Updating this old post from 2 years ago with new plants
Here are the main plants I imagine we’ll be locally depending on for food on our land by 2025. Notice what is not there – many of the delicious but increasingly hard to grow annual vegetables we’re used to. This is based upon my beginner’s understanding of growing food in our specific area and of how climate pressures will change what can do well without increasing amounts of time and material inputs. There are also of course dozens of other plants we’ll depending on more for medicine and so many other needs not listed here.
Sweet Potato leaves
So many wild greens!! especially from young plants in early spring!!
Potatoes (incl. Perennial Potatoes!)
The shoots of so many plants! especially in early spring. including things like kudzu & squash shoots.
Grains & seeds:
Regionally appropriate Apples
Other wild plant foods:
And for some of us:
Hunted wild animals whose populations are in abundance on the land
loss: an overtone is forever added to the skin of the drum.
we seal hours trying to dampen the orphan harmonics that trouble the maker’s sound.
the hair we tear out alone on a feast day we tape to the drum head muffling some, never all of the raw ringing out.
I’ve been kin to tundra swan shadows, sorrow folded shoulders that undress the heart, neptune come to rest in the marked palm of grief’s chosen family
and i say in ardent love i will not mute the drums I play beneath your corn-ripening sobs.
for you and our loss, this scratched skin sings, zero-bound infinity, sings through the hole, the hole in my voice.
Disappoint me tenderly, catcher of sighs. I have learned not to worry about what I pray for. Yes, it will all come true. No, never how I think. I cry, shower me in joy! Let me wake up hummingbird, my needlebeak already deep in pooling essence. Or, all the same, toss me into your briars! Let my restlessness bloom iron to spill on newborn weeds chosen to dance for the milky way. Suffering and ease, a single weave, a featherbeat, a pulsing loom, Wineberries swell beneath the moon, Recall, recall, recall, recall.
Holy compost, and holy makers of compost. Great billions unseen working with water and the broken. I know the broken open and the broken apart are the bells that call you to the table and the aromas that stir you to life.
I’ve got something for you. I’ve got something for you to worm into, wind into, water into; to grind, combust, exhale to the great catcher of sighs above; to excrete, purge, cast, and fix – fix it dark and humic, fix it grain and clump, and bond to the end of my mistakes countless ions of magnesium and calcium to be the distant cracked hickory meat for some hungry belly a hundred millenia from this very local ache.
Oh eyeless playmates of rupturing time, it isn’t like I didn’t try to break it down on my own. I’ve been digesting the wool and amethyst body of all this as long as I’ve kept cold lightning in these nerves. Blessed heap, it isn’t like I lack cunning. Artifice, I relinquish. Craft, I rush. It’s cunning now that calls me to call to you. This is the time to give over remains to origin and finish.
Take these mistakes and take the squirming veil. Take the distance between my eyes and the soul of the world. Take them and grind, combust, exhale, excrete, purge, cast, and fix – fix the exhausted rider and mare to the mother place where they wait the time it takes starlight to echo, to be born again by hydrothermal vent into some other epoch of the world.
Whatever grows from you in my own time, I will taste. May I be here to peel the rind of some of what grows from what you make of all these endless shuddering thoughts. May the holy wish to love that’s behind every fleeing thought be the sweetness in the fruit that finds my mouth – growing from you, wretched pure pile, mound I dorm with, kidney of my garden, decay midnight sage.
About is a magician; a hand moves and our eyes follow, forgetting anything else ever existed.
Here is the about of my offering.
In 2015, I took a Permaculture Design Class at Wild Abundance in the mountains. Near the end of it, a storyteller who would later break me open again four years after told us the story of the climate and the way it could alter even our sky’s eternal blue color to the impossible algae green I’d already been watching it turn in my dreams for years. He taught collapse to paradise gardeners as twilight meteorology in toppled marble and stormwater. That night in sacred fellowship like the builders of a Stonehenge the circle of us watched the last human habitable dusk come upon us with a spiteless whisper.
At the end of that story I sat between two great ceremonial tobacco plants with leaves like the faces of saints of compassion and tilted my head to the stars I’d somehow stopped looking at when I moved to North Carolina. And the stars looked at me.
This was the first time I ever felt stillness.
