, and take them off again. The ashram where I sleep is on one side of the temple, and food is served on the other. As a result, I frequently go padding through the central hall in my socks, whether or not any of the many daily ceremonies are going on. This is apparently no big deal.<br />
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The grand hall is three stories high in the middle, with a stained glass ceiling shielded by skylights. The sides are two stories high, and their ceilings are the floors of the ashram. So I can hear the morning ceremonies begin at 4:30 with a breathy conch shell blast and repetitive singing: <i>Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare...</i>. One of these mornings I will actually get up to witness this ceremony in person, but for now, I roll over and let the music soothe me back to sleep.<br />
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Every time I walk through the central hall of the temple, I notice something I haven't before. There's a lot to look at. It is surrounded by altars with doll-like figures on them. "We call them deities," says one devotee, when I ask about them. "A less polite word would be idols, or statues." Every day the deities are dressed in new coordinated outfits, with matching flower garlands: cheerful red and white, peacock blue, girly lavender and pink. Though they look different, most of the deities represent various incarnations of Krishna: Krishna with his wife, Krishna as a fierce lion-man, Krishna with his brother, Krishna as a limbless wooden doll with eyes like dinner plates.<br />
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And then there's Prabhupada, the guy who brought the Hare Krishna movement to the US in the '60s. He's represented by a disturbingly lifelike sculpture seated on the north side of the room. Occasionally, when the room is empty, I pad over to look closer and make sure he's not blinking. Prabhupada's robes stay orange, but in the evening his bald head is covered with a little orange stocking cap. I wonder if this is to keep him warm at night, or if he just likes to rock that look sometimes.<br />
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I'm planting snow peas in the Teaching Garden, tucking them into rows of fluffy mulch. The weather has been bad for planting this spring. The peas are very unhappy in the greenhouse, flopped over listlessly. Their roots are curled into little spirals, hunting for a way downward. It may already be too late for them to survive.<br />
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I think about the devotee who is tasked with "caring for Tulsi," which seems to refer to the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ocimum_tenuiflorum">holy basil</a> plants in the immaculate greenhouse above the ashram. It is hard to get her to talk about her job, but I gather that it's more ceremonial than practical, involving singing and dancing and waving of ghi lamps with a heart of pure devotion. I think of all the studies indicating that talking to plants results in more vigorous growth. I think about Skeeter's plant walk at <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2012/08/things-i-learned-during-two-months-of.html">Singing Alive the Okanogan</a>, where people sang little impromptu songs to the wild plants, and how that was funny and weird and at the same time made sense to me.<br />
<br />
I pry the peas out of their plastic cells with a spoon. They're so naked and fragile. They need all the encouragement they can get.<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Hey, little plant,</i> I begin, tentatively, after looking around to make sure no one's within earshot.<br />
<i>Blessings on you, little plant.<br />...Hey, little plant, grow so big.</i><br />
<br />
I sing it while easing them into the dirt, pressing it down around them, propping them up with clods and straw. Eventually I find some more words:<br />
<br />
<i>Put down roots, put up shoots,<br />Tendrils, blossoms, heavy fruits<br />Hey, little plant, blessings on you little plant<br />Hey, little plant, grow so big.</i><br />
<br />
The melody is deliberately cheesy, to indicate I'm not taking this seriously. It reminds me of something we would've sung in grade school, maybe after putting seeds into styrofoam cups. I suppose, given the location, it would be more appropriate to sing the <i>Hare Krishna</i> mantra. But I figure they're going to hear that a lot anyway.<br />
<br />
Inbetween singing, as I trowel out the next hole, I can hear songbirds, frogs, the voices of men renovating a building across the road, the muted roar of a distant coal mine ventilation shaft. The peas are quiet.<br />
<br />
<i>Hey, little plant, blessings on you little plant...</i><br />
<br />
It's so silly. But so are a lot of things we do to care for each other. You never really know which ones are going to have an effect.<br />
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We eat in the prasadam hall. Prasadam is food that has been offered to Krishna. In some cases, this is very literal: food is prepared for the deities six times a day, and once it has been offered at the altar, it's carried into the prasadam hall, fair game for the rest of us. Those who cook for the deities are not allowed to taste the food while preparing it. "How do they know whether it's any good or not?" I ask, and the answer given is, "They learn." But this untasted food is delicious, like all the food here: vegetarian fare, prepared Indian style.<br />
<br />
The two meals served for humans are breakfast and a late lunch; for dinner, you're on your own. There are always leftovers in the walk-in, but if you time it just right, you can get some freshly cooked Krishna-food after the evening service. A handful of people can often be found hanging around the prasadam hall at about this time. One of them is inevitably me.<br />
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"Hey, come join our table full of uninitiated devotees!" a young man calls to a newcomer, one evening when there's a particularly large group of us, maybe eight or so. He, like everyone else here, pronounces the word "di-VO-dees".<br />
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"Are you all uninitiated?" the new guy asks.<br />
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"Of course! That's why my name's Leon and not Acharyanandana or something."<br />
<br />
"Do you get to choose your initiate name?"<br />
<br />
"No, it's chosen for you. You just have to hope you get a good one." He laughs. "You could end up with one like Parikshit! Then it's like..." he shrugs: "Whoa, sorry about your name, dude." The entire table cracks up, incredulous. The name sounds like a really unfortunate combination of English slang.<br />
<br />
"That's really someone's name?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah, that's pretty bad, right?" Leon's son, a chubby toddler, interrupts him by putting a half-spoonful of food in his face. He opens his mouth to accept it. "Yum yum, thank you!"<br />
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My room contains an altar with a peacock feather, a rose in a plastic water bottle, a couple of framed pictures of holy types, a battered Bhagavad Gita, and a dying <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kalanchoe">kalanchoe</a> in a pot. I recognize the plant because I've killed one before. After mixing a large quantity of soil for seeding, I use a little of it to repot the kalanchoe: maybe it's not too late for this one. <br />
<br />
The young devotee who cares for Tulsi is charmed by my efforts. She invites me to come up and meet Tulsi sometime. I go up and look through the doors, but the greenhouse is locked.<br />
<br />
Later, we're talking in the bathroom of the women's ashram, and she pauses to comment: "Ew, lovely, there's a cockroach in our bathroom." I tap the base of my steel water bottle quickly on the bug before it can scurry away. "Nooo!" she cries, dismayed. "How can you have so much love for the plant but no love for the cockroach?"<br />
<br />
This is not the kind of question I know how to answer politely. "I'm sorry," I say instead. "I didn't know that would give offense." She finishes what she was saying, clearly disconcerted, and excuses herself hastily: it's almost time to go sing and dance for Tulsi. "Sorry about the cockroach," I say again, as she leaves.<br />
<br />
"It's okay," she says over her shoulder. "Well, it's not okay, but..." and she hurries away down the hall, making conciliatory statements and canceling them out again until she's out of earshot.<br />
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I'm preparing a bed to seed with kale and chard, raking it even, marking out rows with a board, tossing weeds to the side. (No love for the weeds, either, apparently.) It's getting on toward evening, and there's a lot left to do when the rain blows in: spatters, then gusts of pelting drops. I reach for my rain jacket. <br />
<br />
The spring-warmed garden is rife with smells: fresh dirt, rich cow manure, dusty-sweet straw. But the smell of rain meeting the upturned earth is another kind of experience entirely, the most profound revelation I've encountered since arriving here a week ago. I pause to inhale deeper of this holy mystery. Deities, mantras, sacred vegetarian food: I mistrust them all, but this, this I believe in without reservation. <br />
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Thunder rattles in the distance. The shower passes. I crouch down and press seeds into the ground with the palm of my hand.Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-10401382880769070442013-03-30T12:25:00.000-07:002013-03-31T19:04:52.932-07:00Time Flies, Lindsey Drives<span style="font-size: large;">S</span>INCE my two months at <a href="http://jpusa.org/">Jesus People USA</a> in Chicago, I've been more conscious of how little of my two years of travel I have remaining. I mean, I'll be at the two-year mark in four months. <i>Four months!</i> I may push it out a month or two longer, but my savings account suggests I won't be traveling much more than that.<br />
<br />
So I've been picking up the pace, stopping places for a week or three instead of a month or three, and that has meant time for writing has been harder to come by. I've kept up on the journaling, which is the most important part from my perspective, but when I sit down to write a blog post, it quickly blooms into something more the shape and length of a book chapter. I'm excited about that tendency, but it does leave you out in the cold, gentle blogreaders. I apologize. Let me give you a quick rundown of what I've been up to.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">JPUSA's historic Chelsea Hotel, Chicago</td></tr>
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It was hard to say goodbye to my friends in Chicago, but I admit that getting out of the city was a relief. As suburbs gave way to fields and forests, I could feel myself uncrinkle inside: <i>so good to have space around me again.</i> I thought I was a city girl, but maybe I'm wrong. Or maybe I'm just not a Chicago girl. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pallet-making shop at Camp Hunt</td></tr>
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My plans to join a JPUSA road trip to the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rainbow_gathering">Rainbow Gathering</a> in Florida were stymied by yet another bout of sickness (respiratory flu: nothing serious, but enough to kill my desire to camp in the woods for a week). I did manage to catch up with the Jesus People at the tail end of their trip: a restful weekend spent at Camp Hunt, outside Bloomington, Indiana. Camp Hunt is home to a men's rehab program known as <a href="http://wheelermission.org/what-we-do/addiction-recovery/hebron-addiction-recovery-program-for-men/">The Hebron Center</a>: not precisely intentional, perhaps, but certainly a community. Staff and residents alike welcomed us with enthusiasm, talked about their lives and stories, expressed gratitude for the fellowship, teaching, and structure they've found at Camp Hunt. The program wouldn't work for someone who wasn't willing to at least profess an interest in Christianity, but it does seem to be very effective for a significant number of people. I wasn't there long enough to get much insight into the place, but it was an interesting glimpse into a community I never would have come across on my own.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Biketopia" [bike storage] at the Bloomington Catholic Worker</td></tr>
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I spent nearly a week at the Bloomington Catholic Worker, where six adults live in community, share resources, earn income part-time and volunteer part-time, with a focus on helping the homeless. They are well-placed: in Indiana, services for the very poor are few and far between, so the homeless flock to Bloomington seeking work and aid. The BCW offers their spare bedrooms as temporary housing, which helps a few of the homeless get back on their feet. Though this kind of hospitality is typical for Catholic Worker houses, the BCW is unusual in that its members are raising three (soon to be four!) children in this environment. My time here was very short, but we packed in a lot of good conversations and some lovely jam sessions, and I left with a lot to think about.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ferocious guard dog, defending his turf</td></tr>
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In Ohio, I spent two weeks with a household of anti-authoritarian activists. In an effort to live as sustainably and cheaply as possible, they scavenge almost everything they need from dumpsters, curbs, and demolition sites. Building materials (to repair and remodel their big old house), clothing and household furnishings (richly supplied by the dumpsters of nearby college dorms), even food (past-its-prime produce from one member's grocery job, assorted delicacies from grocery store dumpsters): all these and more are free, if you know where to look. Their labor system rewards both wage-earning work and unpaid service to the household, and allows them a lot of free time and energy to focus on causes like prisoner advocacy and pushing back against <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gentrification">gentrification</a> in their neighborhood. They also manage to squeeze a lot of fun into their schedule. I enjoyed foraging by flashlight, dancing under strobelights, and talking by firelight (woodstove and campfire) with these people. (I'm also a big fan of their gentle but not-too-bright dog, who ranks high on my Best Living Canines list. I mean, up there with <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2011/09/all-creatures-great-and-pig.html">Cotter at the Little Farm</a> and <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2012/11/too-many-stories.html">Storm in Chelan</a>. I'm not really a "dog person," but I am a person of specific dogs.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friendly fauna at Stoneybrook Farm</td></tr>
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And I spent two weeks at beautiful Stoneybrook Farm, in Loudoun County, Virginia, with members of a religious group called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Twelve_Tribes_communities">the Twelve Tribes</a>. They spurn the label "Christian" while following the teachings of the Bible, and claim to be the only true followers of Jesus. The Twelve Tribes work hard six days a week and rest on the Sabbath (Saturday), and incorporate a lot of Jewish tradition into their daily lives, from giving each other Hebrew names to performing Israeli folk dances on Friday nights. The men bring in income through tree servicing and construction projects; the women raise and homeschool the children, cook and clean. Both work to operate <a href="http://www.stoneybrookfarm.org/">Stoneybrook Farm Market</a>, a venue for homegrown organic produce, homebaked pies, and delicious deli sandwiches. Despite cutting themselves off from the outside world in many ways, the Twelve Tribes have a policy of warm hospitality to anyone who shows up on their doorstep. I was blessed by their cheerful generosity and enthusiastic welcome, even as I retain strong reservations about many aspects of their community.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Catacombs of the DC Metro</td></tr>
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Now I'm in Our Nation's Capitol, couchsurfing and taking a breather: writing and internetting, sleeping in late, staying out late, observing my surroundings without worrying about taking notes. It's been lovely. I still can't believe I've made it all the way "Back East," as we call it on the west coast. But here I am. Goodness gracious.Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-34262054763158047012013-01-31T13:58:00.001-08:002013-01-31T14:10:29.263-08:00New Old Year, Old New Year<span style="font-size: large;">I</span>T'S still January for a few hours yet. I can still write a cliche stock-taking New Year post, right? Right. I'm glad you agree. <br />
<br />
2012 held some triumphs and some sucker-punches, some joyous discoveries and some hard lessons. It was a year of buckling down and taking it easy, of taking risks and clinging to comforts. It was a year I felt was not wasted in the spending: a year fully lived.<br />
