Rhizome--a system of interconnected root-like stems, usually growing horizontally under or along the ground and sending out roots from its lower surface, and leaves or shoots from its upper surface.
Yesterday, August and the lawn mower were in cahoots and their respective sweat and grass were convening on my back. On a whim I threw down my clothes, hauled up on the handle of the hydrant and crawled cringing underneath to wait for the water. In seventeen years, I'd never tried this before. Gravity driven, my cold experience worked its way up the pipe, the stuff that the windmill pulls from deep down for us to use. There was a sharp moment of wonder about the sudden and involuntary restructuring of my breath when water hit skin. Who allowed that gasp to get through? Dripping and unhindered by time, spectator, or clothing, and with more than a little glee, I pulled a warm towel off the line.
This is my joy. How I found it I don't know--it was a mere seed before--but somehow I've done some good stumbling and found these beads of gratitude that continue to multiply. I don't think that a person's state of mind can be traced solely to a concrete list of elements (since there are always unquantifiable forces at work), but I know that my happiness draws heavily on the nature of our lifestyle. My parents came to rural Winneshiek County in January of 1982 to begin being the change that they wanted to see in the world. They wanted their day-to-day existence to seek out sustainability on all levels. (This quest continues: our latest venture involves a solar-powered lawn mower that gets plugged in through an upstairs window for recharging.) Naturally, their choices have meant that my view of the world and my place in it have taken on a certain tinge to begin with, but in the last couple of years, my journey has taken a more independent turn. I've begun on a path to affirm for myself the truths that have been suggested to me every day.
Thus far, whether I've known it or not, the whole phenomenon of "growing up" has been about learning to see the world in its concentric layers of relation. The pursuit of sustainability requires one to be open to the systems, patterns, and weaving that is the context within which we live. It requires us to do away with the compartmentalized thinking that most of the western world relies on, to seek a vision of the whole. I think I'm just beginning to understand this. I've been composting my food scraps, I've been reusing my plastic bags, I've been buying in bulk, I've been doing so many things because individually they make sense. Plus, that's just the way we've always lived. But it's only now that I am beginning to create mental ties between the firewood that I split, the potatoes waiting in the ground, and conservation efforts in Massachusetts or Brazil. Diverse pieces are linking arms. I'm asking more questions and in stepping back, I am diving in.
In an interview with Renee Lertzman (The Sun, April 2002), Paul Hawken remarked, "Once you see the world as interconnected--even if it's just a glimpse--you will never be the same." He's right. My thought trains meander differently now, drawing together the centermost components of my days:
There is wild all around us to be reveled in. It is not a luxury but a necessity. We live in it, with it, we live by it. In past years, on walks through the woods with Mom, our conversations have touched on buds and leaf scars and the brewing of foliage within brown shoots. Coming home I wonder about the scars that our saws leave on the orchard trees when we alter their growing plans (how does this relate to altering the genetic make-up of a tomato by adding or subtracting various and sundry genes?). We bring in many five-gallon buckets of red skin and firm pith from these trees in fall. This is a part of our harvest. The garden brings forth from old soil an annual abundance of color and texture that we hold in grateful hands. Our bodies remember the hours spent nurturing, and savor these fruits even more.
Our food brings us together with friends and neighbors-whether through a trade (twelve pints of raspberries if you'll cut our hay field!) or an evening potluck. We are warmed by company, stories, possibilities, and so much hope in the graceful arms of each other's words. I go to bed that night wondering how I can be like these people who surround me, these ones who have been my greater family. How can I create? How can I bring something good and needed to what is there? What will be my gift? And so, these people are my teachers and I love them for that. I think of them when I sit in a classroom. I think about how being there takes me away from them and funnels me into a boxed monoculture. Consequently, I've chosen to be partially home schooled and to take some classes at Luther College. My ideas about education keep forming, and home schooling allows me the freedom to pursue them. My parents are intelligent people. I respect them for respecting me, and their knowledge is a blessing. Dad and I keep remarking on how most things are grey and there's really very little that's black or white. His political passion and knowledge are instructive and inspiring. We read together and end up forgetting the book as our conversations fly like fire.
* * *
In one sitting I mentally consume: the importance of ecosystems, small-scale agriculture, genetically modified organisms, good food, the value of hard work, and of community, hopes for the future, educational philosophy, the development of my own world view, and any number of random sidetracks that may occur (usually including some spiritual wanderings). How can one's life be any richer than that? One consequence of my journey (unconsciously begun and now purposefully continued) has been an ever-increasing sense of responsibility and obligation to engage in and protect the systems that I perceive. I think about change and action as part of my path (while learning from my parents' hardships and happiness). I think about stewardship. There's a lot of good work to be done.
Strangely enough, this process of revelation has brought more peace than despair to my heart. Searching for my own form of sustainability has brought me into the world in a new way. I am learning to see quiet beauty. I have found gratitude where indifference sat before. I am amazed. Ahhh, to be part of something! And to know it! There is both security and excitement in that.
Hannah McCargar lives in Decorah, Iowa. She writes: "I am eighteen, working my way through an educational amalgam of homeschooling, high school, and college classes. I'm currently reading E.F. Schumacher's Small Is Beautiful (some hope lies therein!). I'm curious about steady-state economies, horsemanship through feel, interdependence, the relationship of body/mind, and pedagogy."
©2003 Talking Leaves
Summer 2003
Volume 13, Number 2
Community With All Life