In early 2016, by the doors of friendship and incalculable synchronicity, I was found by a tradition where that stillness I’d felt was taught, not with hollow words nor reason, not from any guru nor decades spent sitting on a cushion. Stillness was taught here by the undeniable and generous immediacy of its music like breathing is taught by the mother and then air.
In the first flame of that still candle, the silhouettes of what lives in me were clear and traceable against the earth. They gathered around me, court and standing stones under starless sky waiting to hear a single true word; and I, no running water, canoe on still shaded lake, undegreed and freelance in garments perennially and maybe permanently unlaundered, began to become someone who could bless each weird inner branch as were and as is.
In 2012, I met Pickle. I fell all the way in abiding love. Two teeming bundles, leaves cast on a zephyr holding hands and soaring with immediate recognition. All the while, molting and leaving clumps of fur around us we packed into one den after another. Dreaming of the den that wouldn’t rush and the den that wouldn’t sink. We were like stoned beavers building dams out of saliva and vintage repair manuals. It is was worth every stab of pain as the stone now passes.
In mid 2016, I quit my weird fluke of a well-paying secure non-profit job and went to a commune in the mountains to learn to live on earth without constantly tearing up her face. In my first visit, it felt like I had found the planet I came from. So much about it didn’t make sense in exactly the way I never could. The sound of the frogs in the garden at dusk was blinding. When I went outside to pee each night I could overhear the stars. They were so close.
Pickle waited for me at home while I studied permaculture. I alternated between the animal ache of missing her and the laughing liberatory terror of my first time experience of people living together in a way that seemed to actually sort of really work. My bones remembered this: having and being had by a people and a home. I felt something else I’d wanted for most of my life: an existance finally free of that daily barb wire around the soul that is the constant peripheral awareness that meeting my daily needs was clear cutting forests and enslaving people I’d never have the chance to know the names of. Here, the stories of how I had food water joy and shelter were not greenwashed press releases but the unburdened poetry of a passerby’s face on a creek bent path.
So deep in love was I with the valley, the air, the scent, the lifeway and all its radiant messes, that I was afraid I’d never be able to come back to Pickle from this place where I’d gone to study for the dream we’d been entangling ourselves in already for two years. For weeks my heart wanted to part down the middle. In desperate heaviness and despair I for the first time brought my need to the base of a tree. The mother beech held me as I stumbled toward prayer and after a time told me to open my eyes. A few feet before me a coyote walked through my sight. I wept. I had tried talking to a tree and a tree heard my prayer. My life was changed.
After that small rite, my intolerable longing for home departed on the wind. I was whole, I didn’t need to decide between partnership or paradise. Pickle was my home again. Our patterns and our problems would be my belonging. I found the will to leave the mountains behind and dreamed daily of our tearful reunion. I promised to my loneliness and my village-struck vision of human beauty that I would make my own village in the Piedmont as if a village were just so many mud bricks to carry.
On the Summer Solstice I went home to Pickle and after a joyful reunion, I found myself unwittingly immersed in 6 months of stark, sick, social isolation. Unemployed and alone most hours of the day, my new village was inhabited by me, memories, ideals, and whatever lived in all those ubiquitous screens.
We were launching our dream to create a community on land into the unfeeling sea of utopian concepts and property listings. We had a big whiteboard of the ten thousand things we needed to do by when or else. We argued about whether to have an inverter for our solar power or whether to have fifty people or ten live with us. We ended up in therapy for the first time. We paid $800 to have someone show us how much better it was when we listened to our bodies instead of the screaming toddler dressed as a statue called reason, and we promptly and equally forgot the lesson completely.
In mid 2015, we got married. It was the best day of my life. The trembling of Pickle’s face danced every fiber of me. Blessings made a portal in the air and washed us and our people with laughter and tears. Our beloved community formed a little nomad yurt village together and we were sure this scene of firelit communal intimacy prefigured the life we would create together in the woods. Our people watched, our mothers and fathers watched, the ones behind us watched.
Holy compost, holy makers of compost. Let me not hold back a morsel. Eat this now crumb and course, and if when it’s my time to lay in your fragrant arms you choose to show me the perfect fullness of this ceremony just once more, I will look and be unmade.
In 2017 we moved into the 256 square foot Yome. Canvas riff on an arid steppes dwelling air dropped into a loud hot humid forest land, arena for our shadows, hastened prayer, end in the beginning.
