This place eludes all efforts to capture it
Well-protected by spirits,
It's where everything real resides
It's why dreaming can't be photographed
And loving can't be quantified
And truth can only be seen in pale representations
once it leaves the immediacy of experience
It's where newborn babies see visions
Musicians hear songs
Old farmers hang out and share stories
It's where the conversations happen that shape one's life
And connections are affirmed that give it substance
It's off the radar screen of all established media
It's the mad dreaming that is wiser and more real by far
than anything that can be purchased in a store, on the street, or over the internet
It's more silent than silence, and more symphonic than a symphony
It's darker than the darkest night, and brighter than the sun
It can't be compared to anything
And words can only hint at it
Yet now, and forever, it's the only place that is
From this moment on, I swear, I will dwell nowhere else
Forget all my previous directions, they were illusions, too precise
I think Rumi had it right
There's a place, I'll meet you there
Chris Roth edits Talking Leaves.
©2002 Talking Leaves
Fall 2002
Volume 12, Number 3
Eco-Shelter, Coming to Our Senses
"I want to engage my senses with the natural world, not with artificial constructed environments and advanced technologies. I want the ability to be sheltered from a rainstorm, but I suspect that a small tent would do that for me just as well as a big house. And I want to hear the rain falling--I don't want to be insulated from it in a sterile cubicle. I don't want to trade in the sounds of nature for the hum of a refrigerator or the drone of a housemate's television set. I'd like my shelter to be modest, a barely noticeable part of the landscape--something that allows me to live closer to the world outside, not further away. And, for now, I don't want to be tied indefinitely to one shelter, in one location. I want to be able to move occasionally as I need to; I wouldn't want to stay in one place or one situation just because I 'owned' a shelter there. If I made decisions on that basis, my shelter would own me.
"In my daily life, though, I want to live as wholly as I can in whatever place I inhabit. I don't want to move further from there than I can propel myself under my own body's energy. I don't want to live in 'Anywhere, USA,'--I want to be reminded constantly, through my senses, of the particular place where I am. I want to know that I am alive, in touch with the living world around me. And no matter how much value someone else might place upon a fancy shelter, prestigious social position, or high-paying job, I don't want to be shut up in boxes, either literal or conceptual. My life is worth more to me than money, or than anything money can buy. The land is my temple. These other things don't tempt me, and they don't even appeal to me. I would trade them all for the life I feel called to live."
That was twenty years ago. My friend managed to avoid owning any shelter larger than a tent for nearly two decades, didn't own a computer until about four years ago (when he bought a reconditioned laptop, which runs off of solar power), and first became a "homeowner" of sorts (by buying a yurt and small cabin) just a little over a year ago. He has never structured his life around a car--has rarely needed to commute anywhere (usually working on whatever land he is living on), and when he has commuted, it's been by bicycle, not by car. The used car he has owned for about seven years has never been an essential part of his life, just an occasionally-used convenience, and has actually spent more hours at the mechanic's than being driven.
Over time my friend has found himself drawn into various social networks, activities, work, and cultural enthusiasms that have made his years of living out of a tent seem simple by comparison, and that have involved varying degrees of what might be seen as compromise. He is no longer a strict Luddite, and no longer so fixated on the temple where he is residing that he avoids entering into closer human interactions. In fact, the rural intentional community which he now calls home places a high value on the personal and interpersonal dimensions of being human, and has a social environment more active than any he has experienced before.
But despite these changes, he still spends a large amount of time engaged with the natural world, continuing to work, play, and live outside much of the time, and with only a window or thin yurt-wall separating him from the out-of-doors the rest of the time. Unlike in those early years, however, he has come to peace with being a member of the human species and of human civilization. Either he's matured or he's sold out--maybe both. And, in case you haven't guessed, he's writing this editorial on the aforementioned laptop computer, looking out his window at the garden from which, in a few minutes, he will be harvesting salad greens for a community meal. (His apologies to all who find third-person narratives annoying; at the moment, he's simply tired of writing "I.")