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It was not a year in which I blogged as much as I'd hoped to, yet I know I did what I felt I could do at the time. 2012 was a year with plenty of opportunities to practice giving myself grace for the disparity between my intentions and my actions.<br />
<br />
I didn't make any resolutions for 2013; resolutions aren't my thing, have never really made sense to me. I have aspirations for this year, big goals and overarching plans, but altering my habits with Willpower!™ is not among them.<br />
<br />
My plan for 2013 is pretty much what I hoped it'd be before starting this trip, which surprises me a little: I expected things not to go as expected. I still intend to continue my exploratory tour of intentional communities through late summer or fall 2013, and then, about two years after <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2011/08/how-it-begins.html">first leaving my home</a>, to hunker into a remote location (as yet undisclosed) to forge my journal, notes, interviews, and recollections into something roughly book-shaped. <br />
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I don't mind admitting this is by far the scariest part of this whole wacky plan. Going new places, making new friends, learning new things and doing new kinds of work have their own stresses, but they are nothing to the trepidation I feel when I contemplate locking myself up with two years' worth of notes and my own dreams and insecurities, in the hope of emerging with something tied up neatly in a package I'd be proud to share with the world. <br />
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Which is exactly why I want to do it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEnCMRYZdTL2VfULq4PdPvZGYfQoRaw58PuBGVxRRs1kJPQbv17Sk99TdUFzEZUKjFnnnnMcA1pGRUXrZbyQKmcB_nLll88FttJoUHhSKy0gucyU1vKVpHSmSJNxLDSUeCb6VB200NztA/s1600/IMG_4674.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEnCMRYZdTL2VfULq4PdPvZGYfQoRaw58PuBGVxRRs1kJPQbv17Sk99TdUFzEZUKjFnnnnMcA1pGRUXrZbyQKmcB_nLll88FttJoUHhSKy0gucyU1vKVpHSmSJNxLDSUeCb6VB200NztA/s400/IMG_4674.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lake Michigan, right before a January thunderstorm</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I</span>'VE been in Chicago for the past six weeks, at <a href="http://jpusa.org/">Jesus People USA</a>, the last US commune remaining from the Jesus movement of the early 1970s. I think it's fair to say that, despite a shortage of funds, JPUSA is currently thriving. It's a pretty remarkable community in a number of ways, not least in how it has evolved over time. Many veterans from the '70s have stuck around, so history is easily accessible. But as with any community, every member has their own interpretation of that history.<br />
<br />
You'd think I'd have compiled several volumes' worth of JPUSA stories by now, but I spent most of my first month here being sick: first struck down by a nationwide outbreak of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norovirus">stomach flu</a>, then a bad cold, followed by a sinus infection. I'd never had a sinus infection before; all I knew was that my face hurt, my ears were clogged, and no matter how much sleep I got, it was never enough. I thought it was mono. When someone matched the symptoms up to the ailment for me, I was so relieved. Who knew I'd be so pleased to learn I had a sinus infection?<br />
<br />
Anyway, The Sick not only sapped my motivation to write, but also made it really hard to concentrate and remember things, which means that my notes were sparser than I wanted. Because of this, and because I wasn't about to start over with another community while feeling this way, I postponed my departure by a couple of weeks. I'm really glad I did.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXG1tUaQBaOJjLklWyYDBMt89EaDdAB3YUF2KGhBDshadVUa8DU-A3GPEBRWjQuuXJpnYCEYNKuuK7BtMbG8TVU9VQlKG8MasSN_PnPTzS0imRBM5QdcCmZiG8X8GtsKphKWmUDHr_18o/s1600/IMG_4525.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXG1tUaQBaOJjLklWyYDBMt89EaDdAB3YUF2KGhBDshadVUa8DU-A3GPEBRWjQuuXJpnYCEYNKuuK7BtMbG8TVU9VQlKG8MasSN_PnPTzS0imRBM5QdcCmZiG8X8GtsKphKWmUDHr_18o/s400/IMG_4525.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Engraved sheet metal on the windows at JPUSA</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">T</span>HE first minutes of 2013 found me gathered with a handful of new friends in a tiny studio apartment in JPUSA's ten-story residential building. We toasted one another with homebrewed <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kombucha">kombucha</a> while the fireworks over Lake Michigan sparkled and faded on the TV screen. We prayed for peace and safety and health, for blessings on loved ones, for opportunities for growth, for a gentler year.<br />
<br />
Despite the rough beginning, I think it's gonna be a good one.Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-42229007646655320452012-11-12T20:22:00.003-08:002012-11-12T20:22:53.151-08:00Long HaulI like driving the stretch of Interstate 5 just south of Salem, Oregon. There's so much to look at: vineyards, thickly forested hills, amusement parks (including my childhood <a href="http://www.enchantedforest.com/enchanted_forest.html">happiest place on earth</a>). But I bet the one thing that gets the most double takes is the Transformer Truck.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcqhh5ytBcvescftJCdwIsCAkw0e07CCvZU2bePoz0Lym0f1As4ESkSzAwVLtK_ASLENfQMTgqRAo74HGozfZJnI-ltBYH5OtbULCNCQiCAscZ_0sGihUwi_xqTzvsbH6B6q6D6VDhBTM/s1600/IMG_2561.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcqhh5ytBcvescftJCdwIsCAkw0e07CCvZU2bePoz0Lym0f1As4ESkSzAwVLtK_ASLENfQMTgqRAo74HGozfZJnI-ltBYH5OtbULCNCQiCAscZ_0sGihUwi_xqTzvsbH6B6q6D6VDhBTM/s400/IMG_2561.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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At least, that's what I call it. Transformers™ Truck would be more
accurate. Decepticon Dump Truck would surely be more precise, though it
took me some internet research to figure that out. I've never
played with Transformers, nor had any interest in doing so, though even
as a little girl I had to concede that the toy concept was clever.<br />
<br />
So I had to consult the Transformers Wiki (of<i> course</i> there's a
Transformers Wiki) to learn that a truck much like this one actually
exists in the Transformers universe. Its name is <a href="http://tfwiki.net/wiki/Long_Haul_%28ROTF%29#Toys">Long Haul</a>. Long Haul "wishes he could spend more time in battle, destroying
his enemies with projectile weaponry. Instead, he often finds himself
stuck in the role of pack mule, lugging around the other Decepticons'
gear." Poor guy. Who wouldn't want to spend more time in battle, destroying their enemies with projectile weaponry? <br />
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I've intended to stop for a closer look for years, but was always in too much of a hurry (mostly due to my tendency to begin road trips 1-2 hours later than intended). It wasn't until this August that I finally had both time and energy to pull over at the next exit south, backtrack on the little road that parallels the freeway, and turn in at the quarry.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj62AhPKdLj1FeMsb60eqZB4pL16PiREjZZyZhTKyMI7HyApTbnSJo5N56sfyPxNrkH-mXNf79NOEj8ptP7Y0BpyQPNjSHnGMUuwLuUlhHIKBmzPqyoXQXH1gMnQ_twLznBnUbw1JWXq6E/s1600/IMG_2550.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj62AhPKdLj1FeMsb60eqZB4pL16PiREjZZyZhTKyMI7HyApTbnSJo5N56sfyPxNrkH-mXNf79NOEj8ptP7Y0BpyQPNjSHnGMUuwLuUlhHIKBmzPqyoXQXH1gMnQ_twLznBnUbw1JWXq6E/s400/IMG_2550.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
The truck perches on a great crumbly mound of crushed rock and
blackberry brambles, easily visible from the interstate. It would be a
brilliant advertisement, except that you can't see a business name or
contact info until you pull up to the gate. The quarry was unattended. I gingerly climbed up the
rock pile for a closer look, half expecting somebody to yell at me to get down from there. Below, traffic zipped past at 65 miles per
hour. I resisted the temptation to wave. <br />
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Later, I called the number on the quarry sign. The office is in a coast
town, almost two hours away. "I was wondering about the big green truck
at your quarry on I-5," I said.</div>
<br />
"What about it?" the lady asked.<br />
<br />
"Well, I mean, what is it there for?"<br />
<br />
"To hold the flag." <br />
<br />
At first I took this for mind-your-own-beeswax snark, but no, she was serious. When her husband acquired it years ago, it was burnt out and useless and neon green, and he put it up on the rock pile to hold the flag. Which it does, admirably.<br />
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"What about the big Transformer face on the side?" I asked, still puzzled.<br />
<br />
"What do you mean?"<br />
<br />
I boggled. <i>How could she not know?</i><br />
<br />
"We didn't change anything about it," she said, after a pause.<br />
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It looks to me like the Decepticon insignia was applied at the same time as the coat of green, which means this isn't a case of clever graffiti that's somehow gone unnoticed for years: it was already painted this way when the current owners bought it. But why?<br />
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Only Long Haul knows, and he ain't talkin'.<br />
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Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-52694005132989428232012-11-06T23:09:00.001-08:002012-11-06T23:16:18.793-08:00Too Many StoriesSo, I'm in Nashville. What I'm doing in Nashville is a story for another blog post; right now I just want to tell you how I got here.<br />
<br />
Where did we leave off? Oh yeah, July. I spent most of July at the <a href="http://grunewaldguild.com/">Grünewald Guild</a>, which is also a story for another blog post. And then in August I was in Portland and Eugene and Tillamook and the Seattle area.<br />
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In Portland I went to a wedding reception I'd promised to attend, where I had a swing-dancing lesson from a very tall man, and found out that some of my friends had more kids than I thought they did.<br />
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I tried to do all the responsible adult things in Portland, like taking my car to my favorite mechanics, and replacing my absent-minded property manager. I did not see <a href="http://www.atomic-arts.org/?p=916">Trek in the Park</a>. I did not visit the new <a href="http://www.iprc.org/">IPRC</a> or print up more calling cards on the antique letterpress. I did not call up half the people I intended to call up (sorry if I missed you that time around. I'll be back). But I did help assemble a <a href="https://vimeo.com/47951317">sparkler bomb</a>.<br />
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In Eugene I celebrated my mom's and aunt's birthdays with a family BBQ. I visited some friends, hugged a lot of people, and told a lot of stories.<br />
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In Tillamook, I hung out with my uncle and aunt. We talked about travel and cancer and real estate and walked on the beach and watched a bad movie in a good home theater. <br />
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Heading north, I went to the Olalla Bluegrass Festival, where there were cloggers and parading children and homemade pie. I hung out with my very small friends Willa and Ellie and their parents, and I had time to write <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2012/08/stehekin.html">a blog post about Stehekin</a>, and I had time to repack my car, and I had time to make plans.<br />
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<br />
The planning was important, because the places I intended to go in September, in the San Juan islands of western Washington, didn't work out on the timeline I was hoping for. <i>Okay, so I'll head east ahead of schedule, no problem,</i> I thought. But I hadn't <i>planned</i> the heading-east part, just conceived a vague idea of leapfrogging in the general direction of Chicago, stopping in interesting places along the way. Now the planning part suddenly became urgent. I had a lot of people to e-mail, a lot of distances to measure on Google Maps, a lot of decisions to make. I am always incredulous at how much time all of this planning business takes.<br />
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In Seattle I stayed at the home of friends who were, unfortunately, out of town. Their cats kept me company though, particularly Lark, a scrawny longhaired calico with a summer haircut that made her look like a bobble-head doll. Another Seattle friend made me a delicious dinner, and with yet another local friend I took a tour of the Seattle Underground, which makes up for what it lacks in visual impact with its lively, witty tour guides and the outlandish (yet probably 99% true) stories they tell.<br />
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(I realize that image contradicts what I just said, but that was the coolest-looking part of the tour, and there weren't even any stories about it.) <br />
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In Seattle, also, I met up with Liz, a woman in her late 50s who has spent a lot of time visiting intentional communities, and who now hopes to <a href="http://directory.ic.org/23162/Cosmosgarden_Interfaith_Monestary">get one started</a> in the Seattle area. Her ideal is an interfaith monastery, where life centers around the spiritual, but is not restricted to any one system of beliefs. We talked about communities we'd visited, and shared recommendations of places to visit, and then she gave me a book and a flashlight and said she wished she could come along too. <br />
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After that, on August 27th, my eastward trajectory began in earnest.<br />
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I stop in Chelan, WA whenever I get the chance, and I have had quite a few chances this year. Over the course of several visits, the hosts I first stayed with in February <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2012/06/finally-we-get-to-holden-village.html#more">on my way to Holden Village</a> have become good friends, and visiting them is always a treat. I met them through the miraculous global hospitality network known as <a href="https://www.couchsurfing.org/">Couchsurfing</a>.<br />
<br />
Couchsurfing is for travelers who want to find friends wherever they go, and for people who want to show hospitality to travelers passing through. You sign up and you fill out a profile and you build up a pool of references and then, wherever you go, people will have room for you to stay, and maybe time to show you around, and when you're not traveling, you can have travelers come to visit you and have interesting conversations. It's all done on a "pay it forward" basis, fueled by a huge amount of trust and goodwill and generosity, and it's been hugely successful. Like anything else involving travel and/or the internet, you have to be smart to be safe. But all things considered, I feel a lot safer staying at the home of someone with a good hosting history than I would checking into a hotel where I don't know a soul.<br />
<br />
I freely admit there are certain kinds of Couchsurfing hosts I gravitate toward. The college students who will invite you to wild parties and lay out a camping mattress for you on their dorm room floor: yeah, not so much. Given the option, I almost always pick the retired couple with the guest room. My Chelan friends fit this profile, and are as genial, relaxed, and good at hosting as that implies... but then they take it several steps farther by having a home that's designed to someday serve as a bed & breakfast, and naturally warm and welcoming personalities, and a passion for cooking amazing food, and a lot of incredible stories, and layers of interesting talents and hobbies to discuss, and the sweetest dog (and another dog too, who will probably be sweet when she's no longer a feisty nippy pup), and and and. So I didn't technically <i>need</i> to stop in Chelan, but obviously, given the opportunity, I was going to anyway.<br />
<br />
In Spokane, WA I got to visit with a friend from Holden Village, the chatty pastor who made me so welcome <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2012/06/finally-we-get-to-holden-village.html#more">before I'd even gotten off the bus</a>. We had dinner together, and then I helped her pack, because she was moving in the morning and we weren't done talking yet.<br />
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I stayed with a new friend from the <a href="http://grunewaldguild.com/">Grünewald Guild</a>, musician <a href="http://www.cherylbranz.com/">Cheryl Branz</a>, and her husband and beagle. I had time there to pause and make more travel plans (with <a href="http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html">Prufrock</a> ringing in my head: <i>...time yet for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions...</i>). The Branzes shared music and conversation and food with me, and Cheryl took me to see <a href="http://www.arborcrest.com/">Riblet Mansion</a>, which offers a brilliant view of Spokane. <br />
