“Notonlyisthisbookbeautifullywritten,withwisdomandhumor,italsooffersapracticalguidefor‘sustainable’homebuildersofanyage.Boyewriteswithanimpressiveintelligence,immediatelydrawingreadersinnotonlytothestorybuttothemindandheartoftheauthor.”—ReeveLindbergh,authorofUnderaWing:AMemoir“AlanBoye’shumorandgenerosityrunthrough

thisbook,asdoeshisgentlecompassionforthepeopleandplacesheloves.”

—MiriamKarmel,authorofBeingEsther

SustainableCompromises

TheYurt

OurSustainableFuture

SeriesEditors

CharlesA.FrancisUniversityofNebraska–Lincoln

CorneliaFloraIowaStateUniversity

TomLynchUniversityofNebraska–Lincoln

SustainableCompromises

AYurt,aStrawBaleHouse,andEcologicalLiving

AlanBoye

UniversityofNebraskaPressLincolnandLondon

©2014bytheBoardofRegentsoftheUniversityofNebraskaCoverphoto©iStockphoto.com/anandoartAllrightsreserved

PublicationofthisvolumewasassistedbyagrantfromtheFriendsoftheUniversityofNebraskaPress.

LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationDataBoye,Alan,1950–Sustainablecompromises:ayurt,astrawbalehouse,andecologicalliving/AlanBoye.pagescm.—(Oursustainablefuture)Includesbibliographicalreferences.ISBN978-0-8032-6487-8(paperback:alk.paper)ISBN978-0-8032-6502-8(epub)ISBN978-0-8032-6503-5(mobi)ISBN978-0-8032-6501-1(pdf)1.Sustainableliving—Vermont.2.Boye,Alan,1950—Homesandhaunts—Vermont.3.Ecologicalhouses—Vermont.4.Ecologicalhouses—Designandconstruction.5.Sustainability—Philosophy.I.Title.GE198.V5B692014640.28'6—dc23

2013044111Thepublisherdoesnothaveanycontroloveranddoesnotassumeanyresponsibilityforauthororthird-partywebsitesortheircontent.

ForJimWilson,JimExten,andMollieandPhilFreeman

“Thefutureofalllife,includingourown,dependsonourmindfulsteps.”—ThichNhatHanh,EssentialWritings

“Tothosedevoidofimagination,ablankplaceonamapisauselesswaste;toothers,themostvaluablepart.”—AldoLeopold,SandCountyAlmanac

Contents

ListofIllustrations

1.WhatILivedFor2.SustainableCompromises3.WhereILive4.Water5.Design6.Foundations7.ElSol8.Economics9.TheBeautifulTreeandOtherDisasters10.TheAmoeba11.TheStrawThatBrokeThe12.Finances13.Collaboration14.Artifacts15.Solitude16.Visitors17.ThickSkininaWinterofDiscontent18.Spring19.HigherLaws20.Postscript:MistakesWereMade

Acknowledgments

Notes

Bibliography

Illustrations

Frontispiece:TheYurt1.Linda2.TheYurtToilet3.TesuqueSchool4.TheTree5.RoofTrussDay6.TheAmoeba7.TheAuthoratWork8.StrawHouseExterior9.StrawHouseInterior10.HouseunderConstruction11.JamesC.WilsonattheYurt12.ExteriorPlaster13.InteriorPlaster14.FinishedHouse(SouthView)15.FinishedHouse(NorthView)

SustainableCompromises

Fig.1.Linda

1.

WhatILivedFor

In the latespringmonthsof1973Ibuiltayurtonahighdesertplateau thirty-fivemiles to the southeast of Santa Fe, NewMexico, and began living therealone. I had just finished teaching fifth grade in the small, mostly Hispanicvillage ofTesuque. Iwas almost dead-dog broke, skinny as a rail, and barelytwenty-threeyearsold.Ididn’thaveanyideawhattodowithmylifebeyondfindingaplacewhereI

couldliveascheaplyaspossible.Thenfriendstoldmeaboutsomelandtheyhadfound thatwas for sale for next to nothing.Nevermind that itwas thirty-twoacres covered mostly in cacti and sand or that it was a mile away from thenearest road,nevermind that I knewnothingabout checkingdeeds forproperownership,muchlessanythingaboutbuildingastructurewhereapersoncouldsurviveinsuchaplace—Iboughtit.Besides,itlookedlikeagoodplacetotryoutmy self-romanticizedvisionof the starving artist: somehalf-crazedgeniusbent over his cabin’s only table,working under the light of a single kerosenelantern,whilecoyoteshowledoutsidebelowapaledesertmoon.Soon,withthehelpofafewfriends,Ibuiltanodd,cupcake-shapeddwelling

ontheland.Ilivedalonethereforalittleoverayearbeforetherattlesnakes,theloneliness, the blackwidow spiders in the outhouse, andmy own restlessnessmademeasojournerincivilizedlifeagain.Butforthatyear,Ilivedassimplyasahumanbeingcould.Ilivedwithoutrunningwater,electricity,andrefrigerationand survived only on the meals I prepared from a three-month stockpile ofcanned goods, rice, and beans.Granted,withoutmy youthful blindness to thefragilityof life,Iwouldneverhaveattemptedsuchanexperiment involuntarypoverty. My regret is that that same youthful blindness prevented me fromproperlylearningthelessonsofthatlonelyplateauuntilyearslater.OnceIleftthedesert,my lifebecameoneofmoderncomfortsandconveniences. I forgotnearlyeverythingIhadlearnedaboutlivingsimply.Flash forward thirty-five years. My wife and I had been living in New

Englandfordecades.Asweapproachedretirementage,westartedtalkingaboutselling our beautiful but drafty and inefficient Victorian house.We wanted asmallerplace,onebetterinsulatedtowithstandVermont’slongcoldwinters,butalso something we could afford on the modest fixed income we wereanticipating. Wherever we lived, we also wanted it to be as simple and as

environmentallysoundaspossible.Weworeoutacoupleofrealestatebrokerstryingtofindahousethatsuited

us—the houses were either too far from town or poorly insulated, either tooexpensive tofixupor toolarge.Theideaofbuildingourownhomestarted togrowonus.Themorewe talkedabout it, thebetter it sounded.Wedecided itwaspossibletobuildasmall,inexpensive,andenvironmentallysoundhouseforlessmoneythanmanyofthehouseswewerelookingat.I had been an English teacher formost ofmy life; I knew next to nothing

about designing a house or about sustainability. I hadn’t thought about suchthings as the proper depth for a foundation or the problems of human wastedisposal since I lived in the yurt. It took us three years to build, from ourdecisiontodosountilourfirstnightinthehouse.Thelaborwasoftentorturous,brutally hard on both body and spirit. At one point, wewere on the brink offinancialruin.Attimes,ourmarriagewasonverythinice,anditisamiraclewestillhaveanyfriends.But—withthehelpofthosefriends—webuiltanoff-grid,energy-efficienthouse,usingmostly locallyproducedmaterials, andmade it acomfortableandaffordabledwelling.Oh,oneotherthing:thehousewebuiltismadeofstraw.WhatI learnedfromthose twoattemptsat livinginbetterharmonywith the

worldisthesubjectofthisbook.

ToreachthelandwhereIbuilttheyurt,youdrovefarintothehigh,lonelydesertsouthofSantaFe.Theroadwoundthroughmilesoflow,rockyhillsthecolorofstraw,speckledwiththepalegreenofpiñonandjunipertrees.SeveraldesolatemilespasttheNewMexicoStatePenitentiaryandseveraldesolatemilesbeforeyou got to my land, you came to a multicolored mailbox with the word“Cornucopia” painted on the side. Three or four couples, an assortment ofchildren under the age of ten, and a handful of dogs, cats, and chickens livedhere in a sprawling combination of old adobe buildings, sun-sheltering A-frames,andthreeorfourramshacklewoodensheds.MyfriendBob,whogavemetheplansfortheyurt, livedatthesmallcommunewithhisyoungwifeandtheirinfantson.Everyonewholivedtheresharedchoresandcommonspaceandtriedtoagreecollectivelyonanyissuestheyfaced.Cornucopiasurvivedforonlyafewyears.AfterafiredestroyedtheA-frame,peoplewenttheirseparateways.AlthoughIdidn’tappreciateitatthetime,watchinghowthosepeopletriedto

work and live together eventually gave me an understanding of both thedifficultyand the importanceofharmony inhumancommunities.To livewith

anawarenessoftheenvironmentisn’tsimplyaboutusingtherightlightbulbandrecycling trash; it also requires that we create communities that can sustainhumanity.One day, shortly after I hadmoved to the land, Iwas atCornucopia. I had

volunteered to help replaster one of the commune’s adobe buildings. After amud-speckleddayofhardwork,allofuswereseatedinthebigcommonroom,eatinganddrinkingfromajugofcheapredwine.Wetalkedthatnightaboutpolitics,fromthelocalvolunteerfiredepartmentto

the jungles of Vietnam. The world’s problems back then were no lessdisheartening, and we discussed them seriously but with good cheer andfriendship.Someone mentioned how the plaza area of Santa Fe was changing. A

multistoryhotelwasbeingbuiltandwouldtowerovertheoldadobebuildings.Theplacewasbeing transformedfromanauthenticsouthwestern town intoan“AdobeDisneyLand”fortourists.Bobtookadeephit fromthe jug.“Theproblemwith theworld is that there

aretoomanypeople,”hesaid.“Plainandsimple,that’sthegistofit: therearetoomanypeople in theworld.”He handedme the jug. “Of course, living outthereattheyurt,youwon’tseeanypeopleatall.”Theconversationdriftedtotalkofmynewdwelling.Peoplewantedtoknow

howitwasworkingout.BobaskedwhetherIwasgoingtoinstallasodroof,astheplanscalledformetodo.HewastheonewhohadseenanitemintheLastWholeEarthCatalogabouta

structurethatwasveryinexpensivetobuild.Hesentawayforplansforbuildingayurt,andtheplansendedupinmyhands.Istillhavethem.In1973,theyearIbuilttheyurt,theaveragecostofanewhomeintheUnitedStateswas$32,000.Idon’trememberhowmuchitcostmetobuildtheyurt,butlastweekItooktheplans to my friends at a local lumber store. They told me I could build thestructuretodayforonly$920,adirtcheaphomeevenby1973standards.One thing is certain: my decision to build a yurt had little to do with

sustainability.Ihadverylittlemoney,andsoIdecidedIwasgoingtofindawaytoliveascheaplyaspossiblesothatIwouldn’thavetoworkatajob.Iwasn’tgoingtocompromise.Iwasn’tsmartenoughoroldenoughtoacceptsomekindofmiddleground.

2.

SustainableCompromises

For several miles past the Cornucopia commune there was nothing but a bigemptyuntil thehighwaycame toanold-fashioned, real-lifeghost townnamedMadrid. Madrid consisted of dozens of empty wooden houses, weathered togray.Thehousesstoodinrowscarvedintoarockyhillside;rottingcurtainshungfromopenwindows.Thedrydustywind tossed tumbleweedsdownwhatoncehad been its streets.A thriving coalmining town until the early 1950s,whenotherfuelssuchasnaturalgasbecamecheaper,Madridhadbeenabandonedforyears.Nowmostofitwasonthevergeofdisappearing.Thehighwayclimbedoutof theghost town towarda small raggedchainof

inhospitablepeaks: theOrtiz.While I lived at theyurt, their shark-tooth-sharpsilhouettewasthefirstthingIsaweachmorning;andeachevening,seatedatmycampfire, Iwatched thedesert’s sunsets turn thempink, then fiery red, then adeepdarkblue.A few miles beyondMadrid, a small faint path wound down from a high

shoulderandtouchedthehighway.Theroadintotheyurtwaseasytomiss.Thepale trackdoubledbackon itself andclimbed toa simplegate: twostrandsofbarbedwirestretchedbetweenfenceposts.Youpushedatightloopofwireoffoneofthepostsandthendraggedthetwostrandsofwireoutoftheway.

Fig.2.Thetoiletattheyurt

Once beyond the gate, you bounced across an open plateau. Sharp-needledchollagrewtherelikeweeds.Finallyyoureachedacreakingwindmillnexttoacowtankfullofwater.Thefaintroadwenton,butthatwasasclosetomylandasyoucouldget inavehicleunlessyouwerewilling todrivestraight into thejuniperanditspin-cushioned,tire-poppingcactus.One brilliantMaymorning, I drove fromSanta Fe in a borrowed pickup. I

turnedcarefullyoffthehighwayontothefaintpathsoasnottospilltheloadofbuildingsuppliespiledintherearofthetruck.Iparkednexttothewindmillandbeganthehardworkofhaulingsuppliestothebuildingsite.AfewhourslaterIrested in the shadeof apiñon tree. In frontofmewas apileofboards, tools,shovels,andonewell-usedschooldesk.EverythingIneededtobuildmyfirststructure:theouthouse.Bytheendofthatfirstday,Ihaddugafour-foot-deeppitinthegnarlyjumble

of sandand rocks thatpassed for soilout there. I slept thatnight in the truck,listeningtocoyoteshowlingsomewhereupintheOrtiz.Thenext day, I hammered together anoddlyuniqueprivy, completewith a

Dutchdoor(soifIeverhadcompany,youcouldsitinprivacybutkeepthetop

halfofthedooropeninordertolookouttothebeautifulexpansebeyond).ForthetoiletIcutaholeintheseatoftheschooldesk.Ikeptthetoiletpaperonthedesktop.Althoughitwasnotquiteasfancy,anouthousewasthefirststructureIbuilt

on our Vermont land as well. I made it in sections in the basement of ourVictorianhouseduringthedarkcoldwintermonthsprecedingthesummerthatwebegan to build the strawbale house.As soon as the ground thawed in thespring,Ihauledthesectionsouttothelandweboughtandassembledthemoveradeeppit. Iknewthesitewouldseea lotofuseinthecomingmonths,anditwouldbealongwhilebeforewehadanyotherkindoftoilet.If the hole is deep enough, well ventilated, and not near anywater source,

whatbetterwaytotakecareofhumanwastethananouthouse?Builtcorrectly,anouthousedoesn’tpolluteoruseanywater.Inaddition,thenastystuffslowlydecomposesandreturnsimportantnutrientstotheearth.In other parts of theworld human fecalmatter is used as a resource. From

methane gas for power to high-grade compost, there is a good argument weshould not be throwing this shit away. Rose George, in her book The BigNecessity: The Unmentionable World of Human Waste and Why It Matters,explains that 90 percent of the world’s human waste ends up in the oceansuntreated. That sludge contains high amounts nitrogen and phosphates, whichhelptofeedalgae.Thealgae,inturn,suckoutthedissolvedoxygeninthewater,making ituninhabitable formostsea life.On theotherhand, thatsamehumanwastecanproduceauseablefuelandmakesexcellentcompost.Humansewageisclassifiedeitherasgraywater(thenotsopollutedstuffthat

goes down the kitchen sink, the shower, and the clothes washer) or as blackwater(theyuckystuffthatgetsflusheddownthetoilet).Graywatercanbeusedtowaterlawnsandgardenswithverylittletreatment,orsometimesnoneatall.One day an aging hippie visited our Vermont land. He still lived on a

communehehadhelpedtostartdecadesearlier.Itconsistedofpeoplewhoheldacommoninterestintheartofdance.Manyoftheoriginalmemberswerestillliving there,while younger ones continue to join.He listened tome trying tofigureoutthemostsustainablesewagesystemforournewhouse.Heexplainedthat, at the communewherehe lived, they just rangraywater into thewoods.“What betterway to use graywater?” he asked. “All the graywater from thecommunegoestokeepourwoodlotlookinghealthy.Asfortheotherstuff,”headded,“wehavecompostingtoilets.”Mywife,Linda,andIstartedtoconsiderhavingcompostingtoiletsinournew