What does this story have to do with the current issue of Talking Leaves? It's to encourage anyone who feels reluctant to become slave to the dominant society's notions of shelter (and who finds the other boxes that fill our conceptual landscapes equally unappealing) to follow your impulses and inner guidance. And it's to reassure those wanting to "come to their senses" in their means of sheltering themselves--or of structuring their lives in general--that many others are following similar paths, and that we can help one another along. "Coming to Our Senses" means trusting what our senses tell us about the world around us and our place in it, and it means choosing or creating structures for ourselves that enhance rather than dull our sensual experience of life's processes. It means allowing our surroundings to nurture rather than thwart our relationships with the rest of the community of earth, water, and sky.
As usual, this issue evolved organically--in fact, the "Senses" theme was not announced, but suggested itself from the material we received. Please help us to allow future issues to evolve organically by contributing your work and by supporting us with your membership. TL is still barely treading water financially (which is why we're printing 32 instead of 40 pages this issue) and may need to undergo further changes next year to return to economic balance. We appreciate your support and readership!
©2002 Talking Leaves
Fall 2002
Volume 12, Number 3
Eco-Shelter, Coming to Our Senses
Despite the far-out path we may be on, right now we are having an Earthly experience. The Earth is our source of food, clothing, delight, pain, and shelter. No matter what you eat or what you live in or what you wear, no matter where it is grown or processed, and no matter how much humans may disguise or molest its original ingredients, it came from the Earth. We once thrived from our connection to our mothers through the umbilicus. Now we completely derive our sustenance from the Earth. There is an obvious but often ignored cord from us to Mother Earth. Building with earth reinforces our life on and relationship to this planet.
A shelter's most basic function is to protect us from the elements--sun, wind, precipitation, and temperature extremes. A shelter's most basic form consists of the elements--earth, water, rock, and wood. These are the materials used in a cob house. Made from the surroundings, a cob house creates an interior from the exterior.
In their quest for homes that will create the sense of belonging and comfort, Americans often lose touch with what a home needs to be, as opposed to what they want it to be. The dream home becomes an extravagance most people can't afford, one which metamorphoses into a thirty-year mortgage. Driven by a perceived need for status, many people become stressfully caught up in a cycle of debt. They can't be relaxed with huge mortgages, and feel "broke" while surrounded by their 300,000-plus dollar "creature comforts." I can understand their discomfort. The idea of having huge debt makes me very uncomfortable. I'd rather live much more like the other creatures on the planet, i.e. simply.
People want to maintain a certain "standard of living," yet homes with formaldehyde-laden woods, central bad-air systems, and new chemical carpets have made many sick. Humans thrive on connection. Modern illnesses often stem from a disconnection. When more of the products we eat or live in come from out of the bioregion or are synthetically manufactured, more fossil fuels are consumed and more pollution is created. The effects of these practices reverberate through the air, water, and earth, creating death where there once was life.
Warning labels stamped on house building products should elicit deep questioning on the potential effects of exposure, for anyone, for any length of time. Earth building offers non-toxic alternatives. I am currently pregnant. We plan to paint the interior of our house. The typical house paint has warnings of exposure to a number of chemicals deemed unsafe for the unborn to be around. Perhaps the unborn are the canaries in the coal mine. Can these products be safe for anyone to be around, ever? We have been planning and experimenting with a homemade casein/wheat paste/clay paint. As I have been experimenting with color and durability of mixes, I have had a comforting thought: I could eat this stuff. (My second, less comforting thought: Aren't these the same ingredients in a McDonald's milkshake?) Unlike standard housepaint, this paint is non-toxic, cheap, and edible. Most American homes are made with products that kill in their manufacturing and application. When the dream home becomes a deathtrap, one has to wonder, where is the "life" in the style?