The fissure beneath my heart began to open again. Magma came through, cauldron light, aqueous fire. As the underground river beneath us rose and fell I kept carrying my longing to the bases of other trees listening for coyote.
I was willing, am somewhere inside still willing, to sacrifice my longing before any god not yet tired of me. Look at the finer and finer blade I have honed; the rarer prayer that I speak; the more gravitationally true the tears that I water the roots with before asking them to shred this pleading for kin and a homeland into something others find workable.
For three years I faltered and prayed, ending at least a thousand of those days silently resolving to leave as soon as possible. There came to be a mineral pride in learning I could transform anything. I forged increasingly ornate black gates from the heart magma. At least once, I swam our underground river. I learned to let every suffering become a call to stranger kinds of wholeness.
Maybe most of all, I was shouting to some story I inherited about men, I don’t know from where, that I would not run, I would not give up, I would not look away. If there was any lesson to learn in staying, I would hollow out more and more of my ego to let it come through and water these poor tired seedlings.
In late 2019, this horse got involved. It didn’t have reigns or a saddle. There was the story about the hundreds of thousands of horses killed in Eastern Europe by the soviets. There was the horse-hide drum I’d begun playing at night. The need to be free was given a shape.
Around the same time, the stillness I’d been studying and that had been studying me decided to take up residence. Beyond words and from a candle I had learned something wholly new.
Friends said I seemed taller. There was this final wrought gate I stood by every night for months. When the sun wouldn’t set and the sounds wouldn’t stop, I learned to be the evening star so I could sleep. I didn’t move from the gate. It wasn’t even so great a struggle. Stillness was the only response to the moment. Clarity was the only word on my lips.
One day whatever was meant to happen beyond the gate I was tending happened and just like that, my post was over.
This is where I am. The virus, nucleation of ten thousand causes and conditions, spread and it all stopped.
I have just been shook loose from a tightrope a moment after being reminded how to fly. Yet in eternal mystery, a great palm rises before my face signaling: “Wait. Pause. Hold on.” I sit in my strange wizard hut thinking, “hold on to what?” My partnership is over. The thread of my purpose has gone underground. The land I live on will probably not hold me for much longer. Our world reconfigures itself. Every obvious move is sanctioned. My toolbag is full yet for the first time in my adult life, I have nothing to work on.
I have shards and ash tracing arrows and runes. Kin. Find kin. Mountains. Go be with them. Trees. Where you can plant trees. Body. A body that recognizes yours. Water. Enough to immerse in. Song. So less often sung alone.
Joy. Worth following. Worth changing for.
Where will I be next year? What will I be doing? How will I help?
This is the first time in so long that I do not know.
“Sometimes you are blessed with the opportunity to do something directly to help the Amazon. More often, if you’re living in the United States or Germany or England or India, the opportunity may not be to stop the logging in the Amazon. The opportunity might be on a much deeper level, to contribute to a shift of consciousness — to perform acts of care and ecological healing. Or social healing. I mean, it’s all part of the same project, the healing of this Earth. But it could be ecological healing where you are that affirms that you care about life on Earth, that invites the planet to stay alive.
Imagine that you’re on your sick bed and you’re really suffering, and you don’t really know: Do I want to live? Do I want to stay here? What gives you the will to live? It’s if people love you, if people need you, if you’re valued, if you have a community, if you’re not alone. Here we have Earth on a sick bed. Therefore, everything you do that affirms that you want a living Earth, not a dead Earth, everything you do that is of service to life, everything you do that comes from love of a place or a person or community — all of that is a message to Gaia, saying ‘We love you. We want you. We need you. You are not alone.'”
This still shaded lake, sorrow is not mine anymore now than when they were a river eager to reach any new curl further down the face which wept them cold and clear into life.
In times of wet shadow silent by the highway growl the prayers of snapping turtles in the shallow abyss secret inside a script only a few still read: original darkness, this still shaded lake, sorrow.
Dragonfly! In the shatter and reconfiguration and so much fucking loss please light on me now. Make these arms your branches buoyant on sorrow while my trunk falls into the muck. Please be the jewels that are not mine anymore now than when the weather starts again after centuries and you begin to tumble out these dark open eyes wet with a lonely talent to read the prayers of snapping turtles this still shaded lake, sorrow.