Vermonthouse.Welearnedthatapropercompostingtoiletdoesnotsmell.Ithasacontainer that isventilatedso thatallodorsare removed to theoutside.Thatcontinuous flow of fresh air speeds up the decomposition process. Unlike thestagnantpitbeneathanouthouse,thecirculatingairinacompostingtoilethelpsto establish a diverse community ofmicrobes, which quickly break down thewaste.Whenacompostingtoilet isworkingproperly, itproducesadry,fluffy,andodorlesscompostmaterial.Thecompost isexcellent for flowersand trees,althoughmanyauthoritiesdonotrecommendusingitonvegetablegardens.For a brief moment, it seemed like the perfect plan for our “green” house

wouldbetohaveacompostingtoiletandtojustrunourgraywateroutintothewoods.Simpleandrenewable.But...Once, long ago, a gypsywoman readmy palm.We sat in a smoky coffee

houseasshebentovermyhandandstudiedthelinesshesawthere.Afteralongpauseshesaid,“Youhavegoodideals,butyouwillalwayscompromisethem.”Ipulledmyhandaway, indignant that she couldbe sowrong;butof course, intime,Iknewthatshehadbeencorrect.Compromiseisinevitableinlifeand—onaplanetwithsixbillionpeople—essentialtosustainit.As times of decisions come to us, our minds conduct a kind of debate

weighing the pros and cons of our choices. Sometimes emotions guide us; atothertimesweturnawayfromourinstinctsandchoosealesstraveledpath.Butas we age, we come to realize that every choice we make has an impact onothers.Wemaynotalwaysmaketherightdecision;butifwerealizeourimpactonothersand—dareIsayit?—haveasetofidealstoliveby,thecompromiseswemustmakeinlifewillbemoresustainable.Buildingourhousewasanongoingseriesofsuchcompromisesbetweenour

greenidealsandthemorepracticalmattersoftimeandmoney.Take, for example,ourdecision tobuild at all.Whycreate anewstructure,

when you can use an already existing building? Construction accounts for asignificantportionofthedepletionoftheearth’sresources.Evenifyouhavetodoa lot tomakeausedhousemoreefficient, it isalmostalways lessharmful,andlessexpensive,thanbuildinganewonefromscratch.We lived as many twenty-first-century families do: we recycled, tried to

conserve on our energy consumption, and shopped around for the most fuel-efficientcar.WhenwedecidedtodownsizeandmoveoutofouroldVictorianhouse, we began to think more about how else we might live and use fewerresources. We knew we wanted a place that was small, well built, energy

efficient,andcheaptolivein.Westartedlookingathousesinthearea.Manyofthemwerebuiltwhenheating fuelwas inexpensive andwere therefore poorlyinsulated. We were willing to spend money to make an older house moreefficient,butwedidhavealimittowhatwecouldspend.Onceinagreatwhilewewould locate a small,well-built home thatwouldn’t takemuch tomake itmoreefficient,butwewouldn’tlikethefactthatitwasbuiltonabusystreetorthatitwassofarfromtown.Eventually,wecompromised.Wedecidedtobuildanewhousebuttomakeit

as environmentally friendly as possible. This was the first of many decisionswherewetriedtobalanceourdesiretolivemoresustainablywithoureconomic,aesthetic,andpersonalneeds.In2008,theyearwecompletedourstrawbalehouse,thenationalaveragefor

the cost of a new homewas just under $300,000. Although straw is a cheapbuildingmaterial,thecostoflaborandothermaterials,aswellasourdecisiontobeoffgrid,stilldrovethecostofoursmallthree-bedroomhometo$150,000,orto half the average price for a newhome.On the other hand, because it is soefficient, our house is very inexpensive tomaintain.We heatwithwood; andsincestrawissuchagoodinsulator,heatingthehousecostsusnexttonothing.If Ididnotcutmyownwoodfor free,ourannualheatingbillwouldbeabout$350.We use propane gas for some of our appliances. Propane is certainly not

renewable,anditsproductionandtransportationisanythingbutsustainable.Butourconsumptionaveragesouttoonly20gallonsamonth,or240gallonsayear.Althoughpriceswillinevitablyrise,thiscurrentlymeanswespendabout$50amonth on propane.With a little research, we found themost energy-efficientclothingwasheranddryeravailable.Theyaresmallbutbigenoughforthetwoofus.Onnicedayswedryourclothesoutside.Inadditiontothedryerandthewaterheater,weusepropaneforourcooking.

I considered installing a modern version of the old-fashioned wood-burningcookstove,buttheyarenotcheap.TheyheatuptheinteriorofahouseduringthesummermonthsandrequiremorephysicallaborthanIthoughtIwouldhaveinmylateryears.Intheend,Idecidedsuchastovewasnotpracticalforus.We installed solar panels for electricity; so when the sun is shining, our

electricityisfree.ButtheareawhereIlivehasthelowestnumberofsunnydaysinthecontinentalUnitedStates.DuringtheespeciallydarkmonthsofNovemberandDecember,Imakeupforthelackofsunshinebyusingagasolinepoweredgenerator once every two or four days to charge the electrical system’s set of

largestoragebatteries.Inanaverageyearweusesixty-fivegallonsofgasolineforthegenerator.Because thehouse is so energy efficient, only a small portionofouryearly

budget is subject to the ever-increasing cost of fossil fuels.Our expenses stayaboutthesamefrommonthtomonth.Thatmeans,sofaranyway,thestrawbalehousehasliveduptooneofthekeygoalsweset:affordability.Whileweweremaking these decisions about our future home, the State of

Vermontpassednewwastewaterlaws.Inthemwereprovisionsforcompostingtoilets,buttobelegalwewouldhavetotreatourhumancompostasadangerouspathogenandburyit.Also,thenewlawstillwouldrequireustoputinasepticsystemjusttotreatourgraywater.Thetippingpointcamewhenwerealizedthatmostcompostingtoiletsuseelectricitytocirculatefreshair.Thatconflictedwithourhopeofsignificantlyreducingouruseofenergy.Sowecompromisedandchosetohaveconventionaltoilets.

3.

WhereILive

Knowing we would have flush toilets meant that wherever we built our newhouse,thelandwouldhavetoaccommodateasepticsystemanditsleachfield.Wealsowantedlandthatwasclosetotownsothatwecouldeasilygettostores,the theater, the library, and the hospital. The problem was that we couldn’taffordlandthatwasveryclose,yetwewantedtoreduceourdependencyonourcar.Wedrew a ten-mile radius around the town and decidedwewould try tofindaplacewithinthatarea.Wepickedtenmileshopingthatwecouldfindlandthatwasaffordableyetcloseenoughthatwecouldsometimesrideourbicyclestotown.Usingthoserequirementsasastart,webegantodevelopalistofrulesfora

housesite.Inadditiontobeingwithinourbudget,nomorethantenmilesfromtown, and able to accommodate a septic system, the place had to have goodsouthern exposure, be close to good roads, andhave enough space for a largevegetablegarden.EventhoughVermontisknownforitscalendar-qualityviews,itwasn’t very important to us that the house site have a good view.We alsodidn’tcareabouthowfewormanyacres,onlyabouthowuseableandaffordableanypotentiallandmightbe.Over the course of about a year, we looked at several pieces of land.We

foundafewthatcameclosetowhatwewanted.Wevisitedthoseoverandoveragaintryingtodetermineiftheywouldworkforus.Wekept looking at a thirteen-acre plot that had the distinction of being the

cheapestlandwithintenmilesoftown.Ithadgoodsouthernexposure,aswellasother advantages, but it had onemajor flaw: itwas on a hillside so steep thatputting inadrivewaywasgoing tocost amint.Wenicknamed it theHeliportbecausewejokedthatwewouldneedachoppertoaccessourhousesite.OneSundaywedroveouttotheHeliportforanotherlook.Weinspectedthe

woods. Theyweremostly softwoods, spruce andwhite pine, butwith a goodsmatteringof hardwoodsmixed in.Theywouldmake a sufficientwoodlot forfuel.Weclimbeduptheslopeandfoundtheremnantsofasmallcabinnearitspeak.The spotwas level enough for a building site butwould require a long,steepdrive.Wemadeourwaydowntheslopeuntilwefoundanothersite thatwassomewhatlower.Weclimbeddown thehill and stoodat thebottom.We studied thehillside,

tryingtovisualizehowadrivemightsnakeitswayuptothesite,whenweheardsomeonecallout.“Youreallyinterestedinthatland?”We turned.A stockymanwith a pleasant facewasmaking hisway up the

road.“Myname’sAlanFogg,”hesaid.“MywifeandIlivejustoverthere.”Hepointed.Throughthewoods,wecouldseehishouse.“Areyouguysinterestedinthatland?”“Weare,”Ianswered.He nodded. “I’ll sell you this adjoining land for the same price. It’s not as

manyacres,butit’sbetterland.”Hedescribedtheboundariesoftheproperty.IleftLindachitchattingwithhim

and took off into the woods, following his description of the property’sboundaries.With every step, it became clearer that we had found our land. Idiscovered at least three decent house sites. I could tell that thewoodlot wasmuchbetterhere.Good,long-burningfuelslikemaple,beech,andoakgrewonagradual,south-facingslope.Therewasplentyofroomforagarden.Itwascloseenoughtotown.Therewasonlyoneunansweredquestion.“Ihavetobesurewecanputinaseptic,”IsaidwhenIgotback.AlanFoggsmiled.“Oh,you’llbeabletoputinaseptic.”“IfIcan...”Istuckoutmyhand,“thenyou’vegotadeal.”Weshook.Lindaspokeslowly,asifcomingoutofadream.Shelookedatme.“Didwe

justbuysomeland?”On thedrivehome Iassuredher thiswas the rightplace.Becauseweknew

what we needed and had seen so many parcels, I knew that this land cameclosesttomeetingallourconditions.Theonlydrawbackwasthat—atninemiles—thelandwasattheextremeofour“lessthantenmilesfromtown”rule.Findingoutifwecouldhaveasepticsystemtookacoupleofweeks.Wehad

tohireamanwithanexcavatortopokeholesintheground,andwehadtohireasepticengineertotestthoseholestomakesuretheycouldserveasaleachfield.During that time, we discovered a small brook that tumbled down from theHeliportandbisectedtheproperty.Thestreamranthroughtheheartoftheland,a tiny silver threadwinding itsway through the stifling greenof the toweringwoods.Thestreammadeforanicefeature,anditalsoopenedupthepossibilityofputtinginasmallhydroelectricsystemforsomeofourelectricity.Althoughweareninemilesfromtown,weareonlythreemilesfromacouple

ofsmallandbeautifulNewEnglandvillages.Eachvillageboastsafewproperly

paintedwhitesteeples,andcenturies-oldhousesframedbyquaintpicketfences.Each has a small store selling groceries and simple hardware.One store sellsgasoline as well. The stores also serve as impromptu meeting halls for thecommunityoffriendsandneighbors.Whilewewaitedfortheresultsoftheseptictests,Ivisitedthetownofficesin

ordertomakesuretherewerenoproblemswiththedeed.ThatwasatleastonelessonIhadlearnedfrommyexperiencewiththeyurt.Look,one thing thatshouldbeclearbynowis thatanyunemployed,broke,

twenty-three-year-old who was building a yurt smack dab in the middle ofnowheremight be the same kind of twenty-three-year-oldwhowouldn’t havecaredorknownmuchaboutsillythingslikeownershipanddeeds.IfIhadcared,however,ImighthavediscoveredthatIwas“buying”thelandfromamanwhodidnotownit.In 1770, at about the same time people named Carrick and Gilfillan and

Wardenwerecoming to thispartofVermont fromScotland,Mexicancitizenswere petitioning the Spanish government for land in the new world. It wascommonfortheSpanishgovernmenttorewardformersoldierswithlargetractsofland.Infact,theNewMexicolandwhereIbuiltmyyurthadbeengrantedtoaMexicansoldier.Or...maybenot.Itwasn’tclear.The area where I built the yurt was unoccupied in 1848, when the United

States acquired jurisdiction over it as a result of theMexican-AmericanWar.Problems soon arose regarding who owned the large land grant. Claims byMexican descendants conflicted with those of Texas cattlemen. Mix thoseproblemswith politics, throw in unscrupulous lawyers and a gold rush in theOrtiz Mountains, and you get some idea of the difficulty of determining theownershipofmyNewMexicoland.Ihadbuilt theyurtandwas living there,but themanIwasbuying the land

fromhadnotproducedthedeed.Icontinuedtomakepaymentsonthelandevenafter I abandoned living at the yurt. Each time I tried to clarifywho actuallyownedtheland,themanledmeonawildgoosechase.AnexpensivelawyerIhiredtoldmeitcouldtakeyearsandalotofmoneyandeventhenitmightneverbe clearwho really had title to that land.He suggested I simply stopmakingpayments andwalk away. In the end, I tookhis advice. Still, I consider thosemonthly $79 payments a pretty cheap price for my year-long experiment inliving.AsItracedthegenealogyoftheVermontland,inordernottomakethesame

kindofmistakeagain,wecrawledalloverthosetenacrestryingtodecidewherewemightbuild.Myinitialimpressionsaboutthepropertyprovedtobecorrect.There were three places to build a house. We quickly eliminated one for avariety of reasons.We had the other two tested and learned that eitherwouldsupportasepticsystem.Oneofthesiteswasinthecenteroftheproperty.Theverysecludedspotgave

usthedelightfulfeelingofbeingdeepintheVermontwoods,withnotahumanartifactinsight.Theothersitewasneararoad.Asmallerareaandnotnearlyasprivate, it did have the advantage of having utility poles close at hand, and itwouldrequireashorterdriveway.Wecouldn’tdecide.Weneededhelp.ThereensuedtheinitialemploymentoftheAmoeba—anebulousnetworkof

kindandgenerousfriendsandrelativeswhowouldcontinuetobeonourunpaidpayrollfortheduration.TheAmoeba’sworkbeganatonce.Timeaftertimewewoulddragfriendsouttothelandandwalkthemfromonesitetotheotherwhilebabbling about our concerns like schoolchildren. They would listen and nod,offeradviceandpointout thingswehadn’t thoughtabout.Onebeautifulearlyautumnday,wewere tramping through thewoodswith two friends,when themanturnedtousandsaid,“Theoneinthecenteroftheland,that’stheartist’ssite.” I perked upwith that old false pride—just like the yurt! “And the otherone,”hesaid,“theotheroneistheaccountant’ssite.”Ahyes...money.Thedownsideofthe“artist’ssite”wasthatitwasfarther

fromtheroad.Thatwouldmeanthatitwouldcostmoretobringinpowerandthat we’d have to build a longer driveway. I got bids on how much eachdrivewaymight cost, and the power company sent out amanwho helpedmefigureouthowmuchextraitwouldcosttobringpowertothecentrallylocatedsite.Butthemorewelookedatthatsite,thecleareritsadvantageswere.Thearea

waslarger,whichmeantwecouldhaveagood-sizedgarden;andwhileitwouldmeanalongerdriveway,theaccesstoitwasfromapavedroad,whereasaccessto the “accountant’s site”was fromadirt road.Thatwouldmake adifferenceduringVermont’slongmuddyspring.We began to explore using solar power. Although solar power systems are

expensive,youcanlimittheircostbydesigningahomeandlivinginsuchawayastominimizetheuseofelectricity.Weknew that ifwewere going to buildwith environmental awareness,we

had tocarefullyconsidereverydecisionwemade: fromwhichbuilding site to

usetoenergyefficiencytoaesthetics.Thatpartwaseasy,butwealsohadtotakeacloserlookatourownlifestyleandhowwemightbeabletochangeit.Cornyasitsounds,Ibegantochantthehackneyedphrase“leaveasmallerfootprint”asourmantra.Thatdoesn’tmeanIwaswillingtoreturntotheextremelifestyleoftheyurt,

butthesamedesiretosimplifymylifeseemedtobeatthecenterofbothhouses.Simplicity,asHenryDavidThoreaunoticed,allowsyoutoseetheworldaroundyou clearer and allows you to live amore fulfilled life. Simplicity, as his palRalphWaldoEmersonasserted,alsoallowsyoutoexperiencelifemoredirectly.My life at the yurt was so simple that, much of the time, I was bored; butbecauseofthatsimplicity,Isawthelivingworldaroundmeasnoothertimeinmylife.I’lladmit thatnostalgiafor thosetimesmighthavepushedmetochoosethe

artist’ssite,ratherthantheaccountant’s,forourVermonthome.Intheend,thedecisiontobuildanoff-gridhouseattheartist’ssitemighthavehadasmuchtodowithwildturkeysaswithanythingelse.Oneearlyspringdayjustbeforewemade the final choice, Iwaswalkingalone through theVermontwoods.Graystatelymaples towered aboveme, their crowns already reddeningwithbuds. Iwas looking up at them while I bushwhacked down the slope toward thesecludedartist’sbuildingsite.IbarelyglancedasIsteppedoverafallentree.Theexplosionnearlytookoffmyhead.A brown cannonball burst into flight, her gobbles like some Cheyenne

warrior’scall.I lookeddown.Ihadnearlysteppedonanestofadozenturkeyeggs.Themotherhadwaiteduntil the lastpossiblemoment to fly.Directly infrontofmewasthelevelareawhereahousemightsit.I broke out of thewoods and stood in thewarming light of the spring sun,

imagininghowwemightlivejusthere.

4.

