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.
* * * *
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
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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.
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Kitchen before |
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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.
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Sheet mulching |
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Ryan with coffee. |
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Trillium |
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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.
* * * *
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.
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Coop by Emily & Ryan |
* * * *
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.
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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.
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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.
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Planning |
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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.
* * * *
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.
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With my Paraguayan hoe.
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Volunteer sunflower. |
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Barn |
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View from commode. |
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Commode |