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From Spokane I headed north into Canada, crossing the southeast corner of BC into Alberta. This part of the continent holds some of the most stunning landscapes I've ever seen. But even when I could find a place to stop my car and take a photo, none of them came close to doing it justice. In Canada I gave up trying to figure out how much I was spending on gas; I couldn't convert both the dollars and the volume in my head, so I just shrugged and handed over my card. But I was very grateful for those little yellow km numbers on my speedometer.<br />
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I spent two nights in Lethbridge, Alberta: couchsurfing again, this time at the home of one of the two most highly ranked female karate instructors in the world. I liked her very much. She took the time to show me around Lethbridge, taught me about the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coulee">coulees</a> that run through the heart of the town, and introduced me to some of her friends, of both the horse and human variety.<br />
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When I told her about my exploration of community, she told me that she spent the first eight years of her life in a village in Newfoundland where everyone knew everyone, and everyone got taken care of. Nobody knocked before entering, food was offered automatically, and everyone cooked extra in case of company. Of course, in that part of the world, everyone had to look after each other just to make sure everyone survived the winter. Our conversation left me wondering about the factors that drive us toward community, and those that draw us away from it.<br />
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In Medicine Hat, Alberta, famous for "the world's largest tipi" (actually a giant metal monstrosity that vaguely resembles a tipi frame), I had brunch with a writer and software developer who was born and raised in Saskatchewan, my next destination. "The scenery in Saskatchewan is great!" he told me, eyes twinkling. "There's nothing to block the view!" He encouraged me to pay attention to the sky on my drive east, and to keep an eye out for wildlife along the road and in the air, of which there is plenty.<br />
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I was dreading the plains, but his advice helped, and ultimately I found the wide open spaces cathartic. On long days of driving with neither scenery nor traffic to distract me, all sorts of unresolved things came tumbling out, heavy things I had been carrying in my brain and body for who knows how long. Out there, with nothing to hide behind, I saw that each was to be reckoned with in the same way: by letting go of it, by letting go of everything but that steering wheel.<br />
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I have friends in Saskatchewan I'd never met, two of a handful of friends gained during the years I played an obscure online game and, against the odds, never quite lost touch with. In those days, lacking community in my daily life, I sought it out online, gathering a group of allies around me to keep me connected in ways I had trouble finding in real life. I make a point of meeting members of that handful of people face-to-face whenever possible. I've hung out with three of them in Seattle, but these two live in a very different sort of place, the type of town where no one bothers to lock their doors.<br />
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Without ever having met me in person before, they invited me to come stay with them for a week; without having ever met them in person before, I accepted. I thoroughly enjoyed their company <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Real_life#Distinct_from_the_Internet">IRL</a>. One day we drove an hour into the city of Regina for mini golf and a cheap late-run movie. Another day I went to work with one of them at a day center for developmentally disabled adults. Yet another day, I helped the other one clear out an uninhabited "hoarder house" full of dusty vintage trash, romance and western paperbacks, empty medication packages, thick layers of dust and dried puddles of unknown substances. We donned dust masks and gloves and shoveled the stuff into trash bags, occasionally stopping to exclaim over some unexpected treasure: silk ties, old Tupperware, a box of pocketknives still in their original packaging.<br />
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From Saskatchewan I headed south into North Dakota. I was lucky to pass through the Badlands just before sunset.<br />
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North Dakota is lovely in its loneliness. Thus my attempt to stop for fuel and food in Williston, which is simultaneously experiencing the effects of an oil boom and extensive road construction on its main streets, was jarring and disorienting: rush hour in a small town was never so inefficient. I continued to the tiny town of Richardton, where I spent a week with the nuns at <a href="http://sacredheartmonastery.com/index.php">Sacred Heart Monastery</a>, a visit that is, again, a story for another blog post.<br />
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One of the sisters was heading east to a retreat, but her bus stood her up. Thus, the morning of my departure from the monastery, I was asked if I would mind giving her a lift. I didn't mind; in fact, I was delighted for the company. So it was that I had a nun dozing in my passenger's seat on my way to Duluth. She dozed surprisingly little, considering she'd been awake all night trying to get on that bus. Every time she woke up she'd ask, "Are we there yet?" which never failed to amuse me. We had a lot of good conversation that day, and a lot of good silences.<br />
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In Duluth I caught an old friend, a travel nurse, on her week off. Together, we explored Duluth, which she hadn't really done yet on her own. There was a lot to see: we drove along the lakeshore, went to museums, ate at a lot of interesting places, and experimented with cooking at home (neither of us are prone to cooking, but we had some good recipes from those friends in Chelan). <br />
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The cold in Duluth caught me by surprise: it was only mid-September, and back home in Portland, people were still walking around in shorts. But suddenly autumn seemed like a real thing. I pulled my sweaters out of the back of the trunk and packed my warm-weather clothes there instead... and then proceeded to need warm-weather clothes for the next six weeks. (Not that I can honestly complain about the consistently gorgeous weather almost everywhere I've been.)<br />
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I stopped in Minneapolis for lunch with my erstwhile Holden Village roommate, then headed for the Wisconsin border. I have a lot of friends in Wisconsin. I started in the Eau Claire area, where a friend from my summers counseling at <a href="http://www.wcyc.org/">Wisconsin Christian Youth Camp</a> has been inviting me to come visit for years. Now I have finally had a tour of the Bittersweet Ranch, and met Biscuit the dog, and also my friend's wife, whom he always refers to as "Ma." She bakes a mean pie. My friend is a real old-school cowboy, and he took me out to the grave of his favorite horse, Gandy Dancer, with whom he had "the longest relationship I've had in my life, aside from Ma." We spent the greater part of a Saturday splitting firewood and moving it into the woodshed, and friends came over to help us, which made both the time and the work go faster.<br />
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Next it was east to the Stevens Point area, the home of two very good friends of mine from college and the aforementioned youth camp. Their house was full of life and chaos, emanating primarily from preschoolers and dogs, though things were a little more off-kilter than usual because they all had colds. The three-year-old wasn't sure about me until I taught him the Hot Lava game, where you try to make your way around the entire room without touching the floor. I should maybe apologize to his parents for that at some point.<br />
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(...Naaaah.) <br />
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In Osh Kosh I visited more summer camp friends, writer <a href="http://debcleveland.blogspot.com/">Deb Cleveland</a> and her pastor husband, <a href="http://southmoon.me/">Gary</a>. We talked at length about my travels, and Deb gave me a lot of useful information about the publishing industry; she is a goldmine of guidance, and I was grateful for her input.<br />
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South to Madison next, where I visited a friend who's pushing the boundaries of <a href="http://onestrawrob.com/">suburban sustainability</a>. He talked about the economics of sustainable farming, about how it makes sense to produce renewable energy sources in tandem with farms, and about this year's weather, which he described as "sobering." A warm March, when everything budded out just in time to be killed by frost, was followed by summer drought and, as that began to ease, an early autumn frost. "A hundred years ago, this would've been a famine year. People would've died," he told me. "I'm still thinking through the lessons of this year."<br />
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(I suppose I can say the same. Different lessons, though.)<br />
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I also spoke with four of the founding members of the now-defunct Emmaus Fellowship, curious about their efforts to create Christian community in Madison by planting a house church. They lived (at first) within a mile of each other and tried to keep their lives and homes open, not only to one another, but to others interested in joining them. It didn't last; the demands of full-time work and raising children left little time for building church and community, and after a few years, they had to abandon the project.<br />
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While hearing this story, I was reminded of something Liz said during our conversation in Seattle: that communities have a natural life cycle, that a community's end is not a failure, but a sign of a need for change. "If it disintegrates, so what?" she said, shrugging. I can see the sense of this, even as I think of how hard it <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cascade_College">can be</a> to lay a project like this to rest.<br />
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On my way from Madison to Chicago, I stopped by Caledonia, Illinois for a tour of <a href="http://www.angelic-organics.com/">Angelic Organics</a>, the farm made famous by a documentary called <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0439774/">The Real Dirt on Farmer John</a>. I hadn't seen the documentary in years, but I thought I recalled something about the farm having communal roots. When I asked my tour guide about this, she said that wasn't quite accurate; Farmer John housed some artist friends there in the '60s, but it was never an intentional community, even by my loose definition.<br />
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No matter. After having volunteered at a couple of farms which were struggling to find their economic footing, I was delighted to tour an organic farm which, despite the obstacles, has found a way to thrive and connect to customers and supporters. It's easy to find examples of sustainable agriculture, less easy to find examples which have proven to be economically sustainable for decades. And I was delighted to hear about the weird machines and biodynamic fertilizers they use, to taste carrots fresh from the dirt, to stand in a green field under a blue sky and feel the sun on my face and think: <i>I love my life.</i><br />
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Chicago was dirty and all the buildings were beige and the traffic was absurd, and it was all extremely exciting. I stayed with an old friend and adventure buddy, and we went to a poetry slam hosted, I kid you not, by <a href="http://www.greenmilljazz.com/poetryslam.html">the dude who founded slam poetry</a>. It was mesmerizing and enlightening. At dusk on another day, I drew sea creatures on the sidewalk with another one of those internet gaming friends, and with random children who wandered by.<br />
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I thought I'd be in Chicago for a month or more. There are several intentional communities there I want to check out, and a lot of city left to explore. But plans changed, as my plans tend to, and so on October 6th, my old friend and I got in my car and drove south to Nashville. <br />
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And... what happened next is a story for another blog post.<br />
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* * *</div>
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Traveling this way was both exhilarating and draining. I was never bored, not for a second, not with so many adventures packed into so little time. But the pace of a-few-days-here, a-few-days-there made it hard to write, or process, or truly rest. Even when I was enjoying myself the most, I felt a steadily growing need to just stop a while and catch up with myself, and make plans that extended more than a week out, and write something besides just catching up on journal entries.<br />
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There were other things I struggled with, too: two doses of news heavy enough to leave me staggering, sad stories I can't write here because they are not mine to tell. Each time, it was as though a compass point had shifted, and all my navigational assumptions were thrown impossibly askew. I felt not only a sense of loss, but of lostness, and a heaviness of heart that made it hard at times to breathe in the new air of the places where I found myself.<br />
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Yet I also felt, on even the saddest day, a sense of wonder at each new place I discovered, at my continuation of these unlikely journeys (inner and outer), and at how, even as I have flung myself across the country, there have been so many hands reaching out to catch me, to care for me and welcome me in. I have felt the terrified clutch of loneliness in my chest, but my empty hands have been filled, over and over again, with evidence that I am not alone: the handclasp of friends, old and new. To all you generous souls, mentioned and unmentioned here, I offer my most heartfelt thanks. May you always find as warm a welcome as the one you have offered me.Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-51770643216362783412012-08-23T14:26:00.002-07:002012-08-23T14:26:44.148-07:00Things I Learned During Two Months of Farm Work in the Okanogan• It's pronounced "oak-a-noggin".<br />
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• The number of hours of labor that go into bringing you a
bag of organic
salad greens, an heirloom tomato, or a pint of pesticide-free
strawberries is staggering. No matter how high the prices at your local farmer's market, your farmer is likely
earning nowhere near minimum wage for his work. Small-scale organic farming is a
labor of love.<br />
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• If you sleep in an old camper in a sheep pasture, you may occasionally get friendly calls from the neighbors.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf-2AM4pjZeaSYwaB9tAsow5izD49txi_A7s-6Uz_vKjOdkrVsynxo89r1L5hqorFQXxI5uhcyfGyqoTcBafidokOCXB2qsLdwh_IbXtutmDI4YWpdfYkPpYp2Z3k6GquFAS1bC1PxcMA/s1600/IMG_1561.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf-2AM4pjZeaSYwaB9tAsow5izD49txi_A7s-6Uz_vKjOdkrVsynxo89r1L5hqorFQXxI5uhcyfGyqoTcBafidokOCXB2qsLdwh_IbXtutmDI4YWpdfYkPpYp2Z3k6GquFAS1bC1PxcMA/s400/IMG_1561.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
• On the other hand, if your camper is being devoured noisily by a pair of hand-raised
Cashmere goats in the middle of the night, don't even waste your time
going out and trying to chase them away. They will just watch you,
amused and slightly puzzled, and then try to follow you into the
camper.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhygywbFBdnOd4S8GqwQF4Op0HjLqB1B1vMKykBh4vVd8gFan71xh4gZRhdvcjsdazl2vxGtBC_C2DGGfiAJtsJ4oB-3d3wch-WqjA-GWCayF-lqBeQMOxvcNqUzVRm7wEEglJoLmN2ww/s1600/IMG_1681.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhygywbFBdnOd4S8GqwQF4Op0HjLqB1B1vMKykBh4vVd8gFan71xh4gZRhdvcjsdazl2vxGtBC_C2DGGfiAJtsJ4oB-3d3wch-WqjA-GWCayF-lqBeQMOxvcNqUzVRm7wEEglJoLmN2ww/s400/IMG_1681.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
• If you're ever charged by a llama, you should indicate that
you are not a threat by looking away, crouching down, and pretending to eat the grass
or groom yourself or something. Note: no one ever actually manages to do this while being charged by a llama.<br />
<br />
• You can avoid being
charged by a llama by acting unassuming, slouching
along, head down, like you got no beef with nobody. Like mountain gorillas and humans with a chip on their shoulder, llamas interpret a direct gaze
as a challenge, so just look at them out of the corner of your eye.
