Finding Home

This is my life: I live in a barn with my sweet, hardworking, handsome fiance, four chickens, two rabbits, a disappearing cat, a shy mouse, and quite a few curious, yet respectful spiders.   I daydream about a Vita-mix and electricity to run it.   I also imagine bathtubs and hot, running water with which to fill them. Though these are good fodder for thought, I am content; more content, in fact, than I can ever remember being.
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I am awake before five this morning, laying in bed and listening to the rain pound on the metal roof of the barn. I pull on clothes from the day before, plus a wool jacket to defend against morning temperatures, even in August. I heave open one of the sliding barn doors to let in some light. Pale pink clouds make wispy streaks above the massive cedar trees. The chickens, hearing me rustle around, call out. I put the coffee percolator on the propane stove before going to let them out of their coop. Cricket-Cricket, Pincho, Fraulein, and Red hop-slide down the ladder directly to their food. Trillium, the doe rabbit, starts running back and forth in her hutch excitedly, while old-man Jackson sits in the bathroom corner of his hutch and stares with his huge, bunny eyes. The rain has stopped, though overhead trees drip an omnipresent reminder of the night's precipitation. By now the sky is clearing to light blue, and mauve clouds are drifting away to

Green manures sprouting.

make room for what looks like another hot day. Hopefully there was enough rain that I don't have to water the slope that is planted with green manure seeds, which need daily watering during this time. Of course, the area underneath the biggest cedar tree is bone dry. I did not have much hope for cultivation there, anyway. It also looks like the chickens are having a second breakfast of my seeds in that area. With all the blackberry removal that's been done, I am trying to protect the slope from erosion, while improving the quality of the soil after years of the invasive Himalayan blackberry, since the property has been abandoned for over ten years.

 I'm hoping the mix of winter grasses I planted take root before the fall rains come. Watering has been a task. The old water line is leaky, so we mostly leave it shut off at the meter, located a quarter mile up the road. When I want to water, I hook up a hose and sprinkler head to the outdoor spigot, open the attached valve, then head up the road to switch on the main line at the meter. This, however, is a luxury after hauling water up from the creek.

Kitchen before

Kitchen after

Because everything takes so long, each minor improvement feels monumental. A few amateur stairs that I created on the path are a source of pride. I never knew that a few hours spent with the weed-whacker (a recent purchase!) could so dramatically improve the landscape and my mood.


How many years have I been daydreaming about my homesteading future? How I would tend the garden, milk the goat, and put the finishing earthen plasters on my beautiful home? What a strange realization to awaken and find that I am, in fact, living what had always been in the future, and that none of it is as I had imagined. I knew it would be hard work—I looked forward to it, but I also did not realize just how hard it would be. And not just in the physical sense. This is the part of homesteading that was not a part of my fantasies: hauling years' worth of abandoned junk out of the woods, trying to determine the best way to...get water, power, make a floor, keep warm for the winter.  I find myself waiting for clear direction from an "expert," like the water company, for instance, but it seems like it's all up to us.

Sheet mulching

Ryan with coffee.

Trillium

Bunny hutches

 
The first homesteaders, of course, did everything from scratch, similarly to what we are faced with, minus all of our modern tools. We are encumbered, instead, with county regulations and bureaucracies.  These are burdens that are borne under the pretext of safety. Moreover, early homesteaders were all in the same proverbial boat.  All MY neighbors have electricity, running water, and often pity, admire, or both, that we live in a barn with our chickens.   I really don't mind this lifestyle, except when I measure myself against my friends and neighbors, and I fall short according to some image of who I should be/what I should have by the time I turn thirty (in less than two months).   I enjoy waking up and going to bed, more or less, with the sun. I love that my chickens follow me around. I am very conscious of how much water I use, and carefully pour soapy water from one dish to the next to prevent waste. I limit the amount of food I buy and harvest because of the minimal space in the cooler. I enjoy the slow pace of this life, except when I need to work in town and be there at a specific time, smelling clean, and looking presentable. Much of this life is reminiscent of living in Paraguay. The difference is that, in Paraguay, everyone lived in this way.   Here it takes me much longer to simply live than anyone else I know.