When my partner and I thought about building, we kept it simple, as we've tried to do in all aspects of our life. We began taking inventory of what we had. We recoined the old term that could be used for us, "dirt poor." We began thinking of ourselves as "dirt rich." Dirt we had. The dirt excavated to level the site became cob. We had to sift, add water and straw. We also had an abundance of rocks. The burden of removing rocks and sifting gravel from the garden in prior years became a blessing. Stockpiled rock now had somewhere to go. It became our foundation. The second-growth forest behind our house could be thinned. Small trees became poles for framing. A friend needed help brush-clearing and milling for a house site. He would trade us lumber for our time. This wood became our roof boards. Thus the house became assembled mostly from materials available right here, at virtually no cost but our time and "mere" sweat.
From earth and rock we have built ourselves a cozy cave. Within the earth there is a constant temperature of about 55 degrees Fahrenheit. Our home, like a cave, maintains this same background temperature throughout the year. In the summer, this is a wonderful reprieve from the heat. In the winter, we build a fire in a cookstove that heats the house while cooking food and making hot water in the coils that run through the firebox. The home's many windows are positioned to bring in the low winter sun, but not the high summer sun. The light coming into the house lessens our need for artificial lighting created by solar and hydro power. Windows also bring nature inside.
What we wanted in a house was to enjoy nature from within it--to feel surrounded by nature while warm and dry. Through our windows, I met sixty bird species in the first year. We can check the snow-line on the mountain during winter storms and speculate how many feet of snow are on the roof of our car. Right now, I am watching misty mountain fog waft its way down river, blowing and catching in the trees. It is beautiful and makes me feel blessed and happy--I am a comfortable creature.
What we wanted in a house was to bring nature into it. This home is made from the trees, the rocks, and the earth. It fits into the landscape because it has always been the landscape. It's just adapted into floor, walls, and roof. As I look out at the garden, mountains, river, and trees, I feel a deep sense of belonging, a feeling of home. I can look within to the earth and stone walls, the pole framing and ceiling, feeling that same sense of home. I can look at my body, mostly made by the food grown in this garden. This landscape, this earth is within me and is me, too. All is familiar. All are my relations in the exchanging and rearranging of life.
Building in this way allowed our bodies to remain in balance. Our tasks varied through the day as we sifted, trod the earth, bent, lifted, grasped, and tamped. By changing positions and activities, our bodies did not cramp, strain excessively, or tweak. We had virtually no injuries. Our backs did better than they usually do. The only explanations for this are the existence of a higher power and the nature of cobbing, with its diverse tasks.
If we had had jobs and paid for this house to be built, we most likely would have spent long periods of time in the same positions driving to or doing the job. A healthy body is one of the perks to building naturally and doing it yourself.
Living this way creates the opportunity for great variety in work experiences. I am or have been a farmer, teacher, builder, cook, writer, crafter, hiker, naturalist, electrician, plumber, and janitor. Varying tasks helps my body and spirit keep in balance. Learning skills has brought a continually refreshing newness to my life. I have never been bogged down mentally, physically, or spiritually by the monotony of the same thing for too long. The only disadvantage of not staying with the same job for decades is that there is no pension available.
Once again, we are moving on to new projects. This house is almost done and thankfully, we don't need to build another one. But the next one would be so much easier to do and better built. We have learned a lot. I hope that what we have learned can inspire others to reflect, question, and act.
Building a home has been a reoccurring lesson that the Earth provides. By the time this house is finished, it will have cost under 10,000 dollars. Being "dirt rich" has enabled us to build this house dirt cheap.
Calleigh Ferrara's previous article, "Sustainability Is the Answer When the Future Is in Question," appeared in our Spring/Summer 2001 issue. Anyone wishing to correspond can write: C. Ferrara, PO Box 173, Mad River, CA 95552. For a listing of cob and natural building resources, send a SASE.