Making little noises at predictable intervals, so they can keep track of
your location without looking at you, may also be helpful. Or maybe you're just looking for an excuse to make silly noises. <br />
<br />
• If
the llamas don't perceive you as a threat, and then they lose most of
their sheep herd, they may decide they need to guard you instead. You
may even find them sitting outside your camper door in the morning. Try
to act casual, as though you walk within a few yards of a couple of
attack llamas every morning, because... now you do.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLV1-g4ZDMG0TtkKi5A2uccQnwTAwBgZQLb4M9zKCqTYnresl3CvkI8b3-_2SZxMUHCCkGxX2Py2VITADx9lFE0fm13lRXheMtEYfoALNpbzlbvaL302u2bFhrmzLwtO578E_ggyc1LgQ/s1600/IMG_1563.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLV1-g4ZDMG0TtkKi5A2uccQnwTAwBgZQLb4M9zKCqTYnresl3CvkI8b3-_2SZxMUHCCkGxX2Py2VITADx9lFE0fm13lRXheMtEYfoALNpbzlbvaL302u2bFhrmzLwtO578E_ggyc1LgQ/s400/IMG_1563.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
• Fresh-picked organic greens make incredible salads. <br />
<br />
• <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amaranth#Nutritional_value">Some</a> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goosefoot">weeds</a> are pretty darn tasty, too.<br />
<br />
• Weeding carrots is an incredibly painstaking task, because the weeds
come up way before the carrots do. Still, if you're not in a rush, it can be oddly soothing. <br />
<br />
• Harvesting strawberries from a patch that has run
wild, is overgrown with weeds and peppered with ant nests, and has no
bare patches to stand on can really take the romance out of harvesting
strawberries. However, it can also really help you appreciate the
relative ease of harvesting from tidy rows.<br />
<br />
• Even on an organic farm, plastic has its place.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXYZdUqAyFIlu0xIn8e51J8FsiIQGkzNwO3ylwFgXvZKJ6Hi6qyTb7_6DGk-Ce6lojFz2xlWT92zkqSHnmcOp2vqMpFv-8LI3dJjKe77bJz6Luz-TxYH1svPn2YHf3nnyo3sXXfK5Da6Y/s1600/IMG_1656.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXYZdUqAyFIlu0xIn8e51J8FsiIQGkzNwO3ylwFgXvZKJ6Hi6qyTb7_6DGk-Ce6lojFz2xlWT92zkqSHnmcOp2vqMpFv-8LI3dJjKe77bJz6Luz-TxYH1svPn2YHf3nnyo3sXXfK5Da6Y/s400/IMG_1656.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
• If you are a farm intern and you get the chance to potluck and have
jam sessions with interns from other farms, you should definitely do that as often
as possible. <br />
<br />
• There is a bird, possibly a Bullock's Oriole, possibly something else, which has different songs for every summer and probably for every location, and if you happen to be in the specific place and time that the bird's songs sound uncannily like two different riffs from the Blind Melon song "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qVPNONdF58">No Rain</a>", then you might wake up a lot of mornings singing <i>I just want so-omeone to say to me, whoa-oh-oh-ohh, I'll always be there when you way-yake.</i> And the one time that you hear the No Rain bird singing those two riffs accompanied by another bird that is chirping <i>exactly where the beat should be, </i>you will wonder just what sort of alternate universe you have stumbled into.<br />
<br />
• Families are the most complicated kind of community.<br />
<br />
• New friends are awesome. Old friends are awesome. Old friends hitting it off with new friends right away: <i>super</i> awesome.<br />
<br />
• Healthy farm cats can smell inexplicably great, like sweet woodsmoke and expensive musk.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5nC1NypFVU8i7Ti-S9q4pJ-cauYUt6RmlS-B5HOYd3qsEE9NsWKWijTIwzLauPaa1lWIb6PPmhNeZBGEOe9CXrh_6ehawgtycQl_NHn6eIzHYclcwZ-7aFUUqZHUurgHsE8Jxvg89Ahg/s1600/IMG_1990.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5nC1NypFVU8i7Ti-S9q4pJ-cauYUt6RmlS-B5HOYd3qsEE9NsWKWijTIwzLauPaa1lWIb6PPmhNeZBGEOe9CXrh_6ehawgtycQl_NHn6eIzHYclcwZ-7aFUUqZHUurgHsE8Jxvg89Ahg/s400/IMG_1990.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
• Kittens of a certain age have absolutely no concept of staying out from underfoot. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjufhw9wSeDNEp239g3wn8Ek5xhOqLoDGD_-MtfNbo7pL4IyG0XPqrdV6IIqAjCWgzyydmWQ9nt_YDXpLEOzzzHdPpgMokN-CtSncVYrT44QNtj4wKzh3jvabvg8YMDfxx8EogcuzDR4BA/s1600/IMG_1758.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjufhw9wSeDNEp239g3wn8Ek5xhOqLoDGD_-MtfNbo7pL4IyG0XPqrdV6IIqAjCWgzyydmWQ9nt_YDXpLEOzzzHdPpgMokN-CtSncVYrT44QNtj4wKzh3jvabvg8YMDfxx8EogcuzDR4BA/s400/IMG_1758.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
• You can scoff all you like at people getting mushy over cute baby
animals, but when a duckling walks across the table and nestles itself
into your hand with no prompting whatsoever, your cold, cold
heart will melt into a puddle of goo.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKYiT1icBcOUHk03VGKNYbZooLVXKOE2C6g2Ga5mr1iizoBdrPnL6-sh5-XAokUyUtotaDgO5nrwWZTF1K8DBRmgqeTrluxw12qFO8-ST9lgdNGJr1qY0gOZM1Bl0Q_Aecmd2EQCtw0dk/s1600/IMG_1571.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKYiT1icBcOUHk03VGKNYbZooLVXKOE2C6g2Ga5mr1iizoBdrPnL6-sh5-XAokUyUtotaDgO5nrwWZTF1K8DBRmgqeTrluxw12qFO8-ST9lgdNGJr1qY0gOZM1Bl0Q_Aecmd2EQCtw0dk/s400/IMG_1571.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
• If you're offered the chance to help out a <a href="http://leahapassaro.blogspot.com/">milliner</a> in her felting studio for a few days, you'd probably better jump on that, because it is just as cool as you're imagining.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0XyAipFNmjGH135ue1EVp7qWRsaPC_tEos3X9YphrgKaD2EAeQStGs-B_yTYlz6aOAZglqRMh8_zlASc5fsX0qgH4n7pgU75WDuQMWxnN9uZ2ViRHp4cQYJtSNH4ZxQV58NZXKBckZnA/s1600/IMG_1776.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0XyAipFNmjGH135ue1EVp7qWRsaPC_tEos3X9YphrgKaD2EAeQStGs-B_yTYlz6aOAZglqRMh8_zlASc5fsX0qgH4n7pgU75WDuQMWxnN9uZ2ViRHp4cQYJtSNH4ZxQV58NZXKBckZnA/s400/IMG_1776.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
• When you can't shake the blues, a solo run over the mountains into Seattle for <a href="http://www.nwfolklifefestival.org/">Folklife</a> might be just what you need. Especially when you have friends there
who will take you in and feed you steak and watch Star Wars with you, or
who will wander all over Seattle Center with you and encourage you to talk their ears off and then go out of their way to give you a lift so you don't have to take the bus after dark.<br />
<br />
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<br />
• If you get invited to some kind of <a href="http://singingalive.org/singing-alive-okanogan">weird hippie song festival</a>, and you really like to sing, it is probably worth your time. If <a href="http://www.laurencecole.com/">Laurence Cole</a> is there, it is <i>definitely</i> worth your time, because he will teach everyone sweet four-part harmonies. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Si-Nv-nuSshN0JSaiHOg1RXw0xy6RVtKt5R-vMcH3Stsv7xVapu5l01YP2EcozAsToXoW8ClatLYc7V_MbG8LurKpnhNq-7OUz0tQMPNglvNZ0ByqHz-1VVCH3aD8D-Qp7RzxDd-VYs/s1600/IMG_1852.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Si-Nv-nuSshN0JSaiHOg1RXw0xy6RVtKt5R-vMcH3Stsv7xVapu5l01YP2EcozAsToXoW8ClatLYc7V_MbG8LurKpnhNq-7OUz0tQMPNglvNZ0ByqHz-1VVCH3aD8D-Qp7RzxDd-VYs/s400/IMG_1852.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
• Absolutely the most entertaining part of a small-town rodeo is the part where they let a bunch of chickens loose in the ring with a bunch of little kids, and the kids all run around trying to catch the chickens. Mayhem doesn't <i>begin</i> to describe it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKcRfHMOyBs2QN91RThyphenhyphen8ZbJ4XHZ-Vy7g93AgmQnv775q2ST29up22dyhlSHdPVwxMAjvrKPiEUok8vjM6uCmxV-spG4yCTW2wX0UrD2CXJQRNfIcwfK0f2LXuQp-DhHZtKRf3Vgsnd8g/s1600/IMG_1921.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKcRfHMOyBs2QN91RThyphenhyphen8ZbJ4XHZ-Vy7g93AgmQnv775q2ST29up22dyhlSHdPVwxMAjvrKPiEUok8vjM6uCmxV-spG4yCTW2wX0UrD2CXJQRNfIcwfK0f2LXuQp-DhHZtKRf3Vgsnd8g/s400/IMG_1921.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
• If you must get a 4-wheel-drive vehicle stuck deep in the mud on a
dead-end logging road in Canada while looking for an obscure campsite
that you later will suspect doesn't actually exist, make sure you do so
with a couple of calm, competent women who will not admit defeat, even
when splattered with mud and swarmed by clouds of ravenous mosquitoes.
Try to act like you're as cool and confident as they are, at least until
you're safely back on the main road again.<br />
<br />
• Speaking of taking wrong turns in Canada, it turns out <a href="http://water.epa.gov/polwaste/wastewater/treatment/biosolids/genqa.cfm">biosolid treatment fields</a> actually don't reek nearly as badly as you'd think.<br />
<br />
•
Also, if you're camping in Canada and you realize you didn't bring the
proper materials to start a campfire on a damp evening (hint: even if you bring firewood,
you won't get far without newspaper and an axe), Canadian campers will
probably not only help you, but also refrain from laughing at you until
they're out of earshot.<br />
<br />
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Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-50803487752835603572012-08-22T00:22:00.000-07:002012-08-22T00:48:24.053-07:00Stehekin!<span style="font-size: large;">"I</span> 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.<br />
<br />
"That is <i>exactly</i> 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 <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2012/07/seasons-change-march-and-april.html">village worth of friends</a>, including my newly-ex-sweetheart. I knew today was going to hurt. That doesn't make it hurt any less.<br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Roscoe: You should come visit Steheekan.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">me: Steheekan?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">No phones, no newspapers less than 2 weeks old. Maybe 6 cars.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">me: oh my gosh. this is definitely going on the list.</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
And now I'm finally seeing it for myself. I met my host, Hannah, while she was volunteering at Holden Village in February; we were across-the-hall neighbors in the dorm, and co-instigated a series of informal jam sessions for amateur musicians. When I learned she works summers in Stehekin, I was quick to invite myself up for a visit, and she was quick to say yes.<br />
<br />
We spend the better part of this afternoon dinking around Hannah's brother's place, an old residence owned by the Park Service not far from the boat landing. It's a nice spot with a lovely view of the lake. In summer the mosquitoes get bad in these parts, except for right here in this yard, due to the massive bat population residing in the attic.<br />
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<br />
Hannah's brother Pat, a seasonal Park Service employee, is stringing battered large-bulb Xmas lights around the kitchen, and tries to get Hannah to help him. But her attention span, never long at the best of times, is completely blown by the Benadryl she took for a wasp sting. It also isn't helped by that brief surprise visit from her boyfriend earlier today (he came up from Holden with me, but went back again with the ferry). "I can't believe he was <i>just here!"</i> she yelps, missing yet another nonverbal cue for assistance. Pat rolls his eyes. I grin and pick up the end of the light string.<br />
<br />
I don't mind; I've got nowhere else to be, and Hannah and Pat's feisty, affectionate banter is entertaining. The lights get put up eventually, with lots of singing, silliness, and snark. We're finally ready to head up the road to Hannah's place, but alas, the bike I'm borrowing from Pat needs air in the tires and the seat lowered for my short legs. Pat sighs and reaches for a wrench. "You're never gonna get out of here," he informs me, after Hannah wanders back inside to steal his corn chips.<br />
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<br />
But the bike is soon ready, and we finally leave Pat in peace and bike the couple of miles to Hannah's summer home, a tiny two bedroom apartment owned by her employer. We catch each other up on Holden/Stehekin gossip while digging up dandelions from the horse pasture behind her home. <br />
<br />
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After Holden's lingering snows, Stehekin is abruptly, alarmingly green. The whole time I'm there, the Indigo Girls song <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NlNN1luA1q8">"Southland in the Springtime"</a> keeps running through my head. With some tweaks to the lyrics, it's even appropriate:<br />
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<i>And there's somethin' 'bout Stehekin in the springtime</i><br />
<i>Where the waters flow with confidence and reason</i><br />
<i>Though I'll miss her when I'm gone, it won't ever be too long</i><br />
<i>Till I'm home again to spend my favorite season</i><br />
<i>When God made me Oregonian, he was teasin'</i><br />
<i>There's no place like home, and none more pleasin'</i><br />
<i>Than Stehekin in the springtime.</i><br />
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After we clean the dandelion roots, we ride back to Pat's to roast them. Hannah cooks dinner, Pat builds a fire, and Pat's housemate does homework while bursting intermittently into random loud noises, perhaps to imply that no one can distract her from her studies, because she is the most distracting. As the sun goes down, my energy level does too, and I doze on the couch in the living room until Pat coaxes me out to the fire to play the banjo. When dinner is ready, Hannah, Pat, and I sit around the campfire eating, drinking, and making music together. Pat is another beginning banjo player, and Hannah's getting pretty good at the ukulele. We try our hand at <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1gX1EP6mG-E">"Wagon Wheel"</a>, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qVPNONdF58">"No Rain"</a>, and various other songs from Hannah's hand-scribbled song file. She's working on <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0HWkTuWvZUk">a Bob Dylan song that's new to me</a>, but I like it:<br />
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<i>I ain't looking to compete with you </i><br />
<i>Beat or cheat or mistreat you </i><br />
<i>Self defy you, classify you </i><br />
<i>Deny, defy, or crucify you </i><br />
<i>All I really wanna doooo...</i><br />
<i>Is, Baby, be friends with you.</i><br />
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It's only after a couple of games of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bananagrams">Bananagrams</a> that I finally give in to my exhaustion and ask Hannah if we can head back to her house so I can sleep. The housemate (whose name I don't have permission to use) has long since gone to bed, but Hannah and Pat show no signs of flagging. The moon has taken a while to appear (after all, it had to scale the mountainside first), but when it finally does, it's huge and brilliant, reflecting off the water like a spotlight. We ride our bikes back to Hannah's with headlamps, but we almost don't need them.<br />
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The next morning, Hannah and I drink tea made from the dandelion roots we roasted. It's pretty bad, we agree, but drinkable if you add enough honey. We ride over to Pat's, then paddle him downlake in a metal Park Service canoe, which we can't take out without a Park Service employee. The wind picks up when we're a good way out and, without much rowing experience under my belt, I find I'm not much use in getting us back. Pat cheerfully takes over my paddle and shouts nonsensical pseudo-sailor-babble while he and Hannah power us back to the landing.<br />
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Next on the agenda is a free <a href="http://stehekinkiteproject.com/2/post/2012/06/post-title-click-and-type-to-edit1.html">kite-making class</a>. Along with the other students, we spread out on the floor and divvy up supplies: pre-cut triangles of kraft paper, masking tape, wooden dowels, glue and paint and tissue paper for decoration. Pat's kite has fangs reminiscent of a ferocious fighter jet; he jokes about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fighter_kite">gluing ground-up glass to the string</a> to bring down rival kites. Hannah's is splashed with bright stripes and glitter and, at the suggestion of a local child, features a fat orange carrot on the keel. My kite, inspired by yesterday's dandelion hunt, starts out with a collaged background made from torn pieces of tissue paper, but I run out of time and have to complete my design with paint. My art projects always do run into overtime, but in this case I'm pleased with the result anyway.<br />
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Afterward, we ride our bikes to the frisbee golf course, which looks to my uneducated eye like a wooded lot with a few frisbee golf targets scattered randomly around it. We play a round with Pat's housemate and the postman, who directs us around the course according to his best recollection. "I hate this game!" he says when he does poorly, and when he aims well, "I love this game!" I enjoy it a lot more myself when I realize that no one is keeping score.<br />
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On the way back to Hannah's house, I get a tour of the "Compactor", a trash and recycling dropoff site which also functions as Stuff-Swapping Central for Stehekinites. This is where Pat found the vintage holiday lights that now hang in his kitchen. We scour the racks of clothes and boxes of cast-offs, looking for undiscovered treasure.<br />
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I am particularly amused by the brand name of the cardboard and can crushers.<br />
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Then Hannah makes dinner for the four of us, and we play Scrabble (Pat wins) and Bananagrams. After the others have gone, Hannah and I sit around talking, drinking tea, and eating dark chocolate with green anise until 1:00 a.m. I've been tired for so long I don't even realize how late it is until Hannah mentions it.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I</span> am visiting Stehekin at the perfect time: after the weather has turned gorgeous, but before it fills up with insects, tourists, and seasonal workers, and before my host is too busy with work to hang out with me all day. The mud flats on which we'll fly our kites will soon be under water, and the intense greens of the spring landscape will fade. Like Holden, Stehekin in summer is an entirely different world than it is in winter. When I visit in May, it's just beginning its annual transformation from a tiny, sleepy community with a population under 100 to a hotspot for vacationers from all over. Hannah describes Stehekin in summer as a nonstop round of parties, events, and adventures, but with plenty of space for solitude if you want it. It's easy to see what brings the crowds here: it's gorgeous and remote, though it reminds me less of Rivendell (which I always picture in a deciduous setting) and more of the Alps: a hiker's daydream and a photographer's paradise.<br />