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At a beekeeping conference a few weeks ago I was talking to the owner of an agriculture supply store. He was telling me how his son, an engineering student, is creating a chicken coop with a timed device to feed, water, and close the coop at night.   I was excited about the idea, since I have had to shorten my nights out and forgo weekend trips, due to the responsibility of caring for animals. The old-timer farmer who was also sitting at the table chastised me for being a “bad farmer.” I was hurt and defensive about his comment.   I never claimed to be a farmer, but his words stuck with me.   I should be home every night, tucking my animals to bed, but the reality is that I am still caught in a few different worlds . Is it possible to be a part-time farmer or part-time homesteader? I knew that the gift of having land would mean relinquishing some of my previous activities. My time and financial commitments have to be here. I made that choice. But that doesn't mean I do not feel called to go out late with my friends or go to festivals and forget about everything else for a while.  So, perhaps I am a bad farmer, but I'm not sure how much I'm willing to give up to be a good one.

Coop by Emily & Ryan

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I think that life could be divided according to our relationship to things: times of acquisition and times of letting go. With the exception of a few minor phases of purchasing and salvaging during college or while living in Paraguay, most of my adult life I have been constantly getting rid of things to make room for what I need, or at least with what I can easily move. Never before have I been in a position to just acquire stuff.  I am still using the same doddering, garage sale kitchen supplies from college, I own no furniture, and, besides the few boxes in storage, I have been able to carry what I own in the back of my truck, letting go of and acquiring new items here and there. Now I find myself hording irrigation line, old beekeeping equipment, unwanted sinks, and scraps of wood, just because they might have a use sometime.

Our backyard jungle.

Many of the items we have been collecting recently are coming from our neighbors who have sold their farm and are getting rid of two massive barns full of almost twenty years worth of country living.  Our neighbors, in general, have been extremely...well, neighborly, offering ripe pears, showers, and outlets to plug in our phones. Many of our neighbors come walking through our property, since we are butted up against hundreds of acres of forest, and there is a trail that can be accessed from our place. At first I was a little put off by having people just show up and walk by the barn. There was a part of me that felt possessive of my space and my privacy. Then I took a step back and realized that those were not my feelings, but feelings I thought I should have.   Actually, I realized, now that I know my neighbors, I love that I have something to offer them. It feels like community.

Southern View

Living in community is a blessing and a curse. Mostly it has been one blessing after another; we have been able to borrow tools, labor, and generally clean others' unwanted items. We have, however, been getting lots of unsolicited advice from our community, which, while sometimes helpful, also instills a strange resentment. We were talking to some friends, both psychologists, about it a few weeks ago, and they immediately understood what we were talking about. Having moved onto a sailboat for the first time, learned to sail, and then traveled around the glove, they encountered many people in the maritime world who each knew a different “right” way of doing anything. They call this catch-22 the “cost of collaboration.” It feels inherently good to work with others, to problem-solve as a whole, and become strong, as diverse minds and bodies can.  But it comes at a cost: loss of autonomy. Getting too many perspectives makes it hard to see the right choice. It is also plain annoying to have so many people in our business. Ultimately I know that I am blessed to live in a community where so many people want to see me succeed enough to offer advice. Collaboration is a beautiful thing. A trying, nail-biting thing that, of course, will make me a richer person...I hope, one day.

Planning

Doing

Again, bringing things back to living in Paraguay, one aspect of life down there which frustrated me most was my lack of privacy. Neighbors were always over to borrow something, offer something, check up on me. There was no escape, and I resented Paraguayans for wanting to hang out with me, for wanting my help, and for needing theirs. I did need their help. They all needed each other in a very unpretentious, straightforward way. That's where I realized what community really means. It was not about the “intention” people heave,but about allowing themselves (by choice or not) to rely on each other, without condoning dependence upon others. While my lack of privacy drove me crazy, from it blossomed the sense of community that became my fondest memories.










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This is just another homesteading blog, written by another wanderer, searching for some peace and meaning in this life. There are many others doing the same or similarly. The vast amount of literary works popping up all over about getting back to the land are increasing. The public is taking note. I do not claim to be doing something new, only something that feels right. The more convenient our lives become, the further we get from discerning what makes us truly happy from what we think will make us happy in the distant future if we only just get that job, or buy that thing, or live in that house.   Viveka is the Sanskrit word for “discernment.” In yogic philosophy we are taught to discern between the real (unchanging) and the unreal (changing) in order to stay on our paths. It is a constant practice to find the parts of me that are unchanging, that cultivate contentment. Electricity and running water will come, and I will appreciate their convenience. I will also know that I do not need them, because sitting in the dark, drinking mate with my love is the closest thing to real I have.

With my Paraguayan hoe.

Volunteer sunflower.

Barn

View from commode.

Commode