“When did we trade shelter for comfort? what was the cost of that trade?”
We’d planned a firefly-lit party to celebrate Beltane and then watched the first great storms of May fly towards the tiny patches of shadow under our meagerness of off-grid roofs. As the storms grew closer, we thought twice about inviting dozens of folks to crowd under the shoutfall of rain on our little octagon of acryllic canvas and our one-and-a-half small squares of aluminum roof and cancelled the gathering in hopes of better weather the next weekend.
But then in the usual dandelion-seeds-in-a-zephyr nature of off-grid communications, some beloved friends didn’t get the message calling the party off; and others adamantly volunteered to brave it anyway for a stormy abbreviated Beltane. And so that night four friends gathered together with us three living out there now in the half-built breezy rib cage of our newest grasp at Shelter.
We’ve been building a new shelter since January. Built from a kit from Jamaica Cottage Shop and costing less than $4,000 for what we sincerely hope will be a 4-season habitable climate appropriate off-grid home, the little home has been my prayer for a sense of missing peace, privacy, and harmony in my life on our land.
Two Februarys ago, we started life in our extra small yurt / yome. I now carry an imaginary library card to palatial dream libraries filled only with the books of what we didn’t know. We were and still are beginners.
The unknowings that were hardest on me and nearly tore my life apart a basketfull of times were two: first, that in a canvas structure only an acre away from a bunch of neighbors, that neighborhood dogs barking all night in Winter and neighbors partying frequently with amplified music in Spring through Fall would drive my silence-loving auditorily oriented self out of my heirloom gourd; and second, that living in a small crowded canvas circle under a lot of stress and emergency with someone you dearly love is like an echo chamber for every last shred of childhood and ancient “stuff” you’ve been porting around and had previously been using netflix as expertly as possible to avoid having to look at.
Beyond that, there were really health and life giving acts that I knew how to do but just couldn’t figure out how to access in that tent. I finally realized I’m a deeply introverted person who cherishes a kind of soul privacy that I can now see was a painfully unanswered need for some of my family going way back that decided to find me too. There are weird wiggles we just need to get out when we need to get them out and to do them we need to be blessedly alone. Not the least for me was the healing way I used to use making music to center myself and soothe my heart; but in that crowded canvas octagon, so close to my neighbors who are always outdoors and, at least in my mind, always listening to the new weird drama of their backyard, I was afraid to make the melodic sneezes my guitar patiently suffers or the long cuckoo succession of rhythms my drums taunt me into lest I reveal the naked cave dwelling spirit under my urge to make music and, worse, lose from my own loud drumming the ability to ask them to kindly turn down their noise when it’s pounding through our dinner at the end of a long day. More and more unusual binds like this gave me the feeling of being a trapped animal, watched, even somehow attacked. And when I barked in the way a trapped animal sometimes does, Pickle was the one there to hear it and be hurt by it. In the nature of all real dreams, our life shared a boundary with nightmare that I sometimes found my heart smuggled across.
So it was in this confusion and misery that we kept building and building this little prayer of a home deeper in the woods. It would be soundproofed and finished with earthen walls that would reverberate like time and maybe even make my disregulated crow voice and squash-fingered plucking sound OK. It would also be private and a holder of Rumi’s kind of solitude. It would be an invitation for loving silence and loving aloneness to nest; and if they did, it would be those most tender of twins, now being chased from every imagined corner of our round world, that could call my own frightened rescue dog heart home again. And maybe I could start, after 2 years, to live where I live.
On Beltane evening, when the seven of us gathered in the little half-completed shelter I hoped could become my home, I got to witness something as numinous and additive as the birth of a lamb in the field. I got to watch my shelter gain a soul.
I didn’t know this was a thing that happened. I didn’t know to look for it. I don’t know if all the boxes built as our attempts to enclose some promised portion of comfort had anyone trying to call in a soul. Probably most of them didn’t, and the corners and doorways and attics sat wanting, their soul vacancy signs muted in the formaldehyde and amnesia walls that is the architectural vernacular of building code and capitalism.