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Riding bikes everywhere is a lot of work for my out-of-shape body, and Pat's bike isn't really a good fit for my frame. I miss my <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2011/09/morro-bay-is-pretty-little-town.html">foldie</a>, stashed in the trunk of my car many miles away. Still, it's much better than no bike, and a bike is definitely the best way to see Stehekin. I quickly grow to appreciate the way the ride forces me to slow down and really be in <i>this</i> place, instead of using travel time as a prelude to the next destination. Traffic is a non-issue here; the rare car that passes gives us a wide berth and a friendly wave. We often pass deer which seem utterly unfazed by our proximity. As for me, I have to turn off the automatic alert that sounds in my brain the first few times I see them on the road (<i>DEER! LOOK OUT! SLOW DOWN!</i>). To a driver, deer mean danger, but to a cyclist, they're just fellow travelers. <br />
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Hannah tells me the bakery where she works functions as a sort of town square, a popular spot for locals to gather for gossip. Thus, she is always up on the latest dirt. She describes Stehekin as being ruled by two opposing factions: the Courtney family, which came out to homestead there in the early 1900s, and the Park Service. The bakery where Hannah works is owned by a Courtney, and her brother works for the Park Service, so she gets an interesting view of both sides. Later, when I cross-check this with Pat, he says the two factions actually get on fine locally; it's just the remote Park Service bureaucrats who clash with the Courtneys. Apparently the upper-level Park Service, careless of the residents' desires, has notions of turning Stehekin into a wilderness preserve. I take this, as intended, with a grain of salt; it sounds like an issue with no easy resolution.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">O</span>N Sunday, May 6th, Hannah and I ride to the mud flats to meet up with the other kite-makers for the flying portion of the class. We add grommets and crepe-paper tails, hook our kites to lengths of string wrapped round driftwood, and listen to an overview of proper technique, which we promptly forget. We crash our kites into the mud many times, patch them up with masking tape, and call the increasing raggedness of their appearance "character."<br />
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Good kite-flying technique, it turns out, doesn't involve running at all; the trick is to unwind all your string in a straight line, with the kite at the downwind end. Then you get someone to toss the kite into the air while you reel the string in quickly hand-over-hand, letting it back out slowly as the kite gets high enough to catch a puff of wind. Hannah and I help each other bring the "Sky Carrot" and "Dandy Flyer" aloft briefly, but the wind is light, and dwindles down to nothing just as we are getting the hang of it.<br />
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Pat gets distracted from kite-flying by a paraglider, brought along by a local named Bob. Pat straps on the gear and barrels down the beach while Bob yells "Run-run-run-run-run!" at him like a drill sergeant. There's not enough wind to lift him off the ground, of course, but the whole thing bellies up over his head quite impressively.<br />
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Hannah wanders off somewhere, and I'm trying to figure out how to re-launch my kite without her help when I spot a familiar figure approaching across the mud. It's Holden's newest Head Maverick, returning from a camping trip and preparing to head back downlake to the Village. We greet each other with absurd levels of enthusiasm, given that it's been less than 48 hours since we said goodbye, and talk each other's ears off until the kite workshop people come around to ask if I want to submit my kite to an exhibit in Stehekin's tiny art gallery. Of course I do; I tell Hannah she can keep it once the exhibit is taken down. The Maverick offers to take messages back to friends at Holden for us, and we scribble notes on miscellaneous scraps of paper while he eats lunch at the tiny restaurant by the landing.<br />
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We have a camping trip to get ready for, so after we wave goodbye to our surprise visitor, we run bike errands: visit the neighbors to borrow snowshoes, and stop by the farm to pick up honey and goat cheese. Karl, currently Stehekin's only farmer, comes down the tidy rows of growing things to greet us, smiling and barefooted. It looks like he does a lot with a little space and a short growing season. He's had a long time to refine his technique, having spent most of his life here. He tells us Stehekin has seen two big changes in his lifetime: the paving of the only road (in the '70s, I believe), and the internet. But because of tight restrictions on development in Stehekin, he says, "It'll never really change." I can't help but hope he's right.<br />
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Later, Pat and his housemate come by the bakery to pick us up, and we drive several miles of winding, unpaved road until we're stopped short by a fallen tree. As we prepare to hike, I wonder what I'm getting myself into; I've done a little car camping, but this overnight backpacking thing is new to me, and my companions are all significantly younger and more physically active. Shouldering my glorified bookbag, I note uneasily that my companions all have serious frame packs.<br />
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I've been told our hike will be "a couple miles," so I'm expecting to walk about, y'know, two miles. In truth, it's at least four miles of fairly rough going: uneven terrain over a significant elevation gain, with mud and streams of runoff to get past, patches of snow that increase in size as we progress, and more fallen logs and debris on the trail. (Later in the season, tidying up the trails will fall to Pat and other Park Service trail crew.)<br />
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I chose the wrong footwear for this trek: my lightweight hiking boots are merely "water resistant," and my feet quickly get soggy and cold. I'm carrying my borrowed snowshoes in an over-the-shoulder bag that keeps sliding all over the place. In the latter part of the hike, I'm postholing shin-deep in snow-patches, until the irony finally gets to me and I stop to put on the darn snowshoes. The others soon do the same, though we clack over a lot of dry ground, and fallen logs become a significantly greater challenge.<br />
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The hike is beautiful, but the elevation is high, and my blood sugar is low, and it takes <i>for-ev-er.</i> At dusk we finally reach our destination: a one-room cabin owned by the Park Service. It has four bunks, two bear-safe food chests, a wood stove, a dining table and chairs, and an attached woodshed, but no electricity or plumbing. An outhouse sits nearby; the only running water is the torrent hurtling past, farther down the snowy slope.<br />
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Wet, chilled, and exhausted, I sit by uselessly while the others light lamps and start a fire to warm the place up. In a moment of pettiness, I snap something about how you should give a greenhorn some idea of what to expect before taking her on such an expedition. My companions are astonished when I explain I've never hiked in to a campsite before. "But you were at Holden!" they say, which confuses me: roughing it is purely optional for Holden staff. On some level I'm pleased that I do a good impression of a seasoned outdoorswoman, but it occurs to me now that I should make a habit of warning new adventure buddies that my adventurousness, in some areas, runs very shallow.<br />
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I continue to be useless and cranky (and ashamed of my outburst) while the others fix dinner, which, when ready, improves my mood immensely. We follow the meal with a rowdy game of Travel Scrabble (Hannah wins), and then I retire to bed, popping in earplugs as sleep insurance. The others stay up and chat a little while longer, but not much.<br />
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The next morning we feast on cinnamon french toast and eggs: it's Hannah's birthday, and this meal (and the entire camping trip) is a celebration of it. Before, during, and after breakfast, Pat plays <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GmZ2ICOZ8mo">"You Say It's Your Birthday"</a> 24 times on his iPhone, and for each repetition, demands that Hannah recall the appropriate year of her life: where she lived, what she did, who she hung out with. I know, I know, that sounds incredibly obnoxious, but it's actually really fun to listen to her review her past at a rate of 2 minutes and 42 seconds per year, and to mentally compare her timeline to my own. I must say her first 24 years have been far more eventful than mine were.<br />
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Soon we are packing up, hitting the trail (easier now that I know what to expect, but still no cakewalk), and driving back to Hannah's. I pack up to leave, and Hannah and I ride bikes to the landing with my gear in tow. Incredibly, none of this is rushed; Hannah generously overestimated the time needed, so we have plenty to spare. At the landing, we cross paths with more Holden staff who happen to be passing through. They'll be joining me for the first part of the ferry ride downlake, then disembarking at Holden's port of Lucerne while I continue on to Chelan, where my car awaits, and hospitable friends are expecting me for dinner.<br />
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Hannah and Pat and his housemate wait with us on the dock for the ferry to leave; Hannah kills time by practicing juggling with one of the Holdenites. When we get on the boat, the three of them stand by to see us off, and as the dock grows small in the distance, Hannah runs down it to wave until I can't see her anymore. Later, I will conk out on a row of passenger seats below decks. The weekend's fun has been relentless, exhilarating, and exhausting, and it was, indeed, exactly what I needed.<br />
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Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-52196347257212881432012-07-21T14:49:00.000-07:002012-07-21T20:54:51.813-07:00Season's Change: March and April<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">S</span>PRING comes slowly to this high valley. The landscape reveals itself to me little by little, with new surprises every day: <i>I didn't know</i> that <i>was there!</i>
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. </div>
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Snowmelt means more than just mud here. The village is powered by a small hydro plant, and in winter everyone is on electricity rations, with frequent power outages. When the waters rise, we get to leave off stoking the wood furnaces, use clothes dryers, plug the kitchen appliances in the dorms back in, and be careless about leaving lights on. Such luxury!<br />
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The most popular song at Holden at this time of year, a tune by frequent Holden visitor <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Josh_Ritter">Josh Ritter</a>, has a chorus that goes, "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NJZiojEGuy0">Been a long time coming/But now the snow is gone.</a>" It's not quite accurate by the time I leave the village in early May, but the reckless joy of winter's hold loosening is spot on. Holdenites revel in the sunny days whenever they happen, basking on the loading dock and soaking up the Vitamin D. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lodge 6 and loading dock, April 20, 2012.</td></tr>
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Still, it snows the first three days of May, and I'm not sorry; I didn't start this winter in November like the long-termers did, only in February, and I'm not quite tired of it yet.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">A</span>T winter's end, the village is poised on the edge of big changes. The toxic waste products of the old Holden mine (in operation 1937-1957) remain, and though hazy as to their whereabouts, I get the impression they are carelessly piled up on the hillside above the village. "Why don't they just remove the waste from the valley?" I ask friends back in Portland, when I first hear about the problem. "Oh, there's too much. You'll see," they tell me. But I don't see, not until spring melt reveals the rusty ridges of tailings left over from years of mining, massive landforms through which water seeps down to Railroad Creek, carrying toxic sludge with it. The tailings <i>are</i> the hillside, and the creek is poisoned, its waters blood-stark against the snow. <br />
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Rio Tinto, the company that has inherited responsibility for the Holden mine, has been in consultation with Holden Village and the Forest Service about the problem. On March 9, the village directors, Chuck and Steph Carpenter, met with all interested villagers to report on these negotiations. I took notes. The notes may be out of date, but I offer the gist here anyway, together with the updates I'm aware of.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Signs salvaged from the Holden mine.</td></tr>
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Rio Tinto intends to halt the toxic runoff by constructing a barrier wall of waterproof (bentonite) cement at the lower end of the tailings, a sort of subterranean dam which will go all the way down to the bedrock (40 to 80 feet at the shallower end). The water that passes through the tailings will be redirected to a new treatment plant. The steep part of the tailings by the creek will be graded back, and the top will be regraded and recapped and contoured for runoff. This project could theoretically be completed in the fall of 2014, although it's too early to say with any sort of certainty. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Skeletal remains of the ore mill.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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As you might guess, this is significantly going to change life at Holden for the duration of the project. Already, as I write this, the landscape is underscored with an orange safety fence designed to keep people (and deer) out of the path of heavy equipment, and the grumble of big trucks rolling past has become a part of the village's soundtrack. A new bridge is being constructed to divert traffic around the village, certain well-loved hiking paths are off limits for the duration, and efforts are underway to clear over 80 years' worth of junk (old appliances, scrap metal, building materials, abandoned equipment) off the "Third Level," the ridge above the village where the mine entrance is located.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Long-abandoned equipment on the Third Level.</td></tr>
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The biggest change, though, will be the difference in the village population. This summer, 60-80 mine workers will arrive to prepare the site for remediation, and in 2013, up to 250 will show up for the task proper. Holden is a retreat center, economically sustained by its summer flood of enthusiastic guests, some of whom have been showing up annually for decades. In 2011, about 6500 people passed through (I'm not sure if this number includes staff as well as guests, but either way, it's a lot). Regular summer programming continues this year, but in 2013 they'll be cutting back on (if not eliminating) lectures and classes, as mine workers fill most of the guest housing. Mine workers will be invited to participate in village activities, though their demanding schedules may mean not many will choose to. "There will be no evangelizing efforts," Chuck says, but there will be ongoing efforts to show the same hospitality to the workers that Holden is known for showing its guests and staff.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mine entrance in March 2012. Sign reads: UNAUTHORIZED PERSONS KEEP OUT.</td></tr>
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It's no secret that the Holden mine remediation is a PR move. As you might expect from the third largest mining company in the world, Rio Tinto has been called out many a time for environmental devastation and unfair treatment of workers. These cleanup efforts are something they can point to for years to come as a token of their environmental responsibility, while perhaps being less conscientious in less visible countries. That doesn't alter the fact that the mine cleanup is a very good thing for this corner of the world. Holden's directors are realistic about the challenges it will pose for village life, but very positive about the process nonetheless. Chuck describes it as "an exciting time... a time of new venture," and Steph says those who are here for the process will have "stories to tell your grandkids." In future years, she says, people will look at this as a turning point, with a "before" and "after", like the summer work camps of the early 1960s that renovated the village, transforming it from ghost town to retreat center.<br />
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As far as I can see, their optimism is well-founded. Holden Village is the most financially secure non-profit I've ever worked for, and from all appearances is treated as an equal negotiating party by Rio Tinto and the U.S. Forest Service. If they play their cards right, they may well find themselves better off after the remediation than before, with a new water treatment plant, fire protection system, water mains, road improvements, and who knows what else. This summer, the village celebrates its 50th year as a retreat center with weekly parades, in which a <a href="http://www.getresponse.com/archive/beholden20120301/Be-Holden-Vol-I-No-11-9308099.html">giant mine remediation worker</a> is a regular fixture: environmental responsibility is celebration-worthy, too.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I</span> don't want to sound like all the other folks who wax on about how magical Holden is, but seriously, what is it about Holden people? They all strike me as so uniquely loveable, so entirely themselves. During my time there, I sometimes wonder: if I had met some of these odd ducks and curious creatures elsewhere instead, would I find them so utterly charming, or merely awkward and obnoxious? <br />