Water

Althoughheneverlivedextravagantly,HenryThoreauchosetoliveinpovertyfortwoyearsatWaldenPond.Hewantedtoseejusthowlittleonereallyneededtoliveacomfortablelife.Morethancomfort,Thoreauwasinterestedinfreeinghimselffromtheslaveryofspendingallhistimeworkingjustinordertolive.Hemadealistoftheabsolutenecessities,thosethings“soimportanttohuman

life that few, if any,whether fromsavageness,orpoverty,orphilosophy, everattempttodowithout.”Heboileddownhislisttojustfouritems:food,shelter,clothing,andfuel.Heexaminedeachofthoseinordertodeterminehowlittleapersonreallyneededinordertolivecomfortablyand,mostimportantly,tostillallowfreetimetoreadandthink,orjustlookaround.Hespentagreatdealoftimecontemplatingtheeconomyofowningproperty

andbuildingahouse.Heexplored thenecessityofkeepingwarm,ofclothing,and of being able to feed oneself and one’s family without having to workendlesshours.Duringhistwo-yearexperimentatWalden,Thoreauraisedbeansthathesold

to pay for the rest of his food. He kept meticulous records of every pennycomingandgoingandwroteabouthisdietofbread,rice,beans,peas,potatoes,pork, sweet potatoes, sugar, fish caught from the pond, and, as one of several“experimentswhichfailed”onewoodchuck.While admonishing his fellow New Englanders for their needless

extravagance in food and shelter, he never mentions water except toacknowledgeit,alongwithfood,asanecessity.Nowhereinhisfinanciallisting,andseldominhisday-to-dayactivities,doeshewriteaboutwater.Naturally, Thoreau took hiswater fromWaldenPond, just as his neighbors

usedlocalstreamsandspringsordugwellsfortheirwater.Indryyearssomeofthesesourcesdisappeared,butasarulewaterwasnevermuchofanexpenseinthe budget of nineteenth-century Americans. In a very un-Thoreau-like way,Thoreautooktheavailabilityofwaterforgranted,concentratinginsteadonhowlittleitcosthimtohaveasufficientandhealthydiet.

Asthecrowflies,ourlandinVermontisonly150milesfromWaldenPond.Weliveinapartoftheworldwherewintersnowpackoftenexceedsthirtyfeetdeep.

Everywheretherearelakesandponds.Takeawalkinthewoods,andyou’llfindspringsbubblingupinmossy,rockypools.

Water,watereverywhere,Andalltheboardsdidshrink;Water,watereverywhere,Noranydroptodrink.

In theVermont townwherewe lived before building our straw bale house,drinkingwatercomesfromareservoirafewmilesfromthevillage.Waterrunsfrom theman-made lake into a small filtration plant and from there downhillthroughpipes to a largewater tank built onto a hillside outside town.Gravityfeedsthewaterdowntoouroldhouse.Fourtimesayearthetownsendsoutabillforthisandforsewerservice.Thereareafewproblemswiththissystem.Manypeople,forexample,filter

the townwater because of particulates and, to some, an unpleasant taste. Thepipesbetweenthereservoirandthetown’sresidencesareold,andsectionsarereplacedonlywhentheybreak.Toeasetheamountofresidueinthewater,townworkersgoeachspringfromonefirehydranttoanother.Kidsandadultsgatheraround towitness the annual event. Theworkers open the hydrant and let thewaterpouroutontothestreet.Atfirst,asicklyorange-redfluidmorelikebloodthanwaterstormsoutwithanastoundingforce.Thetaintedwatersplashesontothepavement,drivingatorrentoflastautumn’sdryleavesdownthestreet.Aftertenminutesor so, thewater begins to run clear.Using awrench the sizeof abaseballbat,theworkersshutoffthewaterandthendrivedownthestreettothenexthydrant.Forthenextdayorso,ourwaterwouldhaveafaintreddishtinttoit.The town’s reservoir is fed by a number of small brooks that drain an

increasingly populated area. A state highway passes along one side, andgenerallypeopleheedthesignsthatread,“PublicWaterSource.Nofishing.Noswimming.No boats.”More problematicmight be the interstate highway thatpasses by the reservoir’s entire length just two hundred yards away. As theinterstatewasbeingbuilt,somepeopleargueditshouldn’tbeplacedsoclosetothe town’swater. They noted that if therewere to be an accident involving atruckcarryingtoxicliquids,itmightpermanentlyaffectthetown’swatersupply.The highway was built anyway. To date, there have not been any accidentsinvolvingtankertrucksnearthepond.IputinafilteringsystematouroldVictorianhouse.TwiceayearIchanged

thefilter,afrustratingjobthat involvedcoaxingthedeviceopenwithaplasticwrenchandbeingsoakedbywaterdrainingbackonme.BeforeItossedtheoldfilter,Istudiedhowdarkandcloggedithadbecome.One day fifty years ago mymother stood at our kitchen sink. She ran the

faucet to get thewater good and cold and then filled her glass. Shedrank thewater slowly but without stopping. She set the glass down and watched mewatchingher.Then,aswasoftenthecasewithher,shemadeapredictionaboutthefuture:“Good-tastingwaterisgoingtodisappear.OnedaypeoplewillhavetopayalotofmoneyforadrinklikeIjusthad.”Shewasright,ofcourse.ArecentUnitedNationsreportstatesthattheUnited

Statesisthelargestconsumerofbottledwaterintheworld.Itreportsthatbottledwater is not sustainable and points out that 17 million barrels of oil areconsumedbytheU.S.bottled-watermarketalone.Manyenvironmentalistsnotethat much of our bottled water is simply tap water put into bottles and sold.Others say that the marketing of bottled water makes people think there issomethingwrongwiththeirtapwater,wheninfactthatmaynotbethecase.Clearlythereisaproblemwiththeamountofpotablewaterthatisavailablein

theworld.Inadditiontoalackofdrinkingwater,aquifersthathaveexistedforthousands of years are drying up, having been tapped for irrigation and otheruses.Thepopulationsof largewesternU.S.cities located inareaswith limitedwaterresourceshaveexplodedinthelastfewdecades,makingthelegal,ethical,andmoralquestionsofwaterrightscriticalforthefuture.Ineverthoughtaboutanyofthatwhilelivingattheyurt;Ijustknewthatonce

ortwiceaweekIneededtorefillmywatersupply.Ondayswhentherewastheslightest breeze and I knew the windmill would be pumping fresh water, Igrabbedtwogreenplasticfive-galloncontainersandheadedofftothewindmill.Atfirst therewasn’tmuchofapath,butafteramonthor twoI’dwornafainttread on the desert floor. I walked the half mile through isolated piñon andjuniper,alwayskeepingoneeyeoutforrattlesnakes.Ear-piercingwhistlescamefromstrangedesertinsectshidingamidtherabbitbrush.Exceptforthehowlofacoyote,noothersoundisassweetonthatbeautifullandscape.Often I took my time, exploring new areas of the desert as I went; but

eventuallyIreachedthewindmill.That old windmill was a marvelous device. All across theWest, the once-

ubiquitouswooden paddlewheelwindmillmade it possible to pumpwater forlivestockinremoteplacesusingjustthewind.Asthebladestwirledinthewind,they raised and lowered the handle on an old-fashioned pump. Squeaking and

wheezing like some terminal asthmatic, the pump sloshed a steady stream ofcoolwaterintolargetanksforlivestocktouse.Theavailabilityofelectricityandthe use of high-volume pumps have made the old wooden windmills all butextinct.Although therehadn’tbeencattleon thatpartofNewMexico foradecade,

thewindmill stillworked.Thewaterpoured from thepumpand spilled into alow,metaltank.Luckily,thetankstillheldwater.Most days when I got to the windmill, I stripped and—careful not to cut

myself on themetal—climbed into the tank. The bottomwas an oozing thickblanket of slime, but the sudden shock of ice-cold water against my desert-parched skinmade it allworth it. I scrubbedmy body, splashed at imaginaryplaymates(itgotmightylonelyoutthereonthedesert),andfloatedonmyback,contenttodonothingbutstareintotheemptyNewMexicansky.In time to the turningof the blades came a rhythmic creakingofwood and

metalandofman-madethingsnolongerinneedofmen’sears.Ifeltlikeathief,cometostealbackthegloryofsometimelessWest.Iwouldclimbslowlyoutof the tank, loath to leave thecoolcomfortof the

onlywaterformilesinanydirection.Isoakedmyshirtinthetankbeforeputtingiton, thewet covering servingas apersonal air conditioner for the long,hardwalkbacktotheyurt.ThenIturnedtotheworkbeforeme:gettingmysupplyofwater. I filled each container directly from the pump, took a deep breath, andthenpickedthemupforthetrekbacktotheyurt.Agallonofwaterweighs8.3pounds.Ineverfilledthecontainersalltheway;

butevenso, Ihad to transportat leastseventypoundsbackacross theburningsandsofthedesert.Icarriedafive-galloncontainerineachhand,stoppingeveryhundredyardsorsotocatchmybreathandgivemymusclesabreak.BeforeIhadgoneaquarterofthewayback,anyremnantofmycoolbathhadvanished,andmyshirtwasbonedry.Myarmsached,andmyheadswirledintheintenseheat and unblinking strength of the sunlight. For hours after I got the twocontainersallthewaybackhome,myarmsseemedlikespentrubberbands.Ihadpurchasedthetwoplasticcontainersformywateratsome1970sedition

of theBigBoxStore.Thecontainerswerebuilt to last. Icanproveit,becausesomehowone of those containers hasmanaged to followme through the nownearlyfortyyearsandthedozensoftimesIhavemovedsincethen.Ifoundusesforitalongthewayanduseitstillatthestrawbalehousetocarrywatertomyuppergarden.Afterthewhirlwindofhouseconstructionwascompleted,Ibegantoreflectonhowtheoldplasticcontainerhadsurvivedalltheseyears.Itseems

impervioustodecomposition.Despiteitslifebakingindesertsunlightandfortysubsequentyearsofuseandaging,thecontainershowsnosignsofwear.Ontheotherhand,afive-galloncontainerIpurchasedwhenIstartedbuildingthestrawbalehouseliterallyfellapartinitsthirdyear.Iwasastoundedatthelongevityofmyoldcontainer,but“backthen”therewasnoconcernabouthowlonghuman-madeobjectsmightremainintheenvironment.TimothyMorton, a professor of literature and the environment atUCDavis,

calls materials that will last an unfathomable amount of time “hyperobjects.”Theyincludeplastics,radioactivematerialslikeplutonium,Styrofoam,andotherman-madematerials.In“HyperobjectsandtheEndofCommonSense,”Mortonargues that “Hyperobjects stretch out ideas of time and space since they faroutlast most human time scales, or they’re massively distributed in terrestrialspaceand so areunavailable to immediate experience.”Manyof theseobjectsare being absorbed into our bodies and the environment; but we fail tocomprehendthem,becausetheyare“beyondournormalscopeofimagination.”Anytalkofsustainabilityhastoincludeafrankacknowledgmentofthefuture

of hyperobjects and thedelayeddestruction that theydisperse across time andspace.Thesearesounknown,soanonymous,and,becausethey“faroutlastmosthuman time scales,” so indifferent to the sensationalized immediacy of ourimage-drivenworld.Ifmyoldgreencontainerlooksasgoodasnewafterfortyyears,thentensofmillionsofitsmates,tosaynothingofthetensandmillionsofotherman-madeobjects,remainindefinitelyinlandfillsoroceansoronhighdesertplainsonceunspoiledbysuchdebris.Weoccupyaminutespeckoftimeand space, and yet we are leaving toxins that will not disappear even afterhumankinditselfhasvanished.Wemustshiftourvisionofthefuturefromtheimmediatesurvivalofourspeciestoafarmoreexpansivescale.

One lesson thatmy year on the desert taughtmewas never to takewater forgranted.Oratleast,thatwasthelessonIthoughtIhadlearned.It isdifficult to imagineany twoplaces in thecontinentalUnitedStates that

aremoreoppositethanmyNewMexicandesertandtheseVermonthills.Takesimple geography, for example. The Internet informs me that my straw balehouse is 1,901.8 miles from the ruins of the yurt (still visible on satelliteimages).The average rainfall inVermont is nearly five times that of the highdesertssouthofSantaFe.Inaddition,surfacewater ismuchmoreavailable inVermont’sabundanceofponds,streams,andrivers.

Despiteitsapparentprofusion,waterisaconcerninVermont.Likemostotherpeoplebuildinginruralareas,wehadtodrillawellforwater.Drillingawellisnotcheap,anditisalwaysagamble.Youneverknowhowdeepyouwillhavetodrilltogetpotablewater,anddrillingcompanieschargebasedonhowdeeptheyhavetogo.Vermont,likemanyotherstates,providesmapsthatshowthedepthsofmost

waterwells.However,thedatawasn’tmuchhelp.Theinformationwasnearlyadecade old, and the depths of those wells ranged from eighty-five to fourhundredfeet,makingitdifficult toaccuratelyestimatethecost.Thegoingratefordrillingwas$26a foot, andwewouldneedanother twogrand just for thepumpandpressuretank.Before we could get a loan to build, the bank required an itemized cost

estimateforthehouse.Sincewedidn’thaveanywayofknowinghowdeepthewell might have to be, coming up with a number was a crapshoot. But weneededwater, and thatmeantwe had to drill untilwe hit some or ran out ofmoneytrying.As it turned out, drilling a well gave us our first full-frontal view into the

abyssoffinancialdisaster.Ihiredalocalmantodrillourwell.Imethimoneautumndaynotlongafter

ourdrivewaywasfinished.JohnAinsworthwasthekindofmanyoulikerightaway.Hehoppedoutofhis truck, smiledbroadly,andextendedhishand.Wewalked theareawhere Iwanted tobuild.Thewellhad tobeonehundred feetawayfromthehouseanditssepticsystem.Johnsoonfoundagoodspotwhereitwouldbeeasytogetthedrillingrigin.“Anyguesshowdeepwemighthavetogo?”Iasked.John shrugged and then went back for something in his truck. When he

returned,heheldoutapairofwiresthatwerejoinedtogetheratoneend.“Idon’tknowhowyoufeelaboutdowsing,”hesaid.“Idon’ttrustitmyself,but...”Hetook the loose ends of the wires in each hand and flipped their joined endsstraightup.“Youknowhowtodowse?”Hewasalreadywalkingovertheareawehadselectedforthewell.“Anyone

candoit,”hebegan,buthethendrewsilentashemovedabout.Inamoment,thetipofthewiresflippeddown.Johntookastepbackandtrieditagain.Sameresult.“Twohundredandfiftyfeet,”hesaid.“Youcantellhowdeepitis?”Johnshruggedagain.Hemovedleftandrightandthencamebacktothespot.

Asifpulledbyphantomfingers,thewiresdippedagainattheground.“Yougotarockorsomethingtomarkthisspotwith?”Ifyouhadaskedmethedaybefore,Iwouldhavetoldyoutherewasnoway

youcouldpredictthelocationanddepthofwaterbyflippingacoupleofwiresortwigsinyourhands,butbythateveningIhadconvincedmyselfwewouldhitwaterby250feet.Aweek later Imet Johnandhisdrillingcrewat the land. Ididn’t think the

truck carrying the pipewouldmake it down the drive,much less the drill rigitself.Therigcameonalargetruckbeddrivenbyamanwholookedlikehe’ddrivenitintoworseplaces.Iwatchedthemsetthingsup,butsoonIhadtogotowork.Johnjotteddown

myworkphonenumber.“Justincase,”hesaid.Several hours later Iwas talking to a studentwriter about an essay shehad

written, when the phone in my office rang. It was John; they were at fourhundredfeet.“Fourhundredfeet?”Ishouted.Mystudentsprangupandmadeherway toward thedoor.“I’llcomeback,”

shesaid,anddisappeared.“Yes,afraidso,”hesaid.“Buttherockischanging,andthatisagoodsign.”“Sign?”“Isaywegoanothertwenty-fivefeetandseewhatwehave.”BythetimeIleftworkthatday,ourwellwas425feetdeep.Therewaswater,

butnotmuch.Johnsaidheneededtoletthewellsit,andthenhe’dbeabletotellusmore.I had already determined howmuchwater the two of us required in a day.

