I often get asked what my average day is like living at Dancing Rabbit. I find this question hard to answer. My life is seasonal and cyclic and ever changing, like most things around here. Unlike when I lived in the mainstream, my days have a great deal of variability depending on the time of year, what the weather is like, and what the needs of the community are at the time. I get stuck. Which days count as average? Which days surpass the mundane and no longer count? Are there any days that are not, in some small way, extraordinary? This is Emeshe, and here is one of my days.
First thing every morning I stand outside and read a poem to the sun. Because it is fall, the grass smells sweet and feels soft, like the nape of a neck. The sun rises in the east and geese fly brashly towards it. There are red leaves like candy. When the morning is frost nipped, the birds tuck their wings in close and are quiet. When it’s warm, the birds drift from tree to tree and we all sing. Starting each day with my feet planted on the earth and my face turned to the sky grounds me in the sense that I am not alone, that I am connected to something infinite, something that holds me.
When I feel complete, I swoop home down a curving gravel road lined with earthen homes. I trickle water from a glass water dispenser into an electric kettle. Soon rising steam envelops the aloe plant living on my window sill. I like to imagine that it enjoys this daily bath of warmth and humidity. My house is small, tiny in fact, and not hooked up to running water. I have what we call “walking water” that me or my partner bring from the Common House every few days. It’s amazing how much needing to carry my water home, rather than having plumbing, shifts my relationship to water consumption. My three-gallon jug goes so quickly it seems–just doing one dish or washing my hands substantially moves the water line downwards. After the tea is done, I perch on the window seat in my office/bed/living room, and look out at the woods that surround our house. At DR each house is given a name; this one is called Haven.
At 9 am, I walk up the road to my friend Lesley’s house where she holds space for morning meditation. Her house is warm, and we sit in a ring of armchairs arranged on an intricately patterned rug. Somewhere a candle burns. There is soft morning light that glitters with dust moats. The walls are earthen plaster, smoothly curving over sharp corners like fondant icing on cake. The floor is also made of earth. We sit surrounded by ground, grounding ourselves. It is a great gift.
After these morning rituals it’s time to get to work. I walk up the path to the Common House, sometimes stealing a second to pet Wallace the cat on my way. As I enter the Common House I am often greeted by scampering children who want to include me in some adventure or shenanigans. It’s hard to turn them down, but I’ve learned by now that if I don’t hold strong boundaries around my time I will never get anything done. Here, there always seems to be some conversation or invitation to tempt me away from my duties.
I sneak into the office of our nonprofit, the Center for Sustainable and Cooperative Culture. It is cluttered and homey, full to the brim with old papers, books, office supplies, and packaging material waiting to be reused. Things that aren’t wasted must be stored. Entering box world, I open my computer and begin to sort through emails. We are a small organization, interlaced with a small land trust, but we do a good job of keeping ourselves busy. Though our October visitors are still doing their morning check-ins down the hall, my head is already buried in preparations for next year’s workshops, retreats, and programs.
The afternoon arrives suddenly. This is always how it is. My days skitter fleetingly by like water bugs on the pond. I can’t hold them still. Instead, I watch them skate by; silvery and glinting. In the sweaty summer afternoons I spent many hot hours working on the Critter Kitchen rebuild, running up and down a comically steep staircase with pieces of wood and power tools held to my chest. These days, my afternoons are full of voices. I talk to prospective visitors on the phone, answering questions, sharing about my life at DR, and getting to know folks before inviting them to join our visitor cohorts. I meet with my fellow Rabbits to plan events or to do the committee work that keeps our hopeful, hodge-podge circus on the road. Sometimes I’ll attend a work party for a friend. For someone who lives a simple life in a rural place, I find I am never bored.
By late afternoon, my fellow early risers and I are tired. This time of day is often a moment for fun and self care. Somedays, it’s the support of Women’s Circle, the romp of Ultimate Frisbee, or a giggle with friends. Some days it’s an opportunity to lay on my floor and contemplate life’s mysteries. At some point the bell we have suspended in Critter Kitchen will ring and my partner and I will walk to dinner, ready for an hour of camaraderie before bed.
So goes a day.
Emeshe Amade co-leads DR’s nonprofit organization, the Center for Sustainable and Cooperative Culture. She is a regular contributor to this newsletter.