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I mentioned this puzzle to a wise <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quakers">Friend</a> (who has never been to Holden), and he remarked that you see in other people what you are inside. There may well be some truth in this, but I wasn't satisfied with the implied explanation that I think other people are wonderful because I, myself, am so wonderful. First of all, that triggers even my loosely-calibrated arrogance alarm, and secondly, there are plenty of people elsewhere whom I don't like at all. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that Holden people are so loveable because they are so loved. Somehow, they've managed to implement this self-perpetuating system that makes people feel important, included, and cared for. It doesn't work for everyone, but everyone who sticks around, or comes back, is there because it worked for them.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">M</span>AYBE it's all the love that makes me feel so safe here, too. It's not just that there's no need to lock doors (and indeed, aside from a few offices, nothing is ever locked). There is something about this place and community that makes me feel secure enough to push myself, to do things that scare me. I teach myself to exult instead of panic when I lose-and-regain my balance on an icy walkway: "I could have really hurt myself!" becomes "Look what I can do!" I climb up a very steep hill and sled down it, face-first, yelping and laughing fiendishly. I take part in a "Holden flashmob," zombie-dancing to "Thriller" in the dining hall, an undertaking that nudges hard against a couple of my more durable insecurities. And I muster the courage to tell someone I think we should be dating, with very satisfying results.<br />
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Pairing off in such a close-knit community is full of paradoxical challenges. The community is what brings the two of us together, but the community also keeps us apart, filling our time with other commitments, leaving us little space to be alone. Inversely, at times I struggle to stay engaged with community when I'm yearning to focus on this one person. Yet the relationship also ties me more closely to the community. It's a strange balancing act, one I don't always manage to perform with grace, but I'm never sorry for taking that risk.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">H</span>ERE in this blog, I tend to focus more on the positive aspects of a community than its flaws; I don't want to burn bridges or show disrespect to groups of people who have welcomed me in. But because this post is pretty mushy about Holden, I feel compelled to note that it's far from a perfect community. Every small community has its dramas and tensions, and during my time there, the village was still feeling the aftershocks of some pretty serious ones that occurred in the months before my arrival. Every small community passes colds and flu and other contagions around (especially small communities with regular visitors from outside). Every small community has its rumor mill, unresolved conflicts, personality clashes, and differing views on how it should be operating.<br />
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Under a recent administration, staff practiced consensus decisionmaking, meeting weekly to make sure everybody had a voice in each new change. Villagers who were here at that time have differing opinions on how well that worked. Currently, Holden has returned to its original model of "benevolent dictatorship," with decisions being handed from the top down. This is certainly more efficient, but, inevitably, the benevolence of the dictatorship sometimes comes up for debate in staff circles. I am grateful that my short-term minion status permits me a degree of separation from this particular area of tension. I have my own frustrations with other departments; many people at Holden are called upon to do tasks that their previous experience may not have prepared them for, and in some areas, it really shows. <br />
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The check and balance to this, I suppose, is the regular staff changeover. Holden has term limits: you can sign up for a year at a time, if you want to stay that long, and if all goes well you can renew for a second year. It's rare that anyone is permitted to stay longer, though there are exceptions, and directors sign on for a renewable period of five years. This staff recirculation creates "a community of people in transition," as another short-term volunteer put it. At Holden, people are forever arriving and departing, guests coming and going, staff beginning and ending their contracts. Lots of people come back -- it has that kind of hold on many -- but hellos and goodbyes are part of daily life here.<br />
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Staying three months, therefore, means a natural progression of relationships, from hanging out with other new folks, sharing in the newness, to feeling closer to those who've been around a while. My first week, I gravitate toward the two guests who showed up the same day I did: <i>There will be time to get to know the others,</i> I say to myself, <i>but this is the only week I can spend with these people. </i>When my new friends have gone (after several great conversations over dominoes), I find that nearly all the staff are very friendly and inclusive. There are many events scheduled for guests, but behind that is another layer of staff happenings, with constant invitations to participate: hootenannies and homebrew tastings, Women's Circle, Classical Music Night and Non-Classical Music Night, sauna time, book and audio discussions, hikes and movie viewings. As my time progresses, I try to keep in mind how it feels to be new here, and how other, newer volunteers and guests also want to be welcomed and included.<br />
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It's not easy to keep making new friends every week, and I know that it would only become more difficult if I stayed longer. The least friendly staff, I note, are winding up a contract of a year or more, burnt out and settled into their own comfortable circles. Holden's elementary school teacher, an employee of the school district (and therefore not subject to term limits), has been here for about 10 years, escaping each summer to visit family and avoid the crowds. The hardest part of staying, he tells me, is that no one else does; you can't maintain long-term friendships here, and that, he says, is probably what will finally drive him from this place.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I</span> have to leave the village for a week in early April; my taxes are too complicated this year to do without help. When I return, I feel strangely out of place. Summer staff are starting to trickle in, mostly returning staff, several of whom don't seem to have any interest in getting to know me. I know I shouldn't take it personally, but the village seems to have changed so much in my absence, and I can't talk myself out of feeling insecure. Dejected, I write in my journal on April 17, "It's weird how the longer I stay in this place, the less I feel a part of things."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ark and Chalet Hill, May 4, 2012.</td></tr>
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<br />
I try not to dwell on that realization, but it's true. The village is shifting toward summer: a new landscape reveals itself from beneath the snow; dear friends are leaving, summer regulars coming back; plans and preparations for the flood of guests and workers are underway. There are no flowers yet, but robins are everywhere, and a small flock of mine remediation planners flit in and out of vision, their plumage safety orange.<br />
<br />
I could negotiate with Staffing for a longer stay... but the place is shifting, changing into something I hardly recognize, and I feel my new departure date, May 4, was well chosen. Whether I stay or go, I will still miss that which is past. I'd rather do that elsewhere, with new sights and sounds and people to distract me, than have a bad attitude about things here.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lodge 6 and loading dock, May 4, 2012.</td></tr>
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<br />
So I stick with The Plan, which is to continue this nomadic lifestyle for a good while yet, adding Holden to the rapidly growing list of places to which I'd like to return. My last weeks pass, slow and quick at the same time, and May 4 shows up on schedule. I cram my things back into my duffel and hug everyone and stare out the back window of the schoolbus as the villagers wave and wave (and throw snowballs) until we round the bend and lose sight of them. There will be time for tears later, but for now, I grin at the cluster of figures in the roadway as they faithfully signal their one-note semaphore: <i>goodbye, goodbye</i>.<br />
<br />
My journal entry for March 16th describes my thoughts during one of the Friday night <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2012/06/new-vocabulary.html">candlelit prayer services</a>:<br />
<br />
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<i>Gratitude. Overwhelming gratitude, for these loving and loveable people, for this beautiful place, for all my needs being met, for being comfortable and comforted, for this precious experience. All this goodness. And how it was all reflections of God's goodness, and how that's why I can let it go: because God's goodness is a constant that I find wherever I go, even though not always as obviously as here. </i><i>Thank you, thank you, thank you, I said.</i></blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: large;">T</span>HERE'S a song called "Rivers and Roads" that has been performed by a group of talented Holden musicians on several occasions. The first time I heard it, one of them introduced it as "the most Holden song I've ever heard."<br />
<br />
<i>A year from now we'll all be gone</i><br />
<i>All our friends will move away</i><br />
<i>And they're going to better places</i><br />
<i>But our friends will be gone away</i><br />
<br />
It starts out quietly, voice and guitar, and the melody is calm, musing, detached.<br />
<br />
<i>Nothing is as it has been</i><br />
<i>And I miss your face like hell</i><br />
<i>And I guess it's just as well</i><br />
<i>But I miss your face like hell</i><br />
<br />
But then the singer crescendos abruptly into a wail, and the piano crashes in, and finally you can feel the hurt behind the words:<br />
<br />
<i>Been talkin' 'bout the way things change</i><br />
<i>And my family lives in a different state</i><br />
<i>And if you don't know what to make of this</i><br />
<i>Then we will not relate</i><br />
<br />
And then there's nothing left to sing but the chorus, vocals raw and haunting, harmonies building through repetition after repetition to a painful richness, the waltz-time rhythm lifting up and pounding down, moving you inexorably toward the song's end.<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Rivers and roads</i><br />
<i>Rivers and roads</i><br />
<i>Rivers 'til I reach you</i><br />
<br />
The song is by a band called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_head_and_the_heart">The Head and the Heart</a>, a group which has probably never heard of Holden Village. When I returned to the Land of Fast Internet and sought out their album recording of it, I was disappointed. It's nice, but... it's <i>nice.</i> I hear they're better live, and maybe even in the studio they really felt what they were singing about, but they don't make <i>me</i> feel it, not the way those people at Holden did, singing their hearts out in that firelit room.Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-23920849585520071432012-07-08T09:54:00.000-07:002012-07-08T09:56:07.871-07:00The Balance of February<span style="font-size: large;">A</span>FTER that first overwhelming week, I begin to settle into the schedule of the village... though that schedule continues to be eventful. <br />
<br />
In the Media Archive, there's a long-awaited delivery of new laptops; though IT sets them up for me, I'm still left with a lot of audio-specific troubleshooting. The old laptops, borrowed from other departments, ran Windows XP, Vista, and Ubuntu Oneiric; the new ones, a shiny row of Windows 7 drones, vary <i>just enough</i> in their audio settings that it's tricky to figure out how to get them to record at the proper levels. The best fix I can find is to reset each one individually for each recording. It's inconvenient, but it works.<br />
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In the Craft Cave, several looms run out of warp at about the same time,
and I get to learn about the process of warping on. It begins with
many, many reiterations of the weaver's knot (several hundred on the
largest loom), tying the remnants of the old warp to the new warp. I
recite the Craftinator's guiding phrase "Over all, under all, up and
through" like a mantra. Once the knots are secure, the new warp must be
wound on with tension, spiralled with sheets of kraft paper to keep it
from entangling itself. This is a two-person job, but two staff members
are not typically in the Craft Cave at the same time, so the process
moves slowly until we enlist the help of our friendly neighborhood
Mavericks.</div>
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The Mavericks also assist in my efforts to replace a broken loom brake;
one of them points out that the old brake was actually a length of
sturdy but ancient electrical cord, with fibers and copper wire at its
core. There's no way of knowing if this was the original brake, a clever
cost-saving move on the part of the manufacturer, or if this was yet
another iteration of Holden's perpetual reuse of cast-off items.
"Reduce, Reuse, Recycle" doesn't even need to be said here; everything
that can be reused or repurposed, is, and everything that is at all
likely to get reused, sits around until it does.<br />
<br />
Another example of clever repurposing from the Craft Cave: milk crate yarn storage, with color-coded boxes.<br />
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Simple, yet effective. (Also a pain to clean, but that's another story.)<br />
<br />
The weekend after the ladies' retreat is Presidents' Day: a three-day weekend for many folks, and the beginning of a week-long school break for others. We have over 80 guests for the weekend alone. The Craft Cave is suddenly alive again with a steady trickle of people wandering in to weave, looking for craft supplies, or just following the signs to find out what a Craft Cave is. One guest catches me in the midst of multitasking to brightly inquire, "So, what's on the schedule for this week?" I have to laugh. "I have no idea," I tell her. "Just takin' it a day at a time."<br />
<br />
Among the Presidents' Day weekend guests are a contradance band and caller, and I am ridiculously excited: they're planning, not one, but two dances. Now, there are two kinds of contradances: contras you pay for, which attract people who either know how to contradance or really want to learn, and free contras, which are mostly attended by people who aren't really invested in the whole contra experience. Free contras tend to have really simple dances, lots of children, and lots of merry confusion. Both types of contradances require a completely different mindset to enjoy, and I enjoy them both, though I lean pretty strongly toward the former. But this is very much the latter sort of contradance, the free-and-chaotic kind, and the caller seems ill-equipped for such a slipshod bunch as we are. When the dancers don't understand something she's asking them to do, she keeps repeating the same unclear word or phrase with increasing frustration. The first night, the crowd is small and iffy and disperses after just a few dances, much to the band's disappointment. But on the following night, the group is much stronger: a small but stalwart core stays through the entire set, despite a gripping ping-pong tournament taking place at the other end of the dining hall. The caller finally gets the hang of us, and we of her, and a good time is had by all.<br />
<br />
Perhaps the best thing to come out of the band's visit, for me at least, is that I get a one-on-one session with their banjo player. He suggests we sit down and play together, which, given my limited level of ability, mostly means he makes suggestions, teaches me a few tricks, and shows me how to play a simple tune that's new to me. I'm thrilled to have the opportunity to learn a little more. I'm still very much an amateur player, but I often have reason to be glad I brought my banjo to Holden. <br />
<br />
When Hannah, my neighbor-across-the-hall, tells me she wants to practice playing her ukulele with other musicians, we agree to start a weekly Amateur Music Night together. Our enthusiasm and persistent verbal invitations typically draw 4-10 musicians of widely varying abilities to our clumsy sessions. They are mostly fun, often frustrating, but always good learning experiences for me, as I have had very little practice making non-vocal music with other people. It's so freeing to play with a group of people who don't mind sounding terrible sometimes.<br />
<br />
The other jam sessions at Holden are called Hootenannies; they are held in one of the staff chalets, and they draw out the <i>real</i> musicians. Our Hootenanny host always has a new batch of homebrew to share with his guests, as well as lots of songs about dogs, which he plays on his guitar with a down-home charm. I don't bring my banjo to Hootenanny. I'm not ready for that yet. I also pass up the opportunity to play in the Lenten Eucharist ensemble -- even the thought of it stresses me out -- but I lend my banjo to another musician so he can play in it.<br />
<br />
Lent is kind of a big deal at Holden, and many and various are the
preparations for Mardi Gras. I get to teach a simple maskmaking
technique to the elementary class at Holden School, and by "teach" I
mean "give them the general idea and watch them take it to outlandish
levels of creativity." There are about seven of them, and there are
about seven radically different mask concepts that come out of that
classroom.<br />
<br />
"Outlandish levels of creativity" might well be in the mission statement
for Holden School. I am so jealous of these kids' learning experience.