Using a water budget I calculated how much water we needed for toilets,showers,washingmachines,andagarden.Weneveruseadishwasher,andwewere going to install very low-flush toilets. I felt pretty smug when we onlytotaledforty-fivegallonsaday.Then, a week later, John called again. Our 425-foot-deep well was only

yieldingatrickleofwater.Whatwasworsewasthatthestaticlevelwasat325feet,meaningweonlycouldstore150gallonsinthewellitselfbeforethewaterseepedbackintotheground.Ifweusedthewatertooquickly,wewouldhavetowaitforthewelltofillagain.I never thought Iwould see thedaywhen themossyold cow tanknear the

yurtwouldseemlikealuxurytome,butitheldnearlythreetimesasmuchwateras ourwellwould.Not onlywas the cow tankmuch larger, but thewindmill

broughtasteadystreamofcool,clearwatertothesurfaceofthedesertusingthepowerofthewindalone.Now,hereIwas,stuckinVermont—theFrenchdidn’tcallthemtheGREENmountainsfornothin’—withbarelyadroptodrink.Johnadvisedustowaituntilspring.“Andthen?”Hehesitated,“Thenyoucouldtryadifferentspot.”Eventhroughthephone,

he probably heardmy chin crash onto the floor. “But try not toworry.We’llcomeback in the spring andmeasure it again. If there’s no change,we couldhydrofrackbeforewedoanythingelse.”Hydrofracking is short for “hydraulic fracturing,” a processwhere liquid is

forced down a well under intense pressure in order to increase the size andnumberofthenaturalfracturesintherock.Whenitworks,thesenewandwiderfractures can increase the flow of water or, in the case of the oil industry,petroleumandgas.Inlargescaleoperations,theprocesshascausedanumberofproblems, from contaminating drinking water supplies to possibly increasingearthquake activities. A small hydrofracking job on my 425-foot-deep wellwouldbedonewithwater,notchemicalsasisoftenthecaseintheoilindustry.Butfrankly,Ididn’tthinkmuchabouttheenvironmentalrisks;instead,Ifrettedovertheadditionalcostandthepossibilitythatevenafterthehydrofracking,thewellmightstillnotprovideenoughwater.AllwinterlongIstewedoverourwatersituation.Myveryfirstobstacle—the

lackofenoughwater—seemedtoderailtheentireprojectoflivingonless.Wecouldnotaffordtospendmuchmoremoneyonthewellwithouthavingtocutthebudgetinotherplaces.Wecouldbesinkingsomuchmoneyintoawellthatwewouldn’thaveenoughlefttobuildthehouse.Ontheotherhand,thewellwehadso farwouldbarelygiveus theminimumwaterweneeded.Whatmade itworse was that, by then, we were nearly full force into the project. We hadalreadystartedtheprocessoflistingourhousewitharealtorandhadjusttakenoutaconstructionloanfromthebank.“Simplify!”HankThoreaushouts.Buthow?Iworkedthatwinterdesigningthefinalplansforthehouse.Icontinuedtoget

bids and look for local sources of building materials. I talked to contractors,designers, architects, bankers, carpenters, plumbers, and electricians. I walkedthebuildingsiteandplantedapple treesandgrapes.ButnomatterhowbusyIwas,thesituationwiththewellwasalwaysonmymind.Itwasthefirstofmanyperiodsofdeepdoubtanddespair.Oneof the aspects of the strawhousewas that itwouldhave twodrains to

wick water away from the foundation, instead of a single drain found in atraditional house.Our seconddrainwould carry the roofwater away from thehouse.Ichewedonthisfactforawhileandsawawaytotakecareofsomeofourwaterneeds.Iwoulddirectthewaterfromthisseconddrainintoacistern.Icould install a small pump,poweredby its own tiny solarpanel, topump thiswaterforthegarden,whichwouldreduceoursummertimewaterneeds.Johnreturnedinthespringtodiscovertherewasstillonlyatrickleofwaterin

thewell,andwehadnochoicebuttohydrofrack.Onemorning,thedrillingrigreturnedwithawatertankerclosebehind.Theysetuptheequipment,andthenthemenblastedwaterdownmywell.Theypulledeverythingout,andthenJohntook somemeasurements. Amiracle of sorts happened, as the well had gonefromatrickletoarush,thankstothehydrofracking.Wehadwater,andplentyofit.Ihadalreadyinstalledthecistern;butafterthesuccessofthehydrofracking,Ididn’tneedit forwater.EventuallyIwasable toconvert thecisternforuseasourrootcellar.Eventhoughwehaveplentyofwaternow,Inolongertakeitforgranted.Iam

considerablymorecarefulaboutmywaterusethaninthosedaysonthedesert.Backthentheonlyexpenditurewasintheenergyittookmetocarrythoseheavycontainers all the way back to the yurt. I limited my use not because I haddecidedorneededtolivewithlessbutbecauseIwaslazy.Although a thorough and hardworker,Thoreau himself spent a good bit of

timeatWaldenlazingaroundthepond.Hedidnotconsiderlivingwithlessasahardship but rather as a way to give himself more time to pursue the higherpurposesinlife:closeobservationoftheworldandcontemplationofhisplaceinit. Initially my ordeal with the well did not make my life simpler; and eventhoughwehaveplentyofwaternow,weuse itcarefullysoas tonotsquanderthisresource.Thisawarenesshasnotsomuchgainedusfreetimebutinstead,ina very Thoreau-like way, has provided us an opportunity for a constantcontemplationofthenecessitiesoflifeandofhowmindfulwemustbeofthosegifts.

5.

Design

Thereisnowayaroundit;inbuildingeitherahouseoralifethere’sgoingtobecompromise.“WhileI’dliketobuildtheperfecthouse,”SamClarkwrites,inhisbookIndependentBuilder:DesigningandBuildingaHouseYourOwnWay,“itmakesmore sense tome to design and build the pretty-efficient, largely non-toxic,mildlyrecycled,partiallytimbered,semi-greathouse.”Ilearnedalotfromhisbook.Hewritesabouttheuseof“patternlanguages”

indesigningabeautiful,comfortable,andusefulhome.Theideaistohavealistof simple rules and to apply them as patiently and consistently as possible.Insteadofdeciding“Iwantaranchstylehome”anddesigningsomethingfromthere,youmakealistofthecharacteristicsthatarecommontohumanhistory’smostbeautiful, functional, andcomfortablebuildings.You thencreatea setofdesign rules based on those characteristics. These rules cover such things asindoorsunlight,passageways,ceilingheight,andinteriorwalls.Inthisway,youbegintodesignyourhousebasedonwhatworks,whatisbeautiful,andhowyoulive. The style of the house evolves, rather than having been chosen from theoutset.Anexamplecouldbemaking thecommon,more“public” spaces ina small

houseaslargeaspossible;ifthecommonareafeelslarge,thentheentirehousewillfeellargeaswell.Onegoodwaytomakethepublicroomseemevenlargerisbyhavingalotofwindowsthatprovidesunlightandaniceview.Voila! Our small house would have a large public room with south-facing

windows.Insteadofthinkingaboutwhatwewantedthefinishedhousetolooklike,we

designedourhousefromtheinsideout.Thiswayofthinkingledustostudytheway Linda and I lived and howwewanted to live. As a result we knew ourhousewouldhavequietpersonalspaceswherewecouldgetawayandbealone.We decided, because of our advancing age, we wanted to make our housewheelchairaccessibleaswell.I began to apply a set of principles that would help to guide me in every

decision:Make it simple—simple to build and simple to live in. Simplicity gives a

structureitsbeauty.Make it integrated. The house’s structural elements should serve multiple

goalssuchaspassivesolarheating,naturallighting,insulation,andsoon.Makeitenergyefficient,inexpensivetomaintain,easytobuild,anddurable.And at every stage of design and construction, I should consider both the

long-termandshort-termenvironmentalimplicationsofeverydecision.AsIwasslowlyfiguringoutwhatkindofhousewewouldbuild,Iexplored

the land we had chosen as a building site. Any free moment would find mescramblingthroughyoungbeechtrees,theirwhiplikebranchesslappingagainstmyarms,orwhackingthroughweedsandbrambles. Icarriedanold-fashionedcompassand tapemeasure, takingmeasurementsas Imovedover the land.AtnightIdrewcrudetopographicalscalemapsoftheareaonbigsheetsoffreezerpaper. I used these to help me envision where exactly to put a modest-sizedhousethattookthebestadvantageofnaturalsunlight.I hired experts to evaluate the land: foresters to tellme about thewoodlot,

excavatorsandsepticbuilders,carpentersandconcreteworkers.Aswewalkedthesitetogether,Iscribbledtheiradviceinanotebook.One cool day I stood at the site, with a stocky, good-natured man named

Harold.Hewasaconcretecontractorandwassizingupthesiteforme.Iwantedhisopinionaboutthecostanddifficultyofgettingconcretetrucksinandoutandwhatitmighttaketoputinafoundation.ItoldhimIwasinterestedinbuildingasustainablehome,andheperkedup.“YoucouldbuildwithICFs,”hesaid.IwastryingtodecodetheacronymwhenHaroldhelpedme.“InsulatedConcreteForms,”hesaid.Heexplainedasystemofbuildingusing

box-shaped frames that are later filledwith concrete. The frames aremade ofpolystyrene,anefficientinsulation.LikesomekidwithasetofLegos,youstacktheblockstocreatetheperimeterwall.Oncetheyarefilledwithconcrete,theycreate a very energy-efficient wall, solid enough to support the roof. Thebuildingsystemusesverylittlewood,anditgoesupquickly.Itiscost-efficientand makes a beautiful structure. Harold had never built one but had gone toseminarsaboutthemandwaswillingtotry.For a while, I considered Harold’s ICF building system, but it didn’t meet

enoughofmyrules.Foronething,polystyreneisnotaverysustainablebuildingmaterial. More importantly, however, the manufacture of concrete uses anincredibleamountofresources.Concreteismadeofseveralrawingredientsthatare ground together tomake a powder and then put in a kilnwith zones thatprogressivelyheatthepowdertoatemperatureof2,700°F(1,480°C).Accordingto Environmental Building News, six-tenths of 1 percent of the total energy

consumption in theUnited States is from themanufacture of concrete.Worseyet, the worldwide production of cement accounts for over 8 percent of allcarbon-dioxideemissionsfromhumanactivities.Although I rejected the ICF system,Harold’s knowledge and enthusiasm led

metolearnmoreaboutotheralternativebuildingsystems.Italkedtopeoplewhohadbuilt loghousesand timber framehouses,adobehousesandstonehouses,earthships made with old automobile tires and cob houses sculpted from amixture of straw andmud. I learned about underground houses, housesmadefromcordwood,andhousesbuiltwithfoodcansfilledwithdirt.Ialreadyknewaboutstrawbalebuildings.IgrewupinNebraska,wherethe

world’s first straw bale buildingswere constructedwell over a hundred yearsago.I’devenseenafewoftheminmytravelsinthewesternpartofthestate.Iknewmanyofthemwerestillstanding,apparentlynoworseforwear.In 1863, in order to populate the sparsewestern lands,Congress passed the

HomesteadingAct,which gave anyonewhowould live on it 160 acres in theAmericanWest.By1900allthebestlandhadbeentaken.Whatremainedweretreeless,sometimeswaterlessopenrangesnotsuitableforsmall-scalefarming.Agroup of Nebraska cattlemen petitioned their U.S. Congressman to sponsorlegislationthatwouldallowhomesteaderstoclaimmuchlargertractsofland,upto1,280acresinsteadofjust160.Whentheactpassedin1904,asecondpioneermovementbegan.ThemenandwomenwhobrieflyflockedtotheSandHillsofwestern Nebraska hoping for a new life found next to nothing to build with:everywhere they looked was sand hill after golden sand hill held down by awindswept sea of grass. Machines had recently been invented that couldcompressstrawandhayandtieitintosmallrectangularbales.Settlers,lookingforbuildingsupplies,madealogicalchoice.Usingthosebalesforconstructionwas a natural fit. Although the oldest known straw bale structure is an 1886Nebraskaschoolhouse,theselatter-daypilgrimstotheSandHillsaccountedforthe first boom in straw bale construction. The Sand Hill pioneers used strawbales to build houses and barns, churches and bunkhouses. Now straw baleconstructioncanbefoundincountriesallovertheworld.Themore I learnedabout strawbaleconstruction, thebetter it seemed to fit

our goals. It certainly met our hopes for building with sustainable materials.Also, it has great insulating value, is more fire resistant than many other“standard”buildingmaterials,andisquitedurableifbuiltcorrectly.Oneoftheoldest remaining Nebraska straw bale buildings, a ranch house built in 1905,remainsinexcellentcondition.

Aswithanybuildingmaterial, therewerealsopossiblecompromises.Whilerodents inawell-builtstrawhousearen’taproblem(thoughhaycontainsseedheadsthatattractthem,strawdoesnot),moisturecanbe.Thebaleswillrotifnotkept dry. Cracks in the plaster, ground water, even years of using poorlyventilatedbathroomscanaffectthestructure.What eventually sold me on a straw building (aside from the admitted

irrationalityofmyNebraska-nativepride)washowwellitmetmylistofguidingprinciples.Asweweredecidingwhetherornottobuildwithstraw,mywifeandIvisited

otherstrawbalehousesinourarea.AlthoughtheyarealongwayfromcommoninVermont,therewereoversixty-fivestrawbalehomesinthestatein2007.Wevisited an elegant three-bedroom home in southern Vermont and anotherbeautifulhomeofayoungcouplenotmorethanthreemilesfromourhousesite.Oddlyenough,directlyacrosstheroadfromthatsecondhouseanotheryoung

couplebuiltyetanotherstrawbalehouse.Theirswas themostbasichousewehadseen.Itwasasinglelargeroomsupportedbybeautifulexposedwoodbeamsthe owner had cut from trees in hiswoods. Several years earlier, these heartyyoungfolks,“homesteaders,”astheycallthemselves,haddisposedofalmostalltheir belongings; andwith themoney, theypurchased a fewacres on a south-facing hill. For the first year, they lived in a canvas tent. They had nothingbeyondtheessentialsforsurvival:asmallwoodstove,potsandpans,tools.From the outset, they understood they would need more (there is nothing

sustainable about spendingVermontwinters in a canvas tent), but theyagreedthey would only add items to their life if they deemed them an absolutenecessity. The following summer, they built a tiny one-room log cabin fromwood they harvested andmilled by themselves. A couple of years later, aftertheir sonwasborn, theybuilt their fourhundred-square-foot strawbalehouse.Theyconnectedthestrawhousetothelogcabin,whichnowservesasakitchenandpantry.Thefirstthingwenoticedasweapproachedtheirhousewashowunobtrusive

itwas.Asmallpale-whitebuilding sat snuggedupagainst ahillside.The softgrayishwhiteoftheplasteredhouseblendedintothelandscape.Thecornersofthehousewereslightlyrounded,givingitasoftfeel.Unlikewoodhouses,strawbalehouseshavenosharpedges.Strawbaleconstructionissimilartobuildingwithadobe.Thebalesarethick,

likeadobebricks,andallowfordeep-setdoorsandwindows. Just like theoldhaciendasinNewMexico,strawbalehousesarecoveredwithadobeplaster.

Despite its small size, the insideof thehouse felt spacious.Thehandcraftedwoodenbeamsthatsupportedtheroofwereexposedateitherendoftheroom.Therewasabigtableandcomfortableplacestosit.Hand-hewnwindowsillsletin light that filled the entire house. Although the homesteaders’ straw houselookedlived-in,thespacewasnotcluttered.Therewereafewbooks,afewkids’toys,and,inthewalkwaythatconnectsthehousetothelog-cabinkitchen,jarsofproducefromthegarden.Thecareandbeautyinmakingthehousewasastounding,butwhatwaseven

moreimpressivewashowuncompromisingthesetwopeoplehavebeenintheirdecisiontolivesimplyandsustainably.Ididn’thave suchadmirablegoalswhen Iwasyoungand livedat theyurt;

rather, I was influenced by a more romantic, less pragmatic ideal. I grew upreadingthenatureessaysofwriterslikeThoreau,LorenEiseley,AnneMorrowLindbergh, and Colin Fletcher. The summer I built the yurt, someone hadjammedacopyofEdwardAbbey’sDesertSolitaireinmyhandanddemandedthatIreadit.Iam,I freelyadmit,amemberof thecultof theword,andmygurusof the

imagination awakened me to the simplicity of the natural world and theinterdependence of all life. They taught me that a simple life was not onlypossiblebutonethatcouldenrichandawakenyou.Ilivedthesimplestoflivesattheyurt,andonethatbroughtmeintointimate

contact with the natural world. But while my literary heroes had given me aphilosophical foundation, I had no experience with the practical andpsychological aspects of living such an isolated existence. To compensate, Ibecameacreatureofhabit.Manyofmydayswerethesame.Iawokeatdawn,and the dog and I went outside. I usually tied her up in the early mornings,becausethatwaswhentherattlesnakesweremostactive.ThenI’dstirthecoalsof last night’s fire andget a pot of coffeegoing.Themysteriouspeaksof theOrtizhidthedawnforalittlebit,butthedistantplainswereeverywherewashedinthegoldendesertsunlight.Whileitwasstillcoolinthemornings,Iworkedonvariousactivities.Ibuiltsomethingfortheyurtorwenttogetwaterorscratchedatmyworthlessgarden.Whenthesunstartedtoheatthingsup,Iwentinsidetowrite.IsatatmyoldRemingtontryingtohammersomethingtogether.Despitemy hopes of being a writer, everything I composed while at the yurt washorrible. I kept at it because I needed the ritual in order to stay sane. In thehottest part of the day, the dog and I took a nap. The yurt had lots of openwindows andwas built in the shade of a large juniper. I slept on the built-in

combinationcouchandbedwiththedogcurledinaballatmyside.Later,we’dwakeandwalktothecowtank.WecamebackandImadedinner.I’dthensitandreadinthecomingdarknessorwatchthelightsofSantaFecomelikestarsintothenight.After I livedat theyurt forawhile, the foreignnessslowlybegan tovanish,

andIbecamefamiliarwithpatternsandnewwaysofseeing.IbegantolearnthelanguageofwhatIwasseeing.Ilearnedhowtheshapeofthejuniperandpiñontrees echoed the shapeof the yurt, or I delighted in the beauty of the desert’sgoldensunset.Itmayhavebeensomeromanticback-to-natureidealthatledmetotheyurt,butwhatIfoundtherewassimplyanewwayofseeing.Myeverydaymoment-to-moment lifewasnot theprojectionofdutyandappointmentor thedemandingmodulations of some digitized screen but the exact importance ofstoneonstone,thepreciseshapeofcliff,theintimatehabitsofcoyoteordeer,orthesingularmeritsof thismoment in time.Fewamonguscanevenrepeat thecolor of today’s sky or trace the shape of a horizonwe’ve seen each day foryears;but for thatyear I livedat theyurt, nothing inmy life couldhavebeenmoreimportant.NearlyfortyyearslaterIbegantoincorporatesuchlessonsintothedesignfor

ourVermonthouse,working,asIsaidbefore,fromtheinsideout.Ilearned,forexample,howourbodiesmovedifferentlydependingonthe task—ergonomics—anddesigned akitchen accordingly,withdifferent countertopheights sowecouldchopormixorstirornibblemorecomfortably.I learned that plumbing is easier and more efficient if you cluster all the

fixturesasclosetogetheraspossible.I learned I could usewindows in interiorwalls to allowmore light into an

otherwisedarkroom.Iboughtmorerollsoffreezerpaperandusedittodrawcountlessfloorplans;