Now I know and won’t forget: a soul can be invited into a building just as surely as some cultures believe it is invited into a body (it even seemed to be about the same number of days after the building’s “conception” as some traditions believe about people that it happened!). What this soul’s invitation looked like was seven friends laughing, speaking, singing, drumming, remembering; and the lightning in the sky outside the door frame and the belting frogs and my first sacred peeing off my own porch, ever; and the bizarre ecological drawing game we play called ‘weirdo forest’ with a song devoted to each imaginal being we placed into our index card ecosystem on the unfinished floor; and the oak-in-the-acorn, ending-in-the-beginning moment of having, in those three-and-a-half walls and that flickering candlelight illuminating the wrens who moved into the corners of the beams of our home months before I’d be ready to, when all of our effort and longing had already created this one absolutely perfect moment of profound love and beauty in this dear small little ensouled Shelter. Before it, it was a construction site. After it and forever until its end, it glows and will glow, for me or for someone else or maybe only for the wrens, of a Home.
thank you to my family and family of friends who called in the household spirits and all for all those who will be there some day with me feeding them with laughter and gnarl. love you
I am learning the dizzying trust the thread learns to feel when the needle leaps out from the cloth again and again.
Here two weeks away from two years of porous living, slowly learning to track the animating questions home to their weird heart, sometimes finding precious peace in the storm and other times senselessly jumping up and down in the rowboat because it’s so confusing to see the sea so calm when somewhere so many are sinking and somewhere so many are dragging their battered courage onto the soft breast of shore, I ride out this gnarled gift of a life in our weathered canvas home.
I started writing two years ago to leave a record of our journey to this life within the limits of earth. Along the way I’ve written about the connection between the land and myself. Just as I’ve been taught how to let the completion of an old oak grove show me my own completeness, the mothering patience of a beech tree welcome me as nourished and nourishing, or the blistery pokey teacher vines at our forest edges teach me about boundaries and skin, so is some great empathy working quietly behind each day to bind me to the whole of this place that has been plowed, logged, eroded, cut, hunted, trashed, and also loved, relied on, blessed, remembered, protected, and again regrown, all of it in cycles depositing strata of people and plants atop the grinding migrations of behemoth plates forever going home. I detect but don’t understand that in some important way what happens here happens to me. The more I learn to see that my home is alive and had a life long before we ever met, the more our relationship becomes as potent and vulnerable as a marriage.
In loud moments last year I’ve cursed my home for not being able to keep me safe and for echoing my every failure back so loudly and in quiet moments last year I’ve utterly relied on the patient exactness of our place and let myself sink free into its playful peace.
In both kinds of moment inner hands work silently braiding something durable inside while I get to work building another small shelter in the woods.
I lost a forest canopy of a friend this Friday who had again and again taught me just by being himself how love can be easy, how a single smile can speak the whole book of life, and how touching the circle of a drum can build a nest in air for firebirds to roost. A week before losing my friend a candle and a sweetgum ball taught me how to mend a terrifying rift in my marriage. And a week before that, I dwelt in sudden startling ease with the afterimages of my lost biological father and all the deeply kind, lucid branches he left behind as I was welcomed mess and all by the missing lovable intensely recognizable other half of my life.
Somewhere in the days before and between each of these threshold gates, I wandered alone through the nights driven crazy by a neighbor’s new chained dog barking endlessly through the bitter cold nights, afraid like I get afraid and alone like I get alone cold down in by the creek bed at the end of the land. And approaching each gateway, I was sure again that I had to leave the land. And in between that, I was sure again that I am home, I am supported, and every grain of sandy soil I sleep above is the sand of the path I somehow chose to walk the day I was born.
The way I was taught to make cordage involves bringing together again and again the thumb and the finger. The hand encloses a precious portion of emptiness. The emptiness is mother to the durable. In braiding the durable, I sometimes need to spend months just holding that thumb and finger together having no idea what I’m doing. No new twine is made, nothing visible moves. All I can do is keep that pressure against the pulse in my thumb, exhaling. Other times, I move. The pliant inner skin of trees moves in my hands. Strands become rope. Rope becomes bridge. Where is there to go but across? What is there to say but thank you?
to my dear friend: I’ll watch for you across the bridge we were building together until it’s my time to cross. in the meantime across the way you’ll hear me playing the rhythms you taught me. thank you, thank you, thank you.
and to the parent who died before I could meet him: who knew what a familiar friend you could be to me without us having ever met. you’ve left me a life where I’m triply blessed. thank you for this wild chance to be. i love you as you are.