Their environment involves very little pressure to conform to their
peers, lots of individual attention, and plenty of encouragement to
blossom in whatever way seems best for them individually. One kid wears a
different costume to school every day; no one taunts him, scorns him,
or threatens to beat him up at recess. Holden students get to invent
their own independent projects, which include learning to weave,
learning to drive a road grader, and designing and building a trebuchet.
During Open House, I skim several essays raving about how Holden School
is the Best School Ever.<br />
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The down side of Holden School, I learn, is that sometimes you just don't have any peers. One of this winter's handful of high schoolers tells me she mostly doesn't hang out with anyone, because there are no girls near her age. Sure, there are a lot of teens coming and going in summertime, but none of them stick around long. Like all Holden minors, she's welcome in most adult circles, but there's a pretty wide difference between being with people who don't mind having you around, and being with peers... especially when you're a teenager.<br />
<br />
But, okay, back to Lent. This year, Mardi Gras takes place simultaneously with a more Holden-specific holiday: Sun Over Buckskin. This marks the first day the sun crests the peak of Buckskin mountain; it means there will be significantly more light in this dim little valley, and is thus hailed as the first sign of an end to winter's long reign. I am told that Sun Over Buckskin is traditionally unplanned, but results in parades down Main Street and much shirking of work for the day. This year, however, we are hewing to The Schedule, and The Schedule dictates that Sun Over Buckskin falls on a day that is pouring rain. The celebration is moved to the dining hall, where some inventive soul has set up a batik painting of the sun behind two sheet-draped chairs to symbolize the sun's appearing above the mountain peaks. The parade takes place down the length of the dining hall and over several tables, and is followed by an impromptu dance party to "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1aSbKvm_mKA">I Gotta Feeling</a>", which seems to be Holden's go-to celebration song this winter. It's good silly fun, but some Holden veterans are pretty disappointed with the day. When I recall how some friends back in Portland got <i>extremely excited</i> that I'd be at Holden for Sun Over Buckskin, I feel just a little let down myself. At least the Mardi Gras feast does not disappoint: chocolate chip pancakes with an eye-bulging array of toppings, and plenty of bacon to go around. I don't know about you, but I find it really hard to complain about anything when my mouth is full of bacon.<br />
<br />
The pancakes are my last hurrah before I go entirely gluten-free for Lent. This is more for practical than for spiritual reasons, and indeed here at Holden, a dietary shift is not nearly the burden it would be elsewhere: the kitchen staff is used to catering to all sorts of eaters, and they take my nearly-last-minute request to join the gluten-free list in stride, adding my name to a whiteboard grid of special dietary needs. I'm impressed.<br />
<br />
The most notable Lenten changes in Holden's culture take place in worship services. The room where we meet for worship is now decorated in purple, and the panels of the reredos, the decorative screen behind the altar, are turned backward. The word "alleluia" is retired for the season, to reflect the somber tone of Lent. But to my surprise and delight, the Eucharist music gets better, more joyful. I have been discontent with a lot of the worship music here, in numerous nitpicky ways that add up to "It's just not that much fun to sing." But the musical part of the Eucharist liturgy makes me sit up and take notice: <i>What is this? This is <b>exciting!</b></i> There is nothing Lent-somber about these melodies; they are full of eager expectation, and lend themselves well to harmonies. <i>Is this the feast of victory for our God,</i> we sing, <i>or a foretaste of the kingdom?</i> The ensemble that plays them shifts to a slightly different group every week, but often includes a cello, violin, viola, guitars, hand drums, piano, and... <i>hey! That's my banjo!</i><br />
<br />
Long before the end of February, I know that the two months I planned to spend here are not going to be enough. I can't bear the thought of already reaching the midpoint of my stay. I'm liking the settled-in feeling that comes with knowing you don't need to pack up and go anywhere for a while. I am thoroughly enjoying the ever-shifting cast of characters around me. I want to see the Lent cycle through to its conclusion. And though I wouldn't yet say I feel at home here, this is a place I have felt very welcome from the first. These days, that's as close to home as I get.<br />
<br />
So on February 27, I apply for an extension, pushing my departure date out into early May. And on February 28 I write in my journal about a feeling that has been growing in me all week: "I am conscious of a kind of clenching, clutching, at my life at present. <i>I don't want anything to change.</i> It's all so precious and wonderful...."<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Y</span>EAH. It's July, and I'm still writing about February. I feel this warrants an explanation.<br />
<br />
I've spent the last two months volunteering on an organic farm in north central Washington. I went there thinking it would be a nice transition between communities, that I could work and rest and still have ample time to write up the Holden experience to my satisfaction. Because, you see, my <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/search/label/Little%20Farm">previous farm internship</a> left me with a lot of free time, and the impression that most of these unpaid farm positions involve 20-30 hours of labor a week. At least, that's the standard encouraged by the US branch of the <a href="http://www.wwoofusa.org/">WWOOF</a> organization.<br />
<br />
So I made the fatal error of not asking how many hours of work would be expected of me at this new organic farm. The correct answer, it turns out, is 50+. And this isn't anomalous; I asked a lot of other interns in the region about their work week, and the lowest average I heard was 45 hours. My efforts to push back against the schedule met with mixed results, and thus I have only a handful of Holden posts, and still so much more to say.<br />
<br />
But, yes, I stayed at the farm for two months anyway. I stayed because the people were wonderful, and because an old and dear friend showed an interest in coming out to join me there. And she did, and getting to spend time with her was definitely worth it. And I got to learn and see and participate in a lot of cool things during those two months, about which I will probably not blog much, because I'm poised on the brink of the next community adventure and agh, I have <i>such</i> a backlog.<br />
<br />
I've had the above post drafted for a while now, so it seemed a waste not to use it. But I'm readjusting my plan of 3 or 4 more Holden posts down to... well, I'm going to have to figure out how to summarize it all in the next one. Because, y'know, blogs are supposed to be about what's happened <i>recently,</i> not about what happened five months ago.Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-53580247713247215612012-06-17T18:35:00.000-07:002012-06-18T16:49:22.655-07:00Two Jobs and a Day Off<span style="font-size: large;">M</span>Y supervisor in the Media Archive is leaving Friday, five days after I arrive. One of those days is my arrival, one is her departure, and one is Stop Day. That leaves only two days for training.<br />
<br />
The Archivist takes me to the physical storage site for the Audio Archive. It's in a sort of balcony area above the gymnasium; the building, known as the "VC" or Village Center, is unheated in winter, and we approach across a daunting sheet of ice in a poorly drained entryway. The archive is two lengthy rows of stacked cardboard boxes, carefully labeled with batch numbers, filled with cassettes of lectures from the past several decades. There are also some CDs and some reel-to-reel recordings, but those have already been digitized. My project is cassettes from 1976.<br />
<br />
We lug a couple of boxes up to the Media Archive office, a small room at one end of the attic of the building known as the Hotel. With electricity limited in winter months, this may be the only room in the entire village that is allowed to run a space heater. The Archivist shows me how to sort out the contents of the boxes for processing; her detailed systems are designed to provide consistency no matter how many people are working on the project at once. She dreams of pushing it forward quickly by taking on three or four full-time volunteers at once. But there are always more urgent matters demanding staff time, and due to housing limitations, the Media Archive project is always put on hold for the summer. At this rate, with one assistant working on it half-time spring through fall, plus the Archivist's work when she's in the village periodically, it will take years. <i>So, don't worry about finishing a certain amount,</i> I'm told. <i>Just do as much as you can.</i><br />
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The assistant I'm replacing is here right now, but will be leaving the same day as the Archivist. She balances the Archivist's lengthy, rambling explanations with remarks that are simple and to-the-point. I like them both very much: quirky, brainy women, critical thinkers, both sharp and blunt. I wish I could keep them around, but ultimately I know I'll learn quicker if I have to figure some of it out for myself... and if I get stuck, help is only an e-mail away.<br />
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The Archivist teaches me how to copy the cassette to an audio file. There's no rushing this part of the process; the cassette has to play all the way through, at normal speed. At least there are enough workstations that we can have several going at once. <br />
<br />
Next I learn how to edit the audio file in <a href="http://audacity.sourceforge.net/">Audacity</a>. The Archivist and the Assistant teach me how to use the features they've mastered: Amplify, Fade In/Out, Noise Removal, etc. Later, on my own, I discover the Leveller function, which amplifies the quietest noises and deamplifies the loudest; it quickly becomes my favorite fix-everything tool. <br />
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In a couple of months, the Archivist will come back and take physical copies of the files I've edited outside the village, so she can <a href="http://audio.holdenvillage.org/">upload them to the internet</a>. She has to carry them out on hard drives, because the internet connection in the village lacks the bandwidth to allow her to upload them here.<br />
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It takes time for me to learn to visually scan the squiggly line on the Audacity display and see which irregularities indicate that something needs adjusting, but once I've got the hang of it, I don't need to listen to the entire lecture. I can zero in on that cough or door-slam, that segment of background buzz or the sudden drop in recording level, and see if I can fix it. (Sometimes I can't, but mostly I can.) The ones that give me fits are the group discussions; every person in the room is speaking at a different volume level, and typically someone mumbling in the back row will go on and on for minutes, often in dialogue with the speaker, who has a microphone and is plenty loud. Sometimes it's hard to know how nitpicky to get with these things, but I try to imagine listening to it on a car stereo, or in earbuds while jogging, and twiddle accordingly.<br />
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I pick up some interesting tidbits here and there, glimpses of village life in 1976. In one discussion, titled "What Should Ford and Carter Debate?" I learn that Americans were kicking around a lot of the same political issues then as now, from health care reforms to overreliance on the automobile. Another discussion gets sidelined by a woman grousing about guests eating peanut butter sandwiches at mealtimes, when the kitchen has gone to such lengths to prepare a proper meal. "Oh, come <i>on</i>," mutters someone near the microphone, which makes me laugh out loud. Perhaps the most fun is the Bicentennial Fourth of July celebration, full of songs and joyous proclamations. On July 4, 1976, they announced the acquisition of a new "bombardier" (snow cat) and then tried to fit as many villagers into it as possible. I don't know how they managed it, but they got well into the 30s. To give you some idea of the absurdity of this endeavor, here's a photo of a bombardier (perhaps even the same one 30-odd people crammed into in '76).<br />
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Once my two days of training with the Archivist and her assistant are up, it's time to get to know my other workplace, the Craft Cave.<br />
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The first thing you see when you walk into the Craft Cave is looms: floor looms, table looms, inkle looms, big looms and tiny looms. Weaving gets the spotlight here, but there are roomfuls of other crafting tools and supplies. Fiber arts are popular at Holden, especially in winter, so the place is well stocked for the knitter and crocheter. There are beads and craft felt, paper plain and fancy, crayons and oil paints, basket reeds and egg dyes. The Craft Cave has it all; my biggest challenge over the next three months is typically just figuring out where everything is. It's not that the place is poorly organized, it's just that there's <i>so much.</i><br />
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The coolest thing about the Craft Cave is that guests and staff alike can use anything in it for the cost of materials. There's no profit here, no charge for lessons, no fee for transporting supplies to this remote location. Just materials, at more or less what the village paid for them. This is truly remarkable, considering what you'd pay for a comparable class or access to equipment like this elsewhere.<br />
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The Craft Cave is so called because of its location in the half-subterranean level of a central building; its name is particularly apt at this time of year, when its exterior windows are buried in snow. The gloomy fluorescent lighting is mitigated somewhat by a flock of full-spectrum lamps, which allow you to actually see what color you're looking at. The only natural light is second-hand, filtering through a bank of windows looking into the Ceramics Studio next door. The Ceramics Studio, or "Pot Shop," has enough high windows on the far exterior wall (which faces south) that it actually gets a fair dose of sunlight, when there is sunlight to be had. On bright days, a bit of that reaches the Craft Cave.<br />
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When things are slow in the Craft Cave, I sometimes drop in on the Pot Shop to see what the Potter is up to. He can generally be found working on something interesting, and when I pester him with questions, his answers are generally interesting too. When I discover that my Sansa MP3 player won't play on the Craft Cave's iPod dock, he makes me a deal: I loan him my MP3 player, which is full of music that isn't on the Pot Shop's heavily scratched and overplayed collection of CDs, and he plays it on the Pot Shop sound system, loud enough that I can enjoy it from the Craft Cave next door. New music, I learn, is highly valued here, because the village's internet connection is too poor to allow for streaming or downloads.<br />
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On my first day in the Craft Cave, the Craft Coordinator, newly returned from a trip "out" (of the village), gives me a brief tour of the place and teaches me how to give instruction on using the looms. Actually using one myself will come later; for now, it's more important that I be able to show someone else how to use them.<br />
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There's a women's retreat scheduled for this weekend, and so the Craftinator gets right to work preparing for classes she will be offering. She's teaching classes in candlemaking and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scherenschnitte">scherenschnitte</a>. She wants me to learn scherenschnitte too, so I can teach it myself at some point. This means I get to spend a good portion of my day playing with pretty paper, teeny scissors, and X-Acto knives. I think I did some scherenschnitte once in eighth grade, but I'd forgotten pretty much everything about it, including how fun it is. I become completely absorbed in this "work," and am sort of incredulous that I get to do it on the clock.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9GlJpNFNTC31dKgm0quvqV06MecWTHBVg_MgbDx29J3xkuMWzo3UM9CT_wxQjw702y0VvvGeUX9qaFT8nai_n_gVbWPO9Ky_M1Jb9sXZ6RFY3nXW2k6dMB3YiYp-5vqoDkzjbQRBWeK0/s1600/IMG_0769.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9GlJpNFNTC31dKgm0quvqV06MecWTHBVg_MgbDx29J3xkuMWzo3UM9CT_wxQjw702y0VvvGeUX9qaFT8nai_n_gVbWPO9Ky_M1Jb9sXZ6RFY3nXW2k6dMB3YiYp-5vqoDkzjbQRBWeK0/s400/IMG_0769.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The girl-on-a-bicycle design is from <a href="http://papercutting.blogspot.com/">http://papercutting.blogspot.com/</a>.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The clock lets you get away with a lot, around here. No matter what time your workday begins, everyone gets a generous coffee break mid-morning, when there is always some freshly made treat from the kitchen. Then, if there's a bus leaving (sometimes at coffee break, sometimes at lunch), staff are expected to stand outside, say their goodbyes, and wave until the bus vanishes around the corner of the road. If there's a bus arriving, staff are expected to stand by to welcome the arriving guests. Often there's a chunk of time between bus departure and arrival that's too short to get anything done, so staff will just stand around chatting until the bus shows up. Not all staff make it to every bus arrival and departure (no one takes attendance or anything), but the idea is that if you can spare the time, you should. After all, what are you doing that's so much more important than making people feel welcome?<br />
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Down in the Craft Cave, it's easy to lose track of time, because you can't hear the bell that rings to announce breaks and meals. But the Craftinator urges me to remember to take breaks, and is in general very protective of my time, which I greatly appreciate. It doesn't take long for me to appreciate many things about her, from her loud, outrageous laugh to her well-considered advice on tricky interpersonal situations. It doesn't hurt that she is really fun to work with. (Sadly, we don't get to work together often; most of the time when I work in the Craft Cave, I'm covering her days off and vacation. In winter, the Craft Cave doesn't usually get enough traffic to require more than one staffer at a time.)<br />
