The Shortest Day, the Longest Year

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

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

Our garden under a blanket of snow.

Interdependence Day

So much has happened.

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

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

Equinox

Another 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.

And, checking in here for the first time in a while, I realize I have an unblogged year to account for.

October Blues

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.

Half a Year's Accounting

What has become of the past six months?

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.

Revisiting the Little Farm, where it all began.

Considering the Birds

I've been considering the birds
Now that the snow is finally melting, oh
They shed their winter coats
And shape and shine their yellow notes
For sun's returning
Lean forward, spread their wings
To meet the change the season brings
Oh, Spring
Welcome, please come in.

Late March view from the River House

Explorations

Yesterday 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: Springtime. What a card.

Does this qualify as mud-luscious?

Of Snow and Spaceships

February got quiet after the Super Bowl. Two staff members went to Haiti to teach pottery; 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 Grünewald Guild, even though I just got here last month.

Grünewald garden, sleeping under snow

Significance

Today, 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.

December, January, and the Inbetween

At 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: Do I want to write this book, or not?

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.

Construction vehicle, lost in the woods

What Happens Next

Two 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.

Odometer reads: 259801.

How It Ends

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

Westward Hey!

Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

 - Inigo Montoya, "The Princess Bride"

After Atlanta, everything changes.

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.

Ruffner Mountain Nature Preserve, Birmingham

Twin Oaks, Earthaven, The Farm, IDA

In April, car trouble in West Virginia makes me three days late to the Twin Oaks Community. (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.

Twin Oaks members and visitors gather round the Maypole

Postcards from Hare Krishna Land

There are many doors into the Sri Sri Radha Vrindaban Chandra Temple at New Vrindaban. 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.

Time Flies, Lindsey Drives

SINCE my two months at Jesus People USA 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. Four months! I may push it out a month or two longer, but my savings account suggests I won't be traveling much more than that.

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.

JPUSA's historic Chelsea Hotel, Chicago

New Old Year, Old New Year

IT'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.

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.

Long Haul

I 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 happiest place on earth). But I bet the one thing that gets the most double takes is the Transformer Truck.

Too Many Stories

So, 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.

Where did we leave off?  Oh yeah, July. I spent most of July at the Grünewald Guild, 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.

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.

Things I Learned During Two Months of Farm Work in the Okanogan

• It's pronounced "oak-a-noggin".

• 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.

• If you sleep in an old camper in a sheep pasture, you may occasionally get friendly calls from the neighbors.