Icutoutscale-sizedbeds,chairs,tables,andtoiletsandarrangedthemontopofmyfloorplanstohelpmevisualizethings.Slowlyan ideaof theoutsideof thehousebecameclearer.Forone thing, it

wouldbeasingle-storyhouse.Eventhoughatwo-storyhouseismoreefficientandsimplertoheat,wewantedahousethatwouldbeeasytogetaroundinaswegrewolder. Itwould also have lots ofwindowson the south side and not toomanyon the north. I considered such things as the locationof doors andhowmuch the roof should overhang, sunlight and privacy, solar gain and squarefootage.IthoughtIhadstruckpaydirtwhenIcameacrossaningeniousdesignfora

housecalledtheEye.Theovaleyelikeshapeiscreatedbypullingtwooppositecornersofasquareapartandthenconnectingthegapswithcurvedwalls.RobertAndrews, who designs straw bale houses, realized that such a shape is veryefficient when the corners are toward the east and west ends and the curvedwalls face south and north. This allows for great southern exposure, and theshape eliminates one of the main problems with building a round house: nostraightwalls. The Eye design has two traditional square rooms, yet a curvedsouth-facingwallallowsformaximumexposuretothewintersun.Ultimately,IrejectedtheEyeforavarietyofreasons.Thefoundationwould

betoocomplicated,andtheroofdesignexceededmyabilities.However,RobertAndrews’sEyedesignopenedanewwayof thinking forme. Ibegan toseeawaytoincorporateallourneedsintoagoodbutverysimplehome.Idesignedathree-bedroom,1,500-square-foothome.Thehouseisarectangle

with the longsidesfacingnorthandsouth.Ithasagreatroomthatservesasakitchen,diningroom,andentertainingarea.Thereisamasterbedroomandtwosmaller rooms—ourofficeandden—whichhavefold-downcouches touse forovernightcompany.Onebathroomhasashower;theotherhasabuilt-inwasherand dryer. The house has a small utility room and a storage attic that isaccessibleviaapull-downstepladder.Ourfloorismadeofconcrete,stainedandcuttolooklikeSpanishtiles.We

chose concrete (over my desire for a clay floor, which was roundly vetoed)because it would work best with our radiant floor heat and because it alsoabsorbstheheatofthesun.Thegreatroomfacessouthandhasfourlargepicturewindows.Theyprovideaneverchangingviewofdeepwoods,distanthills,andsky.Onsunnywinterdays,sunlightfills theentireroom,heatingit throughouttheday.Itishumannaturetobringfamiliarpatternsofhomeandhearttoanewplace

and to try to replicate them there,much as an infantmight do in seeking thecomfort of a familiar face in anunknownworld.So itwas,when I got to thebasic rectangular design of our straw bale house—I realized that the deep-setdoorsandwindowsand the thickwallswould lookmuch like the smalladobehousesIhadcometolovewhilelivingintheSouthwest.Iwantedtoincorporatesome of that beauty and simplicity into my design. I poured over books ofhistoricalphotographsofbuildingsinSantaFeandaddedelementslikeacertainwindowtrimandwoodenpostsintomyVermonthome.Thatneedforthefamiliarisalsowhywetransplantedsomeoftheplantsfrom

ourVictorianhouseintowntothenewland.Wetransplantedblueberrybushes

andraspberriesandmovedsomefavoriteflowersandbushestoournewhousesite.Idid thesamething longago inNewMexico. Ioftenborroweda truckand

used it to carry plants to the yurt. I dug up lilac bushes, iris, and wild hollybushes. A parent of one ofmy students gavememany of her flowers, and Iroamed an arroyo digging up small cottonwood trees.Over the course of twomonths,IhauledseveralloadstothelandandplantedwhatIhopedwouldonedaybecomeadelightfulgarden.Wedesire the comfort of familiar and simple patterns because they give us

security in anotherwise foreign and ever-changingworld. I hoped the flowersandtreeswouldmaketheapparentlybarrendesertlookandfeellikeahome.Inspite ofmy efforts, not a single plant survived, not even the cottonwoods; foralthough I planted them in an arroyo, it was much too dry there for them togrow.What I did not understand, and perhaps have not yet fully learned,wasthat happiness is found not in the thingswe try to carrywith us but rather inacceptanceofwhatis.

6.

Foundations

“Ifyouhavebuiltcastlesintheair,yourworkneednotbelost;thatiswheretheyshouldbe.Nowputthefoundationsunderthem.”HenryDavidThoreau,Walden

BeforeIlefthome,thefoundationofmybeliefshadbeenlargelyfashionedbymyparentsormyfriends.Iwasluckytohavehadagoodeducation,andIknewmywayaroundbooksandideas.IlikedtheBeatles,lovedDylan.Ihadpouredover the rich and fascinating pages of theLastWhole EarthCatalog and hadreadThoreau’sWaldenmorethanonce.Ihadsmokedpot,donemushrooms,andhitchhikedmywayallovertheWest.Still,Ihadnotyetreallyventuredfarfrommy1950smidwesternCatholicideals.It was only after I leftmyNebraska home and began teaching at Las Tres

Villas school in Tesuque, NewMexico, that I began to trademy narrow anduntestedadolescentviewsforwiderones.UnlikethelargelywhitetownwhereIgrew up, the majority of families in the three villages where I taught wereHispanic.Becauseofthatexperience,Ihadbeguntounderstandandtojoyfullyacceptthediversityofculturesintheworld.Inaddition,theVietnamWarwasraging; andwith the possibility that Imight be drafted anymoment, I had anactivepersonalinterestinwantingtoendthewar.Iwasalsospendingmoreandmore time atCornucopia and other communes, andwith that I began to learnmoreabouthowpeoplemightliveandworktogether.Becauseofallofthis,Isoonwassweptupinthedreamoflivingsomewhere

way out in the vastNewMexican landscape.When the people atCornucopiatoldmetheyweregoingtobuildoutneartheghosttownofMadrid,Ibegantothinkaboutbecomingtheirneighbor.Allofuswouldliveinourownplacesandcometogetherwheneveroneofusneededhelp.Suchdreamswereintheairinthosedays,anditseemedasifyouth,optimism,and,yes,evenignorancemightchangetheworld.Two years before I built the yurt, counterculture heroWavyGravy created

EarthPeople’sParkinnorthernVermont.Heboughtseveralhundredacresthathe intended to be amecca of self-sufficiency, a placewith “free land for freepeople.”Even thedeed for the landwaswritten so that itbelonged to“all thepeoplesoftheearth.”Peoplecouldvisitorcamporbuildashelterandliverent

freeforaslongastheywanted.Theideawasthatpeoplewouldcomeandcreateaplaceofharmonymerelybyvirtueofwantingtoliveofftheland.Many people came, but few were prepared to survive the harsh Vermont

winters.Atitsglory,therewereprobablytwenty-fivefull-timeresidents,livingin dispersed cabins, A-frames, canvas teepees, old school buses, geodesicdomes, a 1950s vintage travel trailer, aswell as an impressive eight-sided logcabin.SoonEarthPeople’sPark attractedmore than just these “hippie types.”The prospect of free land brought gangs, drug dealers, outlaws, and destitutepeopleinneedofahome.Thevisionof“freelandforfreepeople”disappearedunderthecloudsofgreed,selfishness,andpoverty.Still, Iwasaproductofmyera,andthatculture—acountercultureat that—

toldme that getting back to the landwas a cool way to live. Thousands andthousandsofpeopletriedit,butveryfewweresuccessful.Mosteveryonefailed:thoseinexperimentslikemineat theyurtor likeEarthPeople’sPark; thoseincommunes,monasteries,orcults;andthosesimplyinsomedrug-hazedrock’n’rolldream.Theoneswhosurvivedrefusedtoadheretosomeidealizedconceptofheaven

onearth.Theyweretheoneswholearnedtolivesimply,preparedforwhatevermightcomenext,whoheld it asacommandment todonoharm in theworld,whocouldcooperatewithothers,andwhocouldsilencetheragingdemandsoftheirowndesire.In my case, the yurt was mainly a place where I could live so cheaply I

wouldn’t have to work. Oh sure, I had the general sentiment of the times, to“walksoftlyonMotherEarth”;buthowtodothatinasustainable,practicalwaywasbeyondmyyouthfuleyes. Iwasmainly lookingforaplace to liveand, ifnecessary,tohideoutinordertoavoidbeingdraftedintothewar.Ihadbuiltmycastleofdreamshighintheair.WhatIdidn’tunderstandwasthatmyyouthfulfoundationwasn’tgoodenoughtomakethosedreamslast.

The entire plans for theyurt are printedonboth sides of a single poster-sizedsheet of pumpkin-orangepaper. Itwaswritten in1971by aman fromMaine,William S. Coperthwaite. A good part of one side of the sheet providesbackground information about the yurt. Coperthwaite explains that thesestructureshave longbeenusedbynomadicpeoples inAsia.Healsodiscussesthe structure’s aesthetic qualities. “Viewed from the outside the yurt isunimposing.Withitslowprofile,sodcoveredroof,andwallofweatheredpineitblends easily into the natural landscape.” He goes on to explain that all the

structural elements are functionally important andmake the building stronger,less expensive, and simple. “Themore simple a structure is, themore it is inharmonywith theenvironment. In termsofdesign,simplicitygivesastructureitsbeauty.”The plans for building the yurt start on one side of the sheet; and although

they continue onto part of the other side, the entirety of the instructions,includingthesodroofandthebenches,isonlytwelvesteps.Thedirectionsforbuildingthefoundationoftheyurtreadasfollows:“Makea

12'8"diametercircleonthegroundanddivideitinto12parts.Ateachofthe12points on the circle, and at the center drive pipes into the ground level at thedesired height. (The lower theYurt can be, themore itwill blend inwith thelandscapeandthelessimposingitwillbe.)AnairspaceundertheYurthelpstokeepitdry.”SoitwasthatonehotmorninginearlyMayIstoodonthedesertwithapile

ofsharpenedsticksatmyside.Ihadpickedaspotjustalittlewayfromthebankof an arroyo, with a good view of both theOrtiz and the distant shimmeringmountainsofSantaFe.Ibeganbydrivingthefirststakeintothegroundtomarkacenterspotandtyingasmallropeto it.Before longIhadmarkedtheplaceswherethefootingswouldgo.Ihaddecidedthatinsteadofpipes,Iwouldbuildtheyurtonsmallpillarsofstone.Ibegandiggingashallowholeformytwelvefoundationpoints.Istoppedafewhourslater.Iwalkedslowlyuptothewindmill.Iwasgoingto

haveacooldipinthecowtankandthentakealongsiestaunderapiñontree.AsIwalked,thehigh-pitcheddroneofdesertinsectsfilledtheair.WhenIreachedthecowtank,Itookalongcooldrinkfromthepump.Amidthecreakingofthewindmill and the drone of the insects, there came another sound, a foreign,mechanicalone.Someonehad turnedoff thehighwayonto thedesert andwasdrivingtowardthecowtank.Ifroze,notcertainwhattoexpect.Inamoment,ajalopyofarustedtruckappeared,coughingblue-blacksmokeintothedustyair.Itpulleduptomeandstopped.“Howdy,”Isaid.“Howdy.”Ayoungman,notmucholder thanme, satbehind thewheel.He

woreabeat-upsoiledbandanaandwasshirtless.I figured I needed to explainmyself first. “I bought thirty acres down over

there,”Isaid.“I’mbuildingacabinthere—well,ayurtanyway—formyself.”He smiled and nodded. “Thenwe’re neighbors,” he said. Neighbors? I had

neverseenanybodyherebefore.Hepointed,“Myoldladyandmehaveaplace

a fewmiles down the bigwash.”He said theywere pretty self-sufficient andkeptmostly to themselves.Hewasassurprised toseemeasIwas toseehim.“It’s getting pretty hot out there,” he said. “Why don’t you hop in? My oldlady’sgotsomefoodwaiting.”Amomentlaterwewereboundingoveranincreasinglynarrowsetofrutsthat

leddeepintothedesert.Afewmileslatertherutscametothelipofavalleyandthensharplydescended. Inasmall sidecanyonnear thebottom,wecame toafewcottonwoodsgrowingin theshelterofarockcliff.Heturnedtowardthemandstopped.I lookedaround.Except foracrudewoodenstructurenear thecliff face,an

outhouse,andafewoddsandendsscatteredabout,therewasnowaytotellthatsomeonelivedhere.Igotoutofthetruckandfollowedhim.He was walking toward the wall along the cliff. A fadedMexican blanket

hung over an opening. “I brought someone,” he shouted out and then duckedthroughtheopening.Ipushedbacktheblanketandsteppedinside. It tooka longmomentformy

eyestoadjusttothedarkness.Thewoodenstructureenclosedtheentrancetoanaturalshelter in the rockface.Themanstoodnearawooden table.Nearhimwasadark-hairedwoman.“Thisguy’sbuildinga. . .”heturnedtome.“Whatwasthatagain?”“Ayurt.”“...ayurt,offtowardthehighway.It’salongwayawayfromhere,wayback

up near the highway,” he repeated, as if to reassure her. Hemotioned tome.“Comeonandhaveaseat.”Imademyway to the rearof the shelter.The tablewas a cast-off plankof

wood that someone had put legs on. Behind the table, the cave narrowedconsiderably.The dirt floor rose up to a dark slitwhere therewas amattress,somemilkcratesofclothingandbooks,andasinglekerosene lantern. I sat inoneofthetwomismatchedchairs.Thewomanmadeherwaybetweenthetableandanearbymetalfoodbox.Shewasevenyoungerthanwewere.Shefilledaplatewith pinto beans and rice and handed it tome.Whilewe ate, I tried tomakesmalltalkwithher,butshedidn’tsaymuch.Themanwasn’tallthattalkativehimself.Hesaidthecavemadeagreatplace

to live. Itwascool andcomfortableanddry.He said that theygot theirwaterfromaspringnottoofarawayandthattheycookedoveranopenfiredowninthe cottonwoods. Then he fell silent. Thewoman finished eating and crawled

backtothemattress.Therewasjustenoughroomforhertositonit.Shesatintheshadows,lookingoutatus.Theman toldme that theywere going to get a goat or amilk cow, but he

neededtofenceanareafirst.Iofferedtohelphimdigpostholes.“Thatwouldbefarout,”hesaid.“Youserious?”Before long we were outside digging holes in the rocky earth. It was still

midday,butthedeepcleftintherimrockwasalreadyfillingwithcoolshadows.Everyonceinawhilewestoppedworkingandfollowedashortpathtoagreenoasiswherewatertrickledfromacrackintherocksasifbymagic.Therewereafewbucketsandtwoorthreeceramiccoffeemugsthathungfromabranchofanearbypiñon.We’dtakealongslowdrink,chatalittle,andthenheadbacktowork.Wecutpolesfromacedarlog,andbylateafternoonwehadsetenoughofthemtofenceoffagrassyareanearthespring.Heofferedmearidebacktothewindmill, but I told him Iwas looking forward to thewalk back. I turned toleave.Themangavemeahandshakeandsaidthanks.Thewomanhadn’tcomeoutoftheshelter.Ineversaweitherofthemagain.

WhenIfinallysettledonadesignforourstrawbalehouse,Iturnedmyattentiontothefoundation.Afoundationmustbestrongenoughtosupporttheweightofthebuilding,highenoughtokeepthewallsdryandoffoftheground,andstableenough to have a level surface that won’t shift when the ground freezes andthaws.Findinganenvironmentallysoundwaytodothiswasnoteasy.Foundationsmustbedeeperthanthefrostlineinordertopreventthemfrom

risingandfallingwiththecold.InVermontthatmeantmyfoundationhadtobeatleastfourfeetdeep.Inahousewithabasement,thefoundationalsoservesasthewalls,butIwasnotgoingtohaveabasement.Thetraditionalanswerwastoconstructafour-foot-deepconcretefrostwallforthehousetositon.Themainstreamwaytomakesuchafoundationiswithpouredconcrete.AsI

said before, although it is handy, strong, and easy to use, concrete is not anenvironmentallywise choice.The trouble is finding a suitable alternative.Thebest alternative foundation I foundwas touse adesign called a rubble trench.Youdigatrenchdowntothefrostline,putadrainatthebottom,andthenfillthe trench with gravel. Since the gravel and the drain prevent water fromcollecting,thefoundationisnotpronetofreezing.Youthenpouraneight-inchconcretegradebeamontopofthegravelandbuildyourhouseontopofthat.Ilikedtheideaofusingonlyeightinchesofconcreteratherthanfourfeet.