©2002 Talking Leaves
Fall 2002
Volume 12, Number 3
Eco-Shelter, Coming to Our Senses
Jesse Wolf Hardin points out the importance of the experiences we have through the sacred presence of a place. Ecopsychologist Michael J. Cohen, in his book Reconnecting with Nature, describes these experiences as our natural 53 senses. He suggests that anything in nature, be it "a park, a back yard, an aquarium, or a potted plant," can help us reconnect with the inherent knowledge with which we came into this life. As a student of ecopsychology, I am finding that the more I open my conscious attention to that which is around me in nature, the more I see about myself. If I stay in the same place to focus that conscious attention, then that place becomes increasingly enmeshed within me, within my essence. Life at Lost Valley aids in both spending more time in nature and doing so in a particular place.
On my morning jogs through the new forest, I experience my natural sense of color, one of our 53 senses, and its effect on my mood, another one. A bright newly blossomed fireweed reminds me of my sister in Alaska and gives me a feeling of love. A dark evergreen forest patch puts me into a place of melancholy and caution. I recognize the mood I feel upon embarking into the depths of my internal darkness. Freshly hand-tilled brown soil moves me to feeling secure, to being grounded and feeling that I possess the basis of my life in the soil of my soul. Experiencing the same place morning after morning strengthens my experience of colors and my moods associated with them and shows me how they can change depending on the exterior forces acting upon them. In the rain, an evergreen forest patch becomes a haven of shelter and brings up sensations of security, while a brown, freshly tilled garden bed becomes slippery, wet, and quicksand-like, making me feel melancholy and cautious.
My life is like this experience in nature, with certain exterior forces acting upon me, changing my moods. What Michael J. Cohen describes as a "wrangler's story" once taught me that changing moods, or even deviating from the norm of what most people experience in the way of moods, was not acceptable behavior. I have learned a new story through my experience in nature: changing moods is natural and even helpful for me. I am moved to feel an internal confidence that my actions are worthy and acceptable. Debilitating, unnatural senses of guilt, shame, confusion, and fear all dissipate as I run through the forest and examine color after color and rejoice in my natural sensation of each one from a place in sacred presence.
I see that this is where the need for something named "ecopsychology" fits in. We have passed the age of gray-haired, pot-bellied male dominance in our souls, and are intuitively finished with looking outside of ourselves to find the gold at the end of the rainbow. We are the rainbow, and we possess every prism required to refract our own light into any color imaginable. We have been taught to ignore, abuse, and misuse the natural world from a place of pure fear. Self-empowering individuals challenge Big Brother, henceforth has come the practice of divide and conquer. It is time to reunite with our Earth Mother, with nature, with the natural world around us, and finally regain our truth. That longing that every one of us is carrying around is starting to leak out everywhere you turn. Is there anyone you know who is not striving for a peaceful, balanced, relaxed existence? Listen to nature, look around you, and hear the silence. It is everywhere and we are a part of the beautiful balance. We each have the ability to tap into our peaceful dream; we need only allow the natural world to show us where that place is inside of ourselves, and surrender to it.
The sense of emotional place, of community, belonging, support, trust, and thankfulness is one I feel as I walk on the paths between the cabins of bustling community members and through the meadow where my apprenticing garden companions dwell in their tents. The journey through the trail system on this land lends to the connection of all of the community members here--the gentle grazing deer, the curious hummingbirds, the honey producing bees out pollinating the apple trees that will feed us in the fall. I trust that someone has put on the soup in the kitchen as I harvest the organic greens we have grown in the garden to accompany the noonday meal. I thank the neighboring weeds that have accommodated the pests while I pluck each perfectly formed lettuce leaf. Every part has its place in the whole of the cycle of life, one supporting the other.