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I also appreciate (and am somewhat terrified by) the Craftinator's ability to fly by the seat of her pants when teaching a class. She's never made candles before, yet she's winging the candle-making class this weekend, with only one defective test batch under her belt. To me it seems like there are a dozen different things that could go terribly wrong, but none of them do; the class is a complete success. <br />
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The retreat brings in about 20 women, who make the dining hall feel strangely crowded (I know it's nothing like the summer crowd, but it's the most people I've seen here yet). Their schedule is pretty full: in addition to those craft classes, they have a couple of guest lecturers, and a professional chocolatier who teaches classes in truffle-making that result in delicious treats for everyone. (Oh, that creme brulee truffle...!) And then they leave, and the place seems strangely vacant. Only then do I finally get a day off, my first since Stop Day.<br />
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I've felt my fatigue growing over the past week: not so much a physical weariness as a need to give in to my introverted tendencies, a craving for a sizeable block of time all to myself. There's so much going on all the time here, even in the evenings, what with Vespers and other optional-but-interesting activities. I get asked how I'm doing a lot that first week, and I always say "Great!" which is absolutely true. I don't say "tired and overstimulated," but this is also true. I've been really quiet at meals, and in the spaces between events, have found myself gravitating toward the jigsaw puzzles in the dining hall -- a means of turning inward without checking out of social interaction entirely. Sometimes people join me at the puzzle table, but mostly in ones and twos, and conversation tends to be intermittent: jigsaw puzzlers are an introverted bunch, on the whole.<br />
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So Monday's break is much needed. I use the time for resting, settling in, taking care of myself in numerous small ways. I take a long hot shower, do laundry, run small errands, do some minor decorating in my room. I clean some dusty milk crates I found in Potty Patrol and set them up in my closet as shelving, and I'm quite pleased with the result. It just might be the best-organized closet I've ever had.<br />
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I finish unpacking and putting things away in their new homes, and I can't believe how good that feels; I realize with some amazement that this is the first time I've fully unpacked (except to repack) since I left Portland over five months ago. But I'm planning to be here for two months, the longest I've spent in one place since my journey began, so unpacking finally makes sense. Two months of non-travel seems like a luxurious length of time, room to really stretch out in, and it occurs to me that maybe I've been needing this, that maybe I should be scheduling occasional longer stays into my nomadic lifestyle.Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-535503336368345917.post-79009845216382138792012-06-10T17:25:00.002-07:002012-06-10T17:37:46.209-07:00New Vocabulary<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<b>Hol·den Vil·lage</b> <i>n.</i></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
1. a Lutheran retreat center located high in the Cascade range of central Washington, on the site of a former mining town. Established 1957. Isolated by steep mountains from automobile traffic, television, radio, and cell phone contact. Staffed year-round, with a summer population of several hundred and a winter population of about 50.</div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
2. A community of people in transition.</div>
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In my first week at Holden Village, I learn a lot of new words. Many of these are snow-related: <i>Roofalanche. Postholing. Hoarfrost.</i><br />
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A roofalanche is a small avalanche off the roof of a building. All the structures here have steep roofs, to more easily shed the heavy layers of snow that accumulate on them every year. "The word may sound funny," director Steph Carpenter warns us, "but it's no joke." Roofalanches are typically sudden and involve massive quantities of snow and ice. Paths carved and stomped in the snow guide us carefully around "roofalanche zones."<br />
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Postholing is when your foot crashes through a semi-solid layer of compacted snow into the soft, fluffy stuff beneath. Sometimes this happens even when you have snowshoes on. Postholing a foot or two deep is unpleasant, but I hear stories of postholing accidents that leave the errant snowshoer buried in six or eight feet of snow. <i>Another reason not to go off hiking alone,</i> I remind myself.<br />
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Hoarfrost is a rare phenomenon: when conditions are just right, the surface of the fallen snow arranges itself into chips and shards. The spangly glitter of the snow I noticed under the light of the full moon, both here and in Chelan, is the result of hoarfrost. Its appearance, I am told, means avalanche weather. <br />
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The most extravagant display of hoarfrost I find is at the Labyrinth, when I snowshoe out to see it with my pastor friend on Stop Day. I have no idea what the Labyrinth looks like most of the year, but in this season it is carved in snow, its single winding path carefully <a href="http://www.holdenvillage.org/2012/02/01/a-winter-letter-02012012/">stomped down with snowshoes</a> after every new snowfall. On the walls of the Labyrinth, the shards form themselves into feathers, the feathers into tiny wings, some approaching two inches in length. It is outrageous, fabulous, winter at its most absolute glam.<br />
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Over 30 feet of snow will fall on Holden Village this winter. This is my first experience with snow in such quantities; I've spent most of my life in the balmy Willamette Valley, where the snow rarely piles up more than a couple of inches and lasts more than a couple of days. It is therefore also my first experience with snowshoes. Village paths can be safely traversed in boots, but beyond the perimeter of the buildings, snowshoes are a necessity. I discover to my chagrin that my right foot turns out just a little when I walk (I never noticed before!), which means my snowshoes tend to collide more often than I would prefer. Correcting for this misalignment first causes me to stumble over my own toes, and later brings on unaccustomed hip pain. Still, it's better than sinking to the waist or deeper with every step. And though the village provides breathtaking views every time you step outside, snowshoes will take you to still more spectacular ones.<br />
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I never get over the feeling that I'm living in a picture postcard.<br />
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* * *</div>
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I learn other vocabulary that describes Lutheran religious practice: <i>Vespers. Matins. Eucharist.</i><br />
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I've <a href="http://foreverarriving.blogspot.com/2012/06/finally-we-get-to-holden-village.html">already written about Vespers</a>. Matins takes place at breakfast in the dining hall, typically 5 minutes of sharing from anyone who signs up in advance to do so, paired with the usual mealtime prayer and announcements. Matins is often a personal anecdote, or a meaningful passage read aloud, or (less commonly) a song. Despite my best intentions, I frequently miss Matins; I've never been very good at mornings.<br />
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The Eucharist service takes place every Sunday evening (and as a non-morning person, I highly approve of the timing). As with many Vespers, the entire service is often printed out on a piece of paper or booklet -- songs, prayers, scriptures, everything but the text of the sermon. Sometimes these booklets are well-worn: Holdenites have used this exact sequence of songs and words many times before. This seems strange to me, a sort of canned approach to worship. There is something reassuring, though, about being able to see what each step of the service will be (not least so you can tell when it will be over). <br />
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Each Sunday, the pastor describes the process of taking the Eucharist, so that you know to wait for the usher to motion you forward, then step through the brief dance of accepting the bread (or gluten-free wafer) and the wine (or juice). The formality of the procedure (relative to other Holden spiritual practice, not relative to Eucharist services elsewhere) makes me nervous about getting it wrong somehow. I'm used to calling it "communion," and I'm used to it being self-service, whether passed out in trays to the congregation or laid out on tables up front. Later, much later, I learn that you're not supposed to say "thank you" when the pastor places the bread in your hands, "because it's a gift from God." (<i>But so is any other food,</i> I protest internally, <i>and yet it's polite to thank the person who serves it to you!</i>)<br />
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But not everything in the Eucharist booklet is spelled out for you. At my first Eucharist service, I am in great suspense about the item listed on the program merely as THE PEACE. <i>What is that?</i> When we come to that part of the service, everyone stands up and hugs everyone else within reach. Then they walk around and hug more people. "Peace to you," they say to each other, and to me, as they embrace. "Peace be with you."<br />
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In every new place where I join others for collective spiritual pursuits, I have a readjustment period in which everything new seems weird and wrong. Sometimes I can get awfully judgmental about things: <i>Why do they do it that way, it doesn't make any sense, that's ridiculous, I bet God agrees with me on this.</i> At Holden, there is a lot about the worship that grates on me. But this "passing the peace" business, this I like immediately. <i>Why doesn't every church have a regularly scheduled hug exchange?</i> I wonder, my first Sunday at Holden and every Sunday thereafter. <i>Because they should. I bet God agrees with me on this.</i><br />
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The other aspect of worship I'm an instant fan of is Friday night's "Prayer Around the Cross." It's a time of candlelit prayer, with a soundtrack of quiet, repetitive singing and piano. You can pray in your seat, or you can light a candle at one of the sandboxes set around the edge of the firepit in the center of the room. As each new candle is lit, the room grows a tiny bit brighter. I treasure the hush of it, the reverence and quiet joy.<br />
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Two bowls filled with sand are designated as places you can go if you want others to pray with you. When someone kneels at a bowl, others rise to surround them, resting hands on their shoulders, kneeling beside them or just standing near. I marvel at the shadowy tableaux that form around the bowls; they become even richer and more meaningful as I come to know and love the characters in them.<br />
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Before I arrived, Holden was described to me by friends as "the far left wingtip of the most liberal end of the Lutheran church." I believe this assessment was more or less accurate, unlike the label of "ecumenical" I heard from other friends. Former directors once pushed Holden toward ecumenicalism, but the current establishment has steered it back toward a strongly Lutheran identity. There are many kinds of Christians on staff, and quite a few agnostics, but I don't meet any staff who profess a different religious faith, or who openly claim atheism. A Buddhist guest tells me he feels his values are tolerated here, but not truly engaged with. He doesn't mind attending the mandatory services, but has found some of the teachings troubling, and key people seem unwilling to discuss them in the depth he is hoping for.<br />
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Holden Village's liberalism does extend to the acceptance of homosexuality; there are several gay and lesbian staff members who are open about their sexual orientation, and everyone seems to be pretty comfortable with that.<br />
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In other ways, the village is not so diverse. Staff are primarily recruited from a Minnesota Lutheran population, which occasionally makes the place feel like a sort of alternate-universe Prairie Home Companion: lots of people of Scandinavian descent, lots of Minnesota accents (and parodies thereof). Occasionally I notice a rare person of color among the guests, but the staff is overwhelmingly white. Aside from an annual gathering geared toward Mexican-Americans, photos of past years reflect a similar ratio.<br />
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* * *</div>
<br />
Still other words I learn are Holden-specific: <i>Maverick. Potty Patrol. Garbology.</i><br />
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Mavericks are the gophers and grunts of the village. It is their sweat and toil that makes walkways walkable, moves heavy objects from one location to another, and shifts large quantities of snow out of necessary spaces. The Mavericks quickly endear themselves to me by eagerly responding to all my lodging complaints, from the strobing CFL bulb in the women's restroom to the window blinds that fall down every time I touch them. The Mavericks swap out my bunk beds with no overhead clearance for adjustable ones that allow you to actually sit up in the lower bunk. If the Mavericks can't help me with a problem, they know who to ask, and will, voluntarily and without prompting, follow up. After working for so many nonprofits where you have to lean hard on people to get anything done, I am a huge fan of the Mavericks. <br />
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Potty Patrol is Holden's name for a phenomenon I have observed at most established communities: the free stuff-redistribution center. (No one has a conclusive answer as to how it acquired this awkward name.) There are boxes and boxes of free clothing, and piles of other miscellany, all of which are constantly in flux. I visit Potty Patrol many times during my stay at Holden, sifting through boxes and organizing as I go, and enjoy myself every time. In consideration of my luggage limitations, I try hard to leave as much as I take, and maybe even almost succeed.<br />
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Holden has another means of stuff redistribution: the Giveaway. When long-term staff leave Holden, typically after a year or more of working there, they throw a party and give away all the things they won't take with them. Some items get handed on from staffer to staffer for years. At the Giveaway I attend my first week, I acquire a sweater, a houseplant, and a pair of acupressure bracelets for motion sickness. Other people score items such as jewelry, books, handmade hats and scarves, a guitar stand, a laundry hamper, seed packets, and a bottle of V8.<br />
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Garbology, or "Garbo" for short, is the other place unwanted things go. All trash at Holden is carefully sorted out by hand: compost, recyclables, burnables, and landfill. (Signs in Holden bathrooms direct visitors and staff to place certain
items in "biowaste cans," which are emptied directly into landfill
rather than hand-sorted. This reduces the ick factor considerably.) Sooner or later, most of Holden's waste must be hauled down the mountain and removed from the village by boat.<br />
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Garbology is a task every Holden resident helps with one day a month. Garbo duty begins at "Garbo Central," a basement area where cans and boxes are flattened, and moves to the "Garbo Dock," where recycling and mixed trash get sorted into finer categories.<br />
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Going through other people's garbage is always an adventure: you never know what you're gonna find. At Holden, you definitely want to shred anything sensitive that has personally identifying information before throwing it out, because your friends are probably going to see it.<br />
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After sorting, trash gets hauled up to an area well away from the residential part of the village. There, landfill and recyclables get stored in old schoolbuses to await their removal from the village. During my stay, these buses are almost entirely buried in snow; here the doors are only visible because they've been dug out.<br />
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Kitchen scraps are layered with sawdust and "cooked compost" into big wooden bins. The compost area is haunted by hungry pine martens, which come out at Garbo time to supervise the proceedings. You can almost see them drooling, waiting for the humans to leave so their daily feast can begin.<br />
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I find myself among the few who actually enjoy Garbo duty. The work is varied and interesting, and I like thinking about the things we dispose of, and how to handle that more responsibly. The only really gross part is compost, and even that isn't so bad; in winter, it's too cold for it to smell much, quantities are manageable, and there are no flies. You get to work with staff you don't normally work with, and the full-time Garbologist is good company. Besides, pine martens are adorable, in a vicious smelly mustelid sort of way.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGiquemnp5zgU0XZGj_aRmgSFuYiINPD5rnAUQb-ys4EP1o8LpuBMuqj4TLkM5aw04dZx7hiDSPB2-cwzzV_wM162fR-C5ZxIB4mcTjlvAumBu42STMrUMzDPeO8LRYnmSFcoLcDU_qZ4/s1600/IMG_0989.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGiquemnp5zgU0XZGj_aRmgSFuYiINPD5rnAUQb-ys4EP1o8LpuBMuqj4TLkM5aw04dZx7hiDSPB2-cwzzV_wM162fR-C5ZxIB4mcTjlvAumBu42STMrUMzDPeO8LRYnmSFcoLcDU_qZ4/s400/IMG_0989.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Lindseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02667713090076200460noreply@blogger.com12