But...WhenIbegan the taskofgettingbids for thework, I talked tonearlyevery

concretecontractorinthearea.IshowedthemwhatIhadinmind,butnoneofthemhadeverheardofarubbletrench.Severalold-timersremindedmethiswasVermont,wherewebygodhad realweather inwinterandnothingbutadeepsolid wall of concrete could work. In the end, although rubble trenches havebeensuccessfullyusedinclimatescolderthanVermont,Icouldfindnoonewhowaswillingtostakehisreputationonhelpingmebuildone.I gave up and chose to use a poured-concrete frost wall and turned my

attention to how to insulate it. In order to further prevent frost heaves, theunderground part of a foundation needs to be insulated. In mainstreamconstruction,eitherfoamissprayedonorrigidboardsmadeofsomethingcalledextrudedpolystyreneareused.Ididn’tliketheecologicalconsequencesofusingeither of those products. Instead, I learned that boards made of spun mineralfibers—rockwoolitissometimescalled—notonlyinsulatewellbutalsohelptodrainthefoundation,sincetheyareporous,likewool.ItlookedasthoughIhadfoundaperfectwaytooffsethavingtousesomuch

concrete. Although I couldn’t build a rubble trench, I wouldn’t have to usesynthetic insulation. Unfortunately, the mineral-wool boards were not easilyavailable. A kindly older man who worked, of all places, at a nearby home-improvement big-box store eventually located a place inCanada that sold theboards.Rockwoolwasn’taproductthebig-boxstorenormallyordered,andthatmeantitwouldtaketwomonthsormoreforthemtogetitin.Ididn’thavethatmuchtime;sointheend,Ihadtoabandontheideaofusingrockwoolandusedthepolystyreneboards.Ichosethemoversprayed-onfoambecausetheyinsulatemoreevenly.IfinishedinstallingtheinsulationonthefoundationoneeveninginearlyJune.

That night, I slept at the land. I awoke before dawn, because my excavatorDannyThompsonwasdueon-siteby6:30a.m.Ihadenough timebeforeDannyarrived that the first raysofsunlight found

memowingthenativegrassIhadplantedoverthesepticsystem.Ididnotintendto have a lawn atmy new house, but I knew thatmowing the newly plantedgrasswouldallowittomakestrongerrootsandhelptoholdthisnewlydisturbedearthinplace.IhadjustfinishedwhenDanny’struckbounceddownthedrive.Hepulledup

andsteppedoutof thecab.Danny isaman inhisearlyforties.Thefirst thingyounoticeabouthimishissize.Heisagiantofaman,withanimposingframe,

without an ounce of fat on it. Although his figure could make a grown mannervous, his face immediately puts you at ease. Handsome and rugged, healwayshasatwinkleinhiseye.After a fewmoments of conversation,Danny turned and hopped down into

the trenchnext to the foundation. I jumpeddownbesidehim,and togetherwewalkedtheperimeterofthewall,discussingwhatthebusydayheld.“Andthewaterlinefromthewell?”Dannysaid.“Isthatallsettobeburied?”“Ithinkso,”Isaid.“Butmaybeyou’dbetterhavealook-see.”At that, Danny jumped out of the trench to the ground. I followed suit,

jumpinguprightbehindhim.Inthebeginning,therewasnothingbutthepain.AsIputweightonmyright

leginordertohopupontotheground,mykneesimplystoppedworking.InsteadoflockinginplacesothatIcouldvaultmyselfup,itbuckledlikeasetofrain-soakedblueprints.Icollapsedtothebottomofthetrench.Forthatmoment,myentireworldshranktotheexcruciatingfireinmyknee.Icriedout,cradlingmykneeinmyhands.PoorDanny stoodoverme trembling.He could tell Iwashurt andwasnot

surewhattodo.“Letmegetyoutothehospital,”hestammered.“No,” I said. “Letme just seewhat’s goingon.”Like a detached eyeball, I

tookstockofthesituation.Ilayinthedirtandcontemplatedwhatwouldhappenif thismeant I couldn’t finish the house. Itmay have been in the darkness ofthosethoughtsthatIfoundthecouragetotrytostand.IbrushedawayDanny’soffer tohelpandsatup. It stillhurt like thedickens,but Ihad to findout if Icouldputweightonmyleg.Ileanedonthefrostwallandslowlystoodup.Mykneewobbled as if itmight collapse again any second, and the painwas stillintense.ButItookasmallstepandanother,andIdiscoveredIcouldstillmove.Dannyhesitated.“Areyousureaboutthis?”hesaid.“Wecouldgetyoutothe

hospitalandhavesomebodytakealookatit.”It was not bravado that forcedme to carefully climb out of the trench and

begintimidlytomoveaboutbutmyfearthatIwouldn’tcompletethehouse.“Let’sgo,”Isaid.Won’tIeverlearn?Despitethedifferencesinourages,ourconditions,and—

forheaven’ssake—oursizes,onceIsawhoweasilyDannyhadleaptoutofthetrench, I naturally assumed I coulddo the same.Myold familiar bugaboosofignoranceandpridehadcaughtmeonceagain.Itwasaverytoughdayforme.IspentalotofitfindingjobsIcouldsitdown

todo.Ineverwenttothehospital.Asitturnsout,Ihadsprainedmymeniscus,a

padofsofttissueinthekneethathelpstoreducefriction.Akneebracegavemeenough stability to domost jobs that summer, but I always felt as ifmykneemightonceagainsuddenlygiveout.Ineverfeltsecureonaladder.AndIstartedtoaskmyfriendstohandleanyjobsthatwouldhaverequiredmetobehighintheair.

IdidnotknowitwhenIlivedattheyurt,butIwasbuildingafoundationforalifetime of contemplation about simplicity and want, about selfishness andselflessness,andabouthowone’sownchoicesrippleouttoimpactthousandsofothersbeyondeventheshortspanofasinglelife.

7.

ElSol

I.Warmth

Themanon theotherendof thephonewasemphatic. “Passive solardoesnotworkwell inVermont,” he repeated. I gulped. Thiswas not just some yahoowhowasspeaking,butanauthority.“Therejustisn’tenoughsunlightwhenyouneed it themost. Plus, you’ll have a hard time keeping heat inwith all thosewindows.”The man was a professor at a local college who specialized in alternative

buildingmethods.Despitea recentpersonal tragedy,hehadgenerouslyagreedtospeakwithmeon thephoneaboutmyplan tousesunlight tohelpheatourhome.Iwasn’thappywithwhathewastellingme.Hemusthavefeltmypanic.“Look,sendmewhatplansyouhave,andI’ll takea lookat them,”hesaid.

“ThenI’lltellyouwhatIthinkofthem.”“Areyousure?”Istammered.“Sendthem,”hesaid,andhungup.Mydesigncalled for three largesouth-facingwindows thatwouldallow the

wintersunlighttohelpheattheinteriorofthehouse.Withtheconcretefloor,Iwouldhaveagood“heat sink,”away to store thewarmth that thewinter sunprovides.Atnighttheheatstoredintheflooraswellasinthestrawbalewallswouldradiateintothehouse.Asmuchaspossible, Iwas trying todesignapassive solarhouse. “Passive

solar”simplymeansorientinganddesigningabuildingtobestcaptureandusethewintersunlightforwarmth.Theideaisanoldone.TheancientpeopleoftheAmericanSouthwestbuilt theirstoneandadobebuildingsonsouth-facingclifffaces in order to use the natural heat of the sun for their homes inwinter. Insummerthosesamebuildingswouldbeshadedinthecoolshadowsofthecliff.Andalthoughthecavemanandhisoldladywholivednearmeattheyurtdidn’thavemuch, theydid have a shelter thatwas easy tokeepwarm inwinter andstayedcoolinthesummer.During hot summer days, a properly oriented and designedmodern passive

solarhousealsostayscoolandcomfortablewithoutairconditioning.Mydesigncalledforwideeavestoshadethehouseinthesummertime.Theplanwasthat

wewouldopenallthewindowsonsummernightssothatthefloorabsorbedthecool night air. In themorning,wewould shut all thewindows, and the thickstrawwouldretainthatcoolnessduringtheday.Buttheprofessorhadmeworried.IknewthatVermonthasthesecond-lowest

maximumdailysolarradiationpermonthofanywhereintheUnitedStates.Theonly place lower is the northern edge of Alaska. Still, there were severalsuccessfulpassivesolarhousesinVermont,soIwasn’treadytogiveupontheidea.Passivesolardesignisnotonlyaboutdesigningheatsinkstostorethesun’s

warmth; itcanalsoincludesuchthingsassolarslabs—concretefloorsbuiltontopofasystemofventsthathelpradiatethewarmthtoallareasofthehousebysimplyusingheat’snatural tendency to rise. I learned that it iscritical tohavetherightcombinationofwindowsandfloormass;otherwise,passivesolarwillnotwork.Also,itisimportanttocoverupthewindowsatnightwithshuttersorinsulatedcurtainsinordertopreventthesun’swarmthfromescaping.Acoupleofweekslater,theprofessorcalledme.He thought we would realize only limited passive solar advantages, given

Vermont’s lack of winter sunlight, but made several recommendations toimprovemydesign.Foronething,hesuggestedIreducethenumberandsizeofthesouth-facingwindowsandincrease the thicknessof thefloor.HetoldmeIwouldneedtocoverthewindowsonwinternightstokeepintheheat.Finally, he saidwhat I had beenpraying to hear: “If youdo those things, I

thinkthisdesignwillworkinVermont.”

The first rule in building a passive solar home is to make sure it is properlyorientedtothesun.Youwantthelongsideofyourhousefacingthesouthsothaton thosecoldbut sunnywinterdays,yourhouseabsorbs thegreatest sunlight.By the same token, in summer, when the sun is high overhead, such anorientationhelpstoshadetheinterior.Ingeneralyoucanbewithintendegreesoneithersideof truesouthandstill takeadvantageof thissolargain,buteachlocationisalittlebitdifferent.Iwantedtoknowexactlywherethesunwouldbeinmidwinter atmy house site so that I could orient the house in that precisedirection.Thewinter beforewebegan building, I noted the position of the sun at the

exactmomenthalfwaybetweensunriseandsunset.Atthissolarnoon,Itookoutmycompassandrecordedthesun’slocationlowinthesouthernsky.Ideally,Iwantedtoknowitspositionatnoononthesolstice.ButIknewIcouldn’tcount

onasunnydayinlateDecember,muchlessatnoononthesolstice,soeverydayitwassunnythatwinterItookacompassreading.OnthewintersolsticeIhitthejackpot.Thedaywasclear,soIheadedoutto

thehousesite.Iwasabletotakeanaccuratecompassreadingexactlyatmidday.Ifeltprettysmugknowinghowtopositionmynewhometomaximizefreeheatfromthesun.Severalmonths laterwhenitcametimetodig thefoundation,myexcavator

Dannystartedwithoutme.BeforeIknewwhatwashappening,hedugthefirsttrenchforthelongsideofthefoundation.Theamicablegiantsmileddownatmefromthecabofthebigmachine.“Takeoutyourcompass,”hesaid.“ThattrenchIjustdugwillbefacingduesouth.”Hegrinnedagainand,asheclosedthecabdoor,said,“You’llsee.I’mgoodatguessingdirections.”Sureenough,hewaswithinadegreeofduesouth.Still,hewasthreedegrees

off of my ideal winter solstice angle. I contemplated asking him to redo it,balancingmydesireforperfectionwiththepracticalissuesoftimeandmoney.As I watched Danny maneuver the big rig in order to dig the next trench, Idecidedtoletitgo—itwascloseenough.Becauseofthepassivesolarorientationofourfinishedhouse,onmanysunny

winterdaysweusenothingbutsunlight toheat thehouse.Atnightwefireupthewoodstoveforafewhoursbeforebedtime.Thatheatcombinedwithpassivesolarkeepsthehouseatanaveragetemperatureofsixty-eightdegrees.Tocomplimentthissystemandtoserveasabackup,Iinstalledradiantheatin

the floor.Embedded in the floor isa systemofplasticpipes thatallowsme topumphotwaterthroughthefloorinordertoheatit.Asitturnsout,Iseldomusethesystem,becauseourwaterislargelyheatedbypropaneandI’djustassoonconserveouruseofthegas.TolimitouruseofpropaneevenfurtherIinstalledasolarhotwatersystem.

An insulated pipe circulates nontoxic antifreeze through two solar panelsmountedonmywoodshed.Inturn,theantifreezeheatsthewatergoingintomywaterheater,loweringtheamountofpropaneweneed.WhileIwasdesigningthehouse,Ialsolearneditwaspossibletousethesun

notonlyforelectricity,passivesolarheat,andhotwaterbutalsotoheatairthatthencanbeblownthroughthehousewithafan.Whilesolarelectricityandsolarhotwatersystemsarenotwithintheusualdefinitionof“doityourself,”itisstillpossible to construct a homemade solar hot air device that is as efficient as astore-boughtoneandconsiderablycheaper.Knowing that my airtight house would need an air exchange in order to

circulatefreshair, Idecided to incorporateasolarhotairsysteminto it. I firstinstalled a pair of insulated six-inch pipes thatwent from the cabinetwhere Iwouldplacetheairexchanger,underthefloor,andoutthroughthefoundationtowheretheypoppedupafewfeetfromthehouse.Forawhile,that’sasfarasthisfinal experiment got. Once the house was finished and we moved in andregainedourlivesofjobsandsocializingandliving,thesolarhotairboxseemedquaint, belonging to an erawhenwewere frenetic in our anxiety tomake thehouse“work”right.Oncewemoved inandwereable toheat thehouseeasilyusing only passive solar heat and our woodstove, I put off building myexperimentalhotairbox.Thetwostubsthatrepresentedtheunfinishedexperimentbecamethesubject

of animated conversations between my wife and me. Somehow she thoughthavingtwouglypipesrisingoutofthestrawberrypatchrightnexttothehousewasn’t themost beautiful yard art. They didn’t bother me because they wereunsightly but because they represented unanswered questions: would such asystemwork,andcouldIbecomeevenlessdependentonburningwoodwiththeuseofsolarhotair?Ifinallyconvincedmylazyselftogoaheadandbuildthedarnthing.Ifiguredthatifitworked,great;andifitdidn’t,Iwouldgetridofthemaritalannoyancebycuttingdowntheunsightlystubs.That is how I foundmyself onemorning back atmy familiar lumber store

buying plywood, adhesive, screws, caulking, and more six-inch piping. “Ithought you finished building your place,” Ron said as he helped me load acoupleofsheetsofplywoodonto the truck. I tried toexplainabout thehotairbox.Rongrinned;heknewwehad ahouseof straw (a “hayhouse,”heoftencalledit)andnowfiguredIwasbacktomycraziness.WhatIwantedwastobuildalargewoodenboxwithapieceofglassonone

side. I would paint the inside of the box black and insulate the entire thing.Finally,Iwouldconnecttheboxtothetwounsightlybluestubsinordertomovetheairinandoutofthehouse.Justliketheinsideofaclosedcaronasunnyday,the air inside theboxwouldheat up, and then the air exchangeblowerwouldpushthathotairintothehouse.OnanunseasonablymildearlyNovemberday,Isetupmystained,chipped,

cut,andbentsawhorsesintheyardandwenttowork.The first thing I realized was that a person forgets certain skills that have

fallen into disuse. I didn’t realize the plywood I had bought wouldmake tooflimsyaboxuntilIhadcutupthesheets.Anothertriptotown.Ispent therestof thatdayfashioninganeight-by-four-footboxwith thicker

plywood.AfterthatIturnedmyattentiontohowtoinsulatethething.Oneofthestrangeconsequencesofbuildingyourownhomeisthatyoubecomeacollectorof leftover items.Findanyonewhohasspent timebuilding,andyouwillhavefound someone who keeps such a collection. Hidden in various outbuildingsaround our place was my stash of odd pieces of lumber, concrete blocks,plumbingmaterials,nails,screws,clamps,andtools.Amidthisclutter,Ifoundafewoddpiecesofextrudedpolystyrene(thesolidpinksheetsIusedinordertoinsulatemyfoundationwhenIcouldnotgettheecologicallybettermineral-woolboards).I worked the better part of a day cutting the insulated boards to size and

screwing them to the insidesofmybox.Myevolvingplanwas tocover themwith an insulated aluminum fabric and then paint them black so that the boxwouldbetter absorb the sun’s heat.At twoo’clock in the afternoon, I steppedbacktoadmiremywork.IwasfiguringoutjusthowImightsupporttheglasswindow,whenitdawnedonmethemistakeIhadmade.Polystyreneisthesamematerialthatisusedtomakeallsortsofthings,from

CDcasestoplasticspoonsandforks.Polystyrenewaterbottlesaswellasthoseforks and spoons are falling out of use, as people consider the carcinogenicproperties of one of its main chemicals, styrene. When it gets hot enough,polystyreneiseasilyignited.Burningpolystyrenecanreleaseacocktailofotherunhealthychemicals.Had itbeenJulyrather thanNovemberwhen itdawnedonmehowstupidI

wasinplanningtocovertheinsideofthehotboxwithpinkboard,mygappingmouthwouldhaveeasilycaughthalfahundredflies.Overthecourseofthenextseveraldays,Iundidmyworkandtheninsulated

the outside of the box. I also added four handles by extending two-by-foursbeyondeachcorner.Handles.One thing I didn’t mention was that Linda is of the opinion that my cool,

space-age-lookingbigsilverboxcovered in foil isnot attractiveandwouldbeevenmoreunsightly inourgarden than the twoplastic stubs in thestrawberrypatch.I’llneverunderstandwomen;buttokeepthepeace,Iagreedtomakethethingportablesothatitcouldbestoredoutofsightduringthesummer.ButnowonbitterlycoldbutbrightandsunnydaysinFebruaryandMarch,I

throwacoupleoflouversanddivertthehouse’sairexchangetoapaththattakesairoutsidewhereitpassesthroughthesolarhotairbox.Theairintheboxcangetquitewarm.OnarecentafternooninlateJanuarytheoutsideairtemperature

was 19 degrees, while the air inside the box was 170, a difference of 151degrees.Thatday, thesystemraisedthe interior temperatureof thehouseby3degrees.Thesolarhotairboxcostme$500.