Opening up a stream of consciousness to the natural environments around me has been the key to seeing more clearly my connection to those environments and to acknowledging my own set of natural senses. I can then blend the physical sensation with the mental understanding of what I inherently possess, and clear out the emotional channels with the help of spirit in nature, replacing previous distress with positive, secure, self-loving connections. Peace, contentment, security, and oneness follow in the embodiment of the physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual planes being joined together producing truth. My unhealthy previous need for acceptance and external guidance brought me only internal turmoil. All that I was taught is not all that I am. No one can teach me that. I already embody that information and have access to it at all times by reconnecting to place, to nature--by feeling and acknowledging the natural senses I possess.
Straggling in from every corner of the property, everyone comes together to be nourished by the bountiful food around us, joining in a song and a sense of appreciation. We have begun to learn to participate in the perfect cycle of life around us as we compost our scraps after our meal (feeding them to the chickens, ducks, and garden), yet we have much to learn. Multiple labels adorn the row of economy-sized garbage cans as we attempt to decrease our waste as much as possible, yet the perfect balance still eludes us. Nature produces no garbage. There are many more days needed of walking down those paths past the cabins and through the meadow to notice more pieces of the infinite puzzle that makes up the whole of nature--to listen and watch for clues to nestling into our places in the puzzle. We each have our own niche, and together as a race we make up a section.
Consciously observing, I watch as an insect completely emerges from his skin before my eyes. His new body and wings still clumsy and unbalanced, his front legs frantically caress his shed skin as if searching for a way back in. I recognize the part of myself that has just left my cozy, warm, consumer-based home in Colorado for a simple living space with no running water. I still feel a bit clumsy and unbalanced in my new home, yet am in awe of the metamorphosis transpiring before me. At this moment I know that this change was inevitable and natural. I am grateful for this message before me, and feel at peace.
I sit on the porch of my little cabin as the sun leaves the sky and gaze past the meadow to the flag of the world. The winds have died down, the intensity of the heat has left the day, and the forest is calm. I consider writing late into the night to complete a project I am working on, but instead stop to connect with what is around me. I feel the calm in my soul, observe the sun setting in the planes of my ideas, and join the surrounding energies in rocking myself to sleep. There are no deadlines in nature. There just is.
Lynn Ruoff, a new member at Lost Valley Educational Center, is a recent graduate of its Organic Gardening, Permaculture, and Community apprenticeship program, and is enrolled in the Certificate Training Course in Ecopsychology through the Institute of Global Education, Project Nature Connect. Lynn is a teacher who is currently in the learning stage. Contact: PO Box 325, Dexter, OR 97431, [email protected].
©2002 Talking Leaves
Fall 2002
Volume 12, Number 3
Eco-Shelter, Coming to Our Senses
water is love, oh yes, water is love
listen to her song--
"i flow in you...
i glide and slither through your furry forests and sink down into your flesh
only to pool in secret subterranean pockets--
touching the core of your innermost desire
dark, hot, moisture seething up to surface in sacred springs of delight
i tickle the toes of nymphs and toads alike
let me bathe you in my warm wetness and bubble up against your skin
drink me into your soul and let me nourish your seeds
cry me a river of salty tears and let me gush from your well"
water is love, yes, water is love
she sings her sultry spells spattering
drops of dreamy drizzle dripping down my thighs
splashing sea foam sprays of salty succulent sauce
she drowns me in waves of emotion
water is love, oh yes, water is love
lapping at the mouth of rapid rivers
her salty tongue slides in and out with lunar pulses
she rocks and grinds, pounding her love into the beachhead--
and exhausts her raging tidal fits against my shore--
then withdraws--
waiting for the moon to rouse her again into a frothy peak
water is love, yes, water is love.
Tammy Davis is a Lost Valley community member and co-facilitator of its Organic Gardening, Permaculture, and Community apprenticeship program. She has a special calling to heal and give voice to the water at Lost Valley.
©2002 Talking Leaves
Fall 2002
Volume 12, Number 3
Eco-Shelter, Coming to Our Senses