Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.
Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need no more,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.
The Earth, that is sufficient,
I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are,
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.
I am larger, better than I thought;
I did not know I held so much goodness.
All is beautiful to me;
I can repeat over to men and women, you have done such good to me, I would do the same to you.
From "Song of the Open Road" by Walt Whitman
Yesterday my permaculture course ended, and after five weeks of compost toilets, solar showers, and mud ovens, I'm feeling more connected to the Earth I stand on than ever before (and what an insanely beautiful Earth it is!). I presented my permaculture design project (a rooftop garden zula for the Kibbutz's community center) and I received my permaculture design certificate, so I'm practically qualified to tear down your house and rebuild it out of straw bale or cob. And while that might be a tiny exaggeration, it is truly unbelievable how much I've learned. (If you're ever curious I can tell you how to propagate just about any vegetable). I'm so grateful for all of the knowledge I'm taking away with me, yet it's still hard to say goodbye. Though it's only been a month or so, the Kibbutz is so small (only about 50 members) that it feels like home. I know who's in who's family and who to expect at Shabbat services. The gardens have become my open buffet; I'll miss being able to nibble on chard and cherry tomatoes at my leisure. But so is life, it's time for the next adventure. And more than anything, I'm so thankful to have experienced the communal lifestyle of the Kibbutz. Everyone has chosen to live in a way that offers equality to all of its members, and of course it comes with some sacrifices (or benefits depending on how you look at it). Everyone puts their salary into a pot that is divided evenly amongst every family, adults have to perform toranut, or chores, like milking the goats and cows, serving in the kitchen, working in the date plantation, etc, and most have given up their native language in favor of Hebrew. And though all isn't perfect (there are often money problems and the desert can feel extreme) they've all chosen to devote their lives to making it work. They have literally built their community from the ground up, and I think that is supremely admirable (especially compared to growing up in a bustling city where I hardly know more than my neighbors' names). I'll miss that intimate connectedness of the community. And I'll miss the long, blossoming garden beds, the expansive clouds that hover over the Arava Valley at sunset, the desert in all it's enchantment. But I know those mountains and the night sky with its bright stars will always be here, waiting for me when I come back.
And now I'm at Kibbutz Samar, a funky anarchist community just thirty minutes South of Lotan. My new Israeli friend, Tamar, and I are helping a family with the final coat plaster on a mud extension to their house. The kibbutz is beautiful, there's a horse stable behind the house, and there are tons of young and groovy Israeli's who I think do a lot of drugs. It sort of feels like a liberal arts college. Anyway we started work this morning at 7:30 AM and kept mudding all the way until 5 (I don't think I've ever done so much physical labor in an eight hour period). The first thing the dad, Yanai, said to me this morning was, "Emily, you have problem working on ladder?" For some foolish reason I said no, and I shakily carried a heavy bucket of sloshy mud up an unsturdy ladder (meanwhile it was windy and raining - why the heck is it raining in the desert!). Once I got the hang of it I was feelin good , but I can guarantee that a year ago I never would have spent hours slabbing mud onto a wall from a shaky ladder (I'm a warrior goddess!!). So after a long day of mud mixing and smearing my arms feel like they might fall off but it was a lot of fun (and the mom, Tammy, made us chocolate cake so it was all worth it). And hey now I really am ready to build my own mud house! (one day...)
Amen Walt Whitman, I did not know I held so much goodness.
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.
Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need no more,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.
The Earth, that is sufficient,
I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are,
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.
I am larger, better than I thought;
I did not know I held so much goodness.
All is beautiful to me;
I can repeat over to men and women, you have done such good to me, I would do the same to you.
From "Song of the Open Road" by Walt Whitman
Yesterday my permaculture course ended, and after five weeks of compost toilets, solar showers, and mud ovens, I'm feeling more connected to the Earth I stand on than ever before (and what an insanely beautiful Earth it is!). I presented my permaculture design project (a rooftop garden zula for the Kibbutz's community center) and I received my permaculture design certificate, so I'm practically qualified to tear down your house and rebuild it out of straw bale or cob. And while that might be a tiny exaggeration, it is truly unbelievable how much I've learned. (If you're ever curious I can tell you how to propagate just about any vegetable). I'm so grateful for all of the knowledge I'm taking away with me, yet it's still hard to say goodbye. Though it's only been a month or so, the Kibbutz is so small (only about 50 members) that it feels like home. I know who's in who's family and who to expect at Shabbat services. The gardens have become my open buffet; I'll miss being able to nibble on chard and cherry tomatoes at my leisure. But so is life, it's time for the next adventure. And more than anything, I'm so thankful to have experienced the communal lifestyle of the Kibbutz. Everyone has chosen to live in a way that offers equality to all of its members, and of course it comes with some sacrifices (or benefits depending on how you look at it). Everyone puts their salary into a pot that is divided evenly amongst every family, adults have to perform toranut, or chores, like milking the goats and cows, serving in the kitchen, working in the date plantation, etc, and most have given up their native language in favor of Hebrew. And though all isn't perfect (there are often money problems and the desert can feel extreme) they've all chosen to devote their lives to making it work. They have literally built their community from the ground up, and I think that is supremely admirable (especially compared to growing up in a bustling city where I hardly know more than my neighbors' names). I'll miss that intimate connectedness of the community. And I'll miss the long, blossoming garden beds, the expansive clouds that hover over the Arava Valley at sunset, the desert in all it's enchantment. But I know those mountains and the night sky with its bright stars will always be here, waiting for me when I come back.
And now I'm at Kibbutz Samar, a funky anarchist community just thirty minutes South of Lotan. My new Israeli friend, Tamar, and I are helping a family with the final coat plaster on a mud extension to their house. The kibbutz is beautiful, there's a horse stable behind the house, and there are tons of young and groovy Israeli's who I think do a lot of drugs. It sort of feels like a liberal arts college. Anyway we started work this morning at 7:30 AM and kept mudding all the way until 5 (I don't think I've ever done so much physical labor in an eight hour period). The first thing the dad, Yanai, said to me this morning was, "Emily, you have problem working on ladder?" For some foolish reason I said no, and I shakily carried a heavy bucket of sloshy mud up an unsturdy ladder (meanwhile it was windy and raining - why the heck is it raining in the desert!). Once I got the hang of it I was feelin good , but I can guarantee that a year ago I never would have spent hours slabbing mud onto a wall from a shaky ladder (I'm a warrior goddess!!). So after a long day of mud mixing and smearing my arms feel like they might fall off but it was a lot of fun (and the mom, Tammy, made us chocolate cake so it was all worth it). And hey now I really am ready to build my own mud house! (one day...)
Amen Walt Whitman, I did not know I held so much goodness.
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