II.Power

At night a single kerosene lantern lit up the yurt. On some nights, I simplycrawledintomybed;butonothernights,I lit thelantern.Afteramoment, theglasschimneywouldbegintoglowasbrightasthenoondaysun.Iusedthattimetowashdishes,pouringhotwaterIhadheatedontheevening’scampfireintoasmallplasticbasin.LaterIwouldsetthelanternonmybuilt-indeskandreadorwrite letters.My typewriter ranon fingerpoweralone.Once I snuffedout thelantern,thedarknesswascomplete.In themornings, I sometimes used a small camping stove to heatwater for

coffee.Thestoveusedcannedheat,ajellylikesubstancemadeoutofdenaturedalcohol.You opened a small can of the stuff and set amatch to it. The stoveitself was nothingmore than a metal frame that held the can and provided asurface large enough to hold a small cooking pot.My supply of the canswaslow, so I cooked on the open fire and only used the small stove for theimmediacy of coffee in the mornings. On cold nights in winter, I lit thewoodstoveforwarmthandusedthetoptocook.Firewood was never a problem. The desert piñon tree consists of as many

deadbranchesasgreen,andmyplateauwasspeckledwithanendlesssupplyofthem.Icutbranchesoffwithahandsawanddraggedthembacktotheyurt.Ididn’thaveatelevision,ofcourse,oraradio.Ihadasmall,battery-powered

cassette tape player and a handful of cassettes for entertainment. When thatfailed,Itookoutmyoldguitarandstrummedtunesforthedog.Adeckofcardsallowedmetheschizophrenicpleasureofanightofsolitaire.Notso,thesemoderntimes.InouroldVictorianhouseinVermont,Lindaand

I had a television, computers, hair dryers,microwaves, a toaster oven, stereo,cordless phones, electric coffee grinders, and a myriad of other modernconveniences. We knew our electricity would not come cheaply at our newhousesite.Thatwasourfault,sincewechosethemoreremote“artist’s”siteonwhichtobuildourhouse.Becauseofthesite’sremoteness,bringingpowertoitwouldbeexpensive.Theelectriccompany’scostestimateforstringingpowertothe place was almost as expensive as installing an off-grid solar-poweredelectricity system.However, thedecision to install a solarphotovoltaic system

had had less to do with economics and more to do with an event from mychildhood.Onedayinthelate1950s,IwassittingatthecounterofWagey’sDrugstore,

just down the street frommy home. I was sipping a green river and flippingthroughthemostrecentissueofPopularMechanics.SuddenlyIfeltasifIhadbeen transported to some fantasy of the future. In the magazine, I read thatscientistshadinventedsomethingcalledasolarcell,whichconvertedthesun’senergy directly and efficiently into electricity. I was spellbound as I flippedthrough thepagesofdrawings, pictures, andwords explaininghow thedeviceworked.Thecellswereatinysemiconductorsandwichmadewithathinlayerofsilicon.Onesidewascoveredwithboron,and theotherwithphosphorus.Onesideproducedasurplusofelectrons, theotheradeficit.Photons fromsunlighthit the wafer and knocked off some of the electrons on one side of the cell.Electricitywascreatedassurpluselectronsfromonesidetriedtomigratetotheother.Whileasinglecelldidnotproducemuchelectricity,Ilearnedyoucanputalotofthemonasinglepanelsothatthepoweraddsupinahurry.Therewerenomovingparts.For the next few months, before something else consumed my childhood

imagination,Icouldthinkofnothingmorethanthesetinymysteriousmiracles.Ahalfcenturylater,thatmemorystilllingeredsomuchthatitnodoubtplayedapartinourdecisionaboutelectricity.Onepossibilityweexploredwas tohaveboth aphotovoltaic systemand an

on-gridelectricaltie-in.Inthedarkmonthsofwinter,wewouldbuymostofourpower from the electrical company; but in the sunnier months, we could sellpowergeneratedbythesolarpanelsbacktothecompany.Thisgrid-tiedsystemallows the homeowner to net-meter—that is, to have your electric meter runbackwardwhenyouaregeneratingelectricityfromthesun.Becausethereisnoneedtostorepoweron-siteinbatteries(asthereiswithouroff-gridhome),thesystemischeaperthanhavingsolarpoweralone.Also,youcanfeelprettygoodabout the fact that you are helping to supply power for your friends andneighbors.For us, however, the cost of both bringing in power and installing a

photovoltaicsystemwasprohibitive.Wehadtoeitherbuypowerorfindawaytobeindependentofthepowergrid.We looked into other sources. It would be possible to install a small

hydroelectric generator at the brook, but we decided it wouldn’t work. Theamountofelectricitydecreasesthefartherithastotravelalongawire,andthe

housesitewastoofarfromthestream.Wewouldn’tgetenoughpowertomakeit cost-effective. Likewise, a home-sized wind tower wouldn’t work wellbecauseourlandislargelyshelteredfromthewind.We filled out a solar worksheet, listing the appliances we use, in order to

calculatehowmuchelectricitywe thoughtweneeded.Armedwith the results,we began to collect bids from some local companies that install photovoltaicsystems. The cost of even the cheapest was beyond our budget. Back to theworksheet.Wewouldneedtocutourconsumption,buthow?Inmosthomes,therefrigeratorusesthemostelectricity.Weweretoldaboutasuperefficientmodelthatusedfourtofivetimeslesselectricity,butits$3,000pricewasprohibitive.Withabitofsearching,wediscoveredasmall,reasonablypricedFrigidairethatused only a little more electricity than the expensive refrigerator. To furtherreduceourconsumption,wewouldstopusingacordlessphoneandwouldbuythemostefficientwasheranddryer.With a more modest use of electricity and careful selection of efficient

appliances,wewereable togetabidforasmallerphotovoltaicsystem.Itwasstillexpensive,butitwasnowaffordable.Ourdecisiontoinstallanoff-gridsolarelectricalsystemmeantsomechanges

inour life stylebutnotan inconvenience.Nowwecheck theweather forecastbeforewedo laundry.Wewait until a sunnyday,whenwehave a surplus ofelectricity, beforewe do thewash.We chose a propanewater heater over anelectricone.Wefoundapumpforourwaterwellthatwasdesignedtoworkwitha small off-grid system like ours. At night we use our laptop computers’batteries, and recharge them during the day. Other electronic devices such astelevisions,entertainmentsystems,andradiosarealwaysusingelectricity.Evenwhenyouturnthemoff,theykeepusingelectricity,calleda“phantomload,”sothattheywillcomeoninstantlywhenyoupressPower.Iinstalledwallswitchesand connected them to the outletswherewe plug in our television and stereosystem.Nowwesimplyflickalightswitchtoturnthemonandflickitoffwhenwe are finished.This simple addition further reduced our power consumption.Likewise, an off-grid system requires some regular home maintenance. Fromtimetotimeyouhavetocheckthewaterlevelinthebankofbatteries,wherethesun’spower is stored,anda few timesayearyouhave to tilt theangleof thepanels tobetterface thesun.Also,evenafter it is installed,anoff-gridsystemstill costs you some money. The batteries need to be replaced around everyseventotenyears,forexample.Still,theseareminorshiftsinourlife,andtheyhavemadeusmoreawareof

the ever-changing sky and weather and something as beautiful, simple, andprofoundastherisingandsettingofthesun.

III.ElSol

Mostnightsonthedesert,Isleptinsidetheyurt.Butonothernights,evensomemilderwinternights,I’dhaulmysleepingbagoutsideandsleepunderthestars,wakingearly towatchapink lineofdawncome towardmefrom theeast.Hohum,I’dlaugh,stretchingandyawningatthebrilliantsuncuttingthelipofthedistanthorizon,anothersunnyday.Irelishedthosebrightsunnydays.ThespiritofthesunlightitselfwasallIneededofreligionorphilosophyoroflifeitself.Thatwasprobablyagoodthing,becausetheyurtitselfwasnotwellbuiltfor

eithertheheatofthesunorthedeepcoldofwinter.WhileIputinsulationinthefloor, thewallsofmyyurthadvery little,andInever insulatedtheroofatall.Thebuildingplanscalledforasodroof.Withthebucolicvoiceoftheera,theyread, “The sod shouldbeput down in two layers, the firstwith thegrass sidedownandthesecondwiththegrasssideup.Thesecondlayershouldoverlapthejointsofthefirsttoholdthesodinplaceuntilitcangrowtogether.Theroofwillneedwateringuntilthegrassgrowslongenoughtoshadeitself.Thelongerthegrass,thecoolertheinsideinthesummer.Plantflowersonyourroof.”I did none of that. I knew it would be impossible for me to establish and

maintainasodroofinthedry,sun-drenchedNewMexicodesert.Instead,Ispentmany days sealing my roof with a nasty tar-like compound and covering theentirethingwithtarpaperinordertokeepouttherainandsnow.Whiletheinsidesgotprettywarmonthehottestsummerdays,Ibuilttheyurt

under the cool shade of a couple of large juniper trees that helped make ittolerableduringthewarmesthoursoftheday.Likewise,withsolittleinsulation,my little homegave upheat easily inwinter.Luckily, I had borrowed a greatwoodstove from a friend, for Iwouldn’t have been able to afford to buy one.Thatstovewasabletokeeptheinteriorwarmallnightwithjustasmallfire.As I said earlier, to prevent periods of insanity, I often ritualizedmy days:

coffeeatmyfirepit in thedawn’searlylight,workontheyurt’srooforotherprojectsinthecoolmornings,andabookandanafternoonnaporawalktothewindmillforwaterduringtheheatoftheday.Sunsetcamewithmymeagermealboilingovertheevening’scampfire.On other days, however, I purposely broke the ritual or had it broken by

circumstances.Onemorning,while still seated outside sippingmy coffee, I heardmy dog

barkingsomewhereonthedesert. I realizedsuddenlythatI’dbeenhearingherforsometime.Ithrewmycupdownandstartedrunning,shoutinghername.Shewasn’ttoofaraway.JustbeforeIreachedher,Iheardthedryhissoftherattles.Thedogprancedinfrontofasmallclusterofpincushioncacti.Lessthantwo

feet away was a western diamondback, its head raised above a coiled andundulatingbody.Seeingthesnake’sopenmouthandmydog’sincessantbarkingmade it appear for an instant that, instead of deadly combat, the two of themweresimplyspeakingtooneanother.Therattleshissedwithoutend.BeforeIfinallyreachedher,sherespondedtomycommandandcametome.I

grabbed her collar, and as I began to scold her for not coming, I noticed tinypinpricks of blood on one of her legs. She was a small dog, less than thirtypounds;thepoisonwouldkillherquickly.Itookherinmyarms,calmingherandstrokingherhead.Icarriedherbackto

theyurtandwent inside. Idon’t rememberwhen I started tocry,but I setherdownandsatonthefloorbesideher,speakingsoftlytoher.After amoment, shecurledupatmyside.Outside, theheatof the sunwas

growing.Shefellasleep;andIwaitedfordeath.IdecidedIwouldburyherataniceoverlooknotfarfromtheyurt.Iwouldcoverthespotwithstonestokeepoutthecoyotes.Ifoundcomfortinthethoughtthatshewouldbereturningtothedustofthatmagnificentdesertplateau.Shehadbeenafinedogandmyconstantcompanionforyears.Butshedidnotdie,notuntilyearslater.Inalittlewhile,shestoodup,eager

toresumehermorningromparoundthedesert.IkepthertiedtherestofthedaysothatIcouldwatchher.Eitherthesnake’sfangshadpassedthroughthelooseskinofherleg,orthewoundwasfromacactus.WhenIbelievedshewasdying,Ithoughtofmanythings.Icontemplatedhow

all life is impermanent, how the juniper trees, the rattlesnake, the dust of thedesert,andeventheverysunitselfwouldpassaway.Deathitselfisapartoftheinterdependenceofallthings.Wearesolightlyhere,underthisbrightandlife-givingsun.

8.

Economics

ForTrish—incelebrationofherfirstyearofteaching

When,in1988,theexiledVietnamesemonkThichNhatHanhcalledfora“deepecology,”hewasechoingagrowingscientificunderstandingthathumanlifeisdependent on a harmonious balance of interdependent relationships betweenorganisms.Inorder tomaintain thisbalance,wehumansmust learntoact inamuchmoremindfulway, aware of the implications ofall our actions. It isn’tenough to want to protect the earth—we need to go deeper and confront thepollution in our own consciousness. There is little difference between theviolencewedotothelandandtheviolencewedotooneanother.“Ifwechangeour daily lives—thewaywe speak, think and act—we change theworld,” hewrote. “The best way to take care of the environment is to take care of theenvironmentalist.”DuringthetimeIwaspreparingtobuildtheyurt,Ihadacrisisthatmademe

confront the implications ofmyown actions. It came in the formof a letter IreceivedafewmonthsbeforeIbuilttheyurt.Itwasanofficialresponsetomyrequest to be exempted from military duty. I had applied for status as aconscientious objector, a classification that allowed you to avoid service as amilitary combatant based on religious,moral, and ethical beliefs.While I hadnever thought too deeply about the ethical, much less the environmental,implicationsofviolence,Iwascertainthatkillingwasmorallywrong.

Fig.3.FirstdayofclassesatTesuqueSchool(photocourtesyTheNewMexican)

The letter informed me that my request for a CO status had been denied.Instead,Iwasbeingclassified1-A:fitformilitaryservice.ItmeantthatIcouldbedraftedanydaytoserveinVietnam.ThedayafterIreceivedtheletter,Istoodinfrontofmyfifth-gradestudentsat

theTesuqueschool,inadarkandsombermood.Wewereseatedoutsideonthelawnoftheoldvillagechurch,whichservedastheschoolhouse.“I have a difficult question to ask you,” I announced to my fifth graders.

“Whoherebelieves that theywouldneverkillanotherhumanbeing?”Mostofthehandsshotup.“Wait,”Isaid,“letmefinish.”Wehadjustcompletedaunit

aboutHitlerandWorldWarTwo.Iaskedthemtoconsiderhowwecouldeverstopsuchmadmen.Mostofthehandswentdown.Whatifsomeonethreatenedtokillyourmomordad?Onlythreehandsremainedintheair.“Benjie,wouldyoupleasecomeuphere?”He got up from the class circle and stood in front ofme. Benjie was very

smallforhisage,buthewaswell likedandintelligent.IpickedhimbecauseIknewhewas one of themost peaceful kids at the school. I knewhe used hisintellect,humor,andcommonsense to solve themyriadofconflicts thatareapartofbeingaten-year-oldboyonaboisterousschoolyard.Irepeatedthefundamentalquestion.“Youwouldneverkillanyone?”Therest

ofthestudentsgrewquiet.“No,never.”“Why?”Benjie paused and then spokewith confidence. “It is not a good thing,” he

said. “Only bad things can come fromkilling. If people no longer killed eachother,peoplecouldworktogethertomakethingsbetter.”I reached intomypocketand tookoutapocketknife. Iunfolded the largest

blade.Ibenttothegroundandslammedthepointintothedirt.“AtthecountofthreeIamgoingtogoforthatknife,andthenIamgoingtokillyou.”Theclassroaredwithlaughter.Iknowwhatyouarethinking.Intoday’sworldmyactionswouldlikelyland

meinjail.Attheveryleast,Icouldexpecttobefired.ButtheTesuqueschoolwasbeingbuilt on trust.Theparents trusted and respectedus as teachers.Wewere all in this thing together: trying to save the community school. It wasuncommonground,andyeteveryoneunderstoodandbelievedintheeffort.Theparents gave the teachers full freedom (what else could there be, given theuniquewaytheschoolhadcomeintobeing?)toexperimentinourclassrooms.Iwaiteduntilthelaughterdieddown.Benjiewasgrinningeartoear.Ihadnotchangedexpression.“Atthecountofthree,”Irepeated,“Iamgoing

forthatknife.”Benjie’sgrindisappeared.Theclasswasdeadsilent.Ibegantocount.“One,two...”Benjie leapt for the knife.He grabbed it and threw it across the lawn. The

classcheered.WhenIcamebackwiththeknife,Benjiehadsatbackdown.“We’renotthrough,”Isaid.Hestood.

Iputtheknifebackintheground.“One,”Ibegan,“two...three!”Helookedatmeaninstantandthenturnedandran.Igrabbedtheknifeand

tookoffafterhim.Someoneintheclassscreamed;therestbegantocheer.Benjieran,circlingthechurch.Weracedpastthethird-gradeclass.Theystoppedandstared.Weranpastthe

principal’s trailer. The principal, Mollie, was just stepping outside with areporter from theAssociated Press. The two of them stoodwith theirmouthsopen,watching that tinystudent runningforhis life,chasedbyabeardedwildhippiecarryingaknife.Whenwe rounded the final sideof thechurch, Iwas fearfulmyunattended

classhadsimplyscatteredintothefieldweusedasaplayground.Instead,theywereallontheirfeet,cheeringforBenjie.IletBenjiebeatmeback.Whenhereachedtheclass,hestoppedandpumped

hisarmsintotheairforeffect.JustthenIreachedhim.Iliftedhimup.HewassosmallIcoulddosowithease.“Areyouall right?”Iwhispered.Hegrinnedandnodded.“Okay,playalongwiththis.”Withdramaticflair,heletmepinhimtotheground.Iraisedtheknifehighabovemyheadand,foreffect,stabbeditintothedirtathisside.I stoodandgaveagrowlingcheerandbeatmychest.Benjie sprangupand

stoodnexttome.Everyonewastalkingatonce.Fortherestoftheperiod,Iledtheclassinafar-rangingdiscussionofmoralsandideasandthenatureofpower.Itwasabitselfishofme,I’lladmit,butteachingthatclassgavemealotto

think about. The next day, I wrote a letter to my draft board in Nebraska,appealingmyclassificationasfitformilitaryservice.A while later they replied and told me they would grant me a “courtesy

hearing.”Iwent intopanicmode.If theboarddidnotacceptmywrittenrequest,how

couldIeverconvincethemsimplybytalkingtothem?IgotaholdofacopyofAlanBlackman’sbookletFacetoFacewithYourDraftBoard,whichsoldoverthirty thousandcopies in thefirst tenmonths,andreaditadozentimesonmyflightbacktoLincoln.Thebookletwasfullofusefulinformation,butitdidnotmake me hopeful about my chances: “As volunteers who help the SelectiveServiceSystem,itislikelythatboardmemberswillbebiasedagainstCO.”Iarrivedearly,buttheywerealreadywaitingforme.Iwasledintoapoorlylit

conferenceroom,whereseveralmensataroundalongtable.Theonlyopenseatwasattheendofit.Allthemenwerewhite,saveoneblackmanwhosatdirectlytomyright.Theyallworesuits.

Iwasallowedtobegin.Itriedtoexplainmymoralobjectionstoviolence.InhighschoolIwasintroducedtothegreatauthorsofpeacebymyteachers.I

readThoreauandGandhi,DorothyDayandSt.Francis. I studied theQuakersandtheBuddhists.Whattheyallsaidseemedtobesosimple:youpledgednottoresorttoviolenceorphysicalforceindefianceofanything.IbelievedGandhi’swordswhenhesaidthatwarleadsonlytodictatorshipandthatonlynonviolenceleadstopeace.Itriedtoexplainallofthistothosesternmenseatedinthatdarkroom.When

Ifellsilent,theybegantoaskmeaboutmyjobatTesuqueSchool.ItriedtotellthemthatIwasservingthecountryinmyjobatTesuque.IexplainedhowthethreeHispanicvillagescame together tocreate theirownschool,etc.,etc.Themore I spoke, the more I came to realize that the story of the school onlyreinforcedtheiropinionIwassomekindoflong-hairedhippiefreak.Themanseatedtomyrightspokeforthefirstandonlytime.“Youaredoing

allthisworkforonlyfivedollarsaday?”Ishrugged.IexplainedIwaslivingwithafamily.Theyhelpedwithroomand

board.Helookedmesquarelyintheeye.“Ican’tbelieveyouaresurvivingonjust

fivedollarsaday,”hesaid.I left that room feeling like a condemnedman. I realized that soon Iwould

havetoeitherhideoutorheadtoCanada.“SomeoftheDraftBoard’semotionalbehavior,” the booklet had warned me, “may stem from an ignorant super-patriotism,fromtheirowncompromises, theirownexperiencesinthearmy,orfromtheirownfearsaboutviolence.”IgotbacktoNewMexicoandwarnedmycolleaguesat school that Icouldbequittinganyday. Icontactedanold friendwhohadmovedtoCanadatoavoidbeingdraftedandlethimknowImightbeheaded north. I studied the plans for the yurt and decided, if nothing else, IwouldhideoutonthedesertuntilIfiguredoutwhattodonext.Instead,Iwasclassifiedasaconscientiousobjector.To this day, I believe that the sole reason I obtained a CO was that man’s

concernabouttheeconomicsofmylife.Iwasmaking$100amonth,farbelowthe poverty level. Somehow that information must have swayed his opinion.ApparentlyheequatedmyvolunteerpovertywithmilitaryserviceinVietnam.Getting such aCO was unusual in those days, and I took a foolish pride in

thinkingofmyselfasapeacefulman.Butthetruthwasthatjustasmyfriendswhowere headed toVietnamhad no real understanding ofwar, I had no realunderstanding of peace.The only thing I had learned frommy childhoodwas

that my imagination was horribly inadequate when it came to the realpossibilitiesforcatastropheintheworld.Like any twentieth-century American kid, I grew up in the shadows of

violence.MyparentswerebothveteransofWorldWarTwo.Whilemymothertoldus

chillingstoriesofthesoldierswhofilledthehospitalbedswheresheservedasanurse,myfathernevertalkedabouthisexperiences.Whenpressed,mymotherwouldgiveusonlyvaguedetailsabouthistimeduringthewar.“Yourdadsawsomeawful things,”shewouldsaysomberly.“Hehasarightnot to talkaboutit.”My father continued to serve in theArmyReserves for the rest of his life.

Onceor twiceayearhewouldleaveforanextendedstayatanArmyReservecamp.Andeveryweek,onMondaynights,heputonhisstarcheduniformanddrovetothefarsideoftowntomeetwithotherreserves.ItwasalsoonMondayevenings thatmy town tested theair-raid sirens that

wouldoneday tell us that nuclear bombswere coming.At 5:00p.m. sharp, ascreamingcameacrosstheskyasdozensofsirens—perchedonofficebuildingsandschoolhousesalloverthecity—cametolife.Thecold,suddenwailingrosesteadilyuntilitseemedasthoughtheverybirdswouldneveragainbeheard.Therealviolence,ofcourse,wasalsomuchclosertohome.One day in 1958 a redheaded nineteen-year-old punk from my hometown,

namedCharlieStarkweather,pulleduptohisgirlfriend’shouse,walkedinside,and, at point-blank range, shot her parents and her sister to death. ThenStarkweather andhis girlfriendhopped into his car.Together they roamed thecityforfivedayswhileStarkweatherkillednearlyeveryonetheymet.Hekilleda young man who had helped them when their car wouldn’t start. He killedanothertwomenwhohadhelpedthemwhentheygotstuckinasnowbank.Hekilledahousewifeandthenshotherdog.Beforetheywerecaptured,elevenhaddied. Like other families, we stayed locked up tight in our home, afraid toanswerevenaknockonthedoor.Fistfightswerearegularfeature in theparknext tomyjuniorhighschool. I

hadacowardlystreak,andsoItriedtoavoidthem.Buteveryonceinawhile,when push came to shove—as it often did inmy adolescent years—I pushedback.Then the tight circleofboyspressedclose around; and likedancers,webegan to pound at each other, bare fist on head and chest, until finally, in awhirlwind of curses and threats, it ended. I would walk home alone in thedarkeningsky,shakingandtrembling,thebloodstilldryingonmyfists.

Howevermuchwe abhor the violence around us, wemust also be constantlyaware thatwe too are capable of brutal, unspeakable acts of hatred. Fear andanger smolder just below the surface of our everyday world. How do thoseflamesfirstignite?HowcanIeverputsuchafireout?This “deep ecology” is not for the cowardly. Peacefulness has to be

relentlesslypursuedinthefaceoftheragingviolenceallaroundus.Peacefulnesspresupposes both the ability and the courage to strike; but it demands ourconsciousrestrainttocalmourowndesireforvengeance.Toknowtruepeace,Ihave tobemindful eachandeverymoment, and Imust first lookdeepwithinmyself.Gandhiinsistedthatwecouldnotlookatthebutcherygoingonintheworld

with indifference. “I have unchangeable faith that it is beneath the dignity ofmantoresorttomutualslaughter,”hewrote.“Ihavenodoubtthatthereisawayout.”

9.

TheBeautifulTreeandOtherDisasters

It waswhat I call a great-grandmother tree, a sugarmaple of such incrediblegirth and height that it dwarfed all else, an ancient giant whose toweringbranchesandcenturiesofseedshadpropagatedgenerationsofoffspring.ThereareperhapsadozensuchtreesonthetenacresofourVermontproperty,butthisonemighthavebeen theoldestand the largestof themall.Themassive trunkrose from a soft bed of ferns andwild strawberries thenwidened slightly, theresultofsomelong-agoobstructioninitsgrowth.Thesizeofthetrunkdidnotseem to diminish even as it climbed higher and higher. The giant rose nearlyeighty feet into the air before the first lateral branches, themselves the size oftrees,archedfromthetrunk.Atitscrown,farabove,branchesopenedtotheskyintwisted,muscledarms.Thecanopywasmassiveandsohighabovetheothertreesthatitshadedmuch

of the surroundingwoods. In summer screechingblue jayshidhigh inside thegreen tangle,while in fallwild turkeys spent thenighthuddled togetheron itsbarrengraybranches.Fromthestart,IknewIwantedtosavethattree.Ibuiltthedrivewayaroundit

sothatpeoplewhocametoourdoorcouldparkintheshadeofitsbeauty.Onthedays we poured the foundation and floor, the burley big men who drove theconcretetruckshadtonavigatearoundit,thehugetruckstwistingandturningtoavoidacollision.OneearlymorninginJune,Iwaswalkingdownthedriveway,whenIrealized

the beautiful treewould have to go. I stood and stared.What a dumbbell I’dbeen.Upuntilthattime,thehousehadbeennothingmorethanaconcreteslab;butthepreviousweek,wehadstartedtobuildthewoodenpost-and-beamframeforthehouse.Abouthalftheslabwasencircledbytheframe,enoughsothatIcouldgetanideaofwhatitmightlookliketohavetheentirehousesittingjustthere.That’swhenitstruckme.Whiletheancientmapletreewasagoodfortyfeet

fromthehouse, its immensesizemeant that if it fell, itwouldnotonlyhit thehousebutcouldcrushit.Ilookedbackandforthadozentimes;andeachtime,I

knewtherewasnochoicebuttocutthetreedown.Itwasn’tgoingtobeeasy.Therewasonlyoneplacethebigmaplecouldfall

withoutgettinghungupinthesurroundingtrees:anarrowopenspacethewelldiggingcrewhadclearedtosetuptheirrig.Iwasnotconfidentenoughwithachainsawtocutdownsuchamassivetree,

muchlesstosetitdownexactlywhereitneededtogo;soIcalledmyfriendJonFitch.Jonisathinoldermanwithastrikingwispywhitebeard.Althoughhehasa

slight frame, he is stronger andhasmore energy thanmanymenhalf his age.Despite the handicap of being a professor of psychology, Jon has a lot ofexperiencewhenitcomestochainsaws.Heshowedupearlythatafternoon.“You weren’t kidding,” he said, hopping out of his truck. “That’s quite a

maple.” He walked over to it and then began circling it, stomping down thesurroundingbrushtomakeiteasierforustoworknearit.Evenwhen standing still, Jon is never standing still. Today hewas on full

charge. Soon we were both caught up in the task before us. We madepreparationsforthebigevent,suchasclearingthingsoutofthewaysowecouldrunquickly if somethingwentwrong.Asweworked,we talked throughwhatwas going to happen, where I would be standing, which way Jon should runwhenthetreestartedtotopple,andthebestwaytogetittolandexactlywherewewanteditto.Westudiedthetreeclosely,asifwecoulddiscernitsdesiresinthismess.Lindastoodatthetopofthedrive,nervouslywatchingusprepare.Finallywewereready.Fellingatreeisdoneusingthreecuts.Youstartonthesidewhereyouwantit

tofallandusetwocutstoremoveawedge.Thewedgeneedstobejusttherightdepth and angle in order for the tree to fall correctly. Given how exact weneeded to be with the big tree, we spent considerable time figuring out justwheretocutthewedge.Wemeasuredandevendrewpreciselinesonthetrunkwithamarkertoguideus.ImovedJon’struckwhilehemadesurehischainsawwasready.Ofhisthree

chainsaws,theonehechosetouseonthemaplewasthelargest.Theextra-longbar—thebusinessendofachainsaw—wasdesignedforcuttingdownthelargesttrees.Wheneverythingwasinplace,Jonlookedatmeandthenpulledonthestarter

rope.Hepulledagainandonceagain.Thechainsawcoughedandthenroaredto

life.At close range, thewhine of a chainsaw can be deafening. Jonwore earprotection;Ididnot.Hekneltathissaw,adjustingthespeed.Hestood,hoistedthesaw,andbegan.Hiswedgecutswerebeautiful—smoothasglassandperfectlyinlinewiththe

markswehaddrawn.After severalmoments of thebuzzing saw,blue smoke,andflyingwoodchips,heturnedoffthesaw.Withasmallsledgehammer,Jonknockedthelargewedgeofwoodoutofthetrunk.Itfelltotheground,exposingtheperfectcuthehadmade.Helookedatmeagain.Inoddedandheadedforthehills,stillhobblingwithmyinjuredknee.The third and final cut ismade on the side opposite thewedge. Itmust be

perfectlyhorizontalandslightlyhigherthanthebottomofthewedgeinorderforthetreetofallcorrectly.Jonheldtheroaringchainsawcarefullyagainstthetrunk.Helookedhighinto

the treeand thenbehindhim, reviewingone last timehis escape route incaseanythingwentwrong.Hebegan.Though the tree was enormous, I knew his chain was sharp and he’d cut

throughitquickly.Thenheyelled somethingabove the roarof the saw.The toneofhisvoice,

more than thewords,mademe take immediate notice. “It’s falling thewrongway!”Linda,whowitnessedtheentireeventfromthetopofthedrive,tolduslater

thatIshouted“Run!”Jon turnedoff the sawand scrambledup thedriveway towhere I stood. “It

moved a tinybit,” Jonwasbreathless from sheer adrenalin, “but itmoved thewrongway:itpinchedmysaw.”Thetreestillstood,butthechainsawwasstuckinthetrunkofthemassivetreelikeamosquitounderthetoeofanelephant.Thereensuedforty-fivefullminutesofabsolute,ice-cold,bloodypanic.Wehadtofindawayforthetreenottofallontheconcreteslab.At first we thought wemight be able to somehow sling a rope around the

maple,hitch it to thepickup truck,andpull itover.Weabandoned that ideaaminute later when we realized there was no way we could get the rope highenoughtodoanygood.Linda rounded up two gas company men who had been working at our

neighbors’house.Themenlookedatthetreeandsaidwehadaproblem.“If we had an excavator with a bucket on the front,” Jon said, “we could

maybepushitover.”“Maybe,”themensaid,andthenjustshooktheirheads.Theyclimbedbackin

theirtruckanddroveaway.“There’reacoupleofmenwhohaveexcavatorsnotfarfromhere,”Ioffered.Jonstoodinakindoftrance,staringatthetree.IturnedtoLinda.“JonandIwillgotrytofindsomeonetohelp,”Isaid.“You

stayhereinthedrivetomakesurethatifanyonecomes,theydon’tgoanywherenearthattree.”Iwalkedtowardthetruck.“Jon?”He turned away from the tree so slowly I thought he barely moved. He

shuffledhiswaytothetruckinakindofzombiestupor.“Youallright?”Iaskedwhenhegotin.“Let’sgo,”hesaid.IspedoutofthedriveandoverthehillwhereIknewtwocontractorslived.I

didn’t hold outmuch hope, however. Itwasmidweek on a glorious June dayduringwhatwas tobe the lastsummerof thebighousingboom.Anyonewhoownedanexcavatorwaslonggoneandworkingsomewhere.Sureenough,therewasnoonearoundatthefirsthouse.Atthesecond,theman’swifesaidthathewascompletelybookedbutmightbeabletohelpussometimenextweek.“Thanks,”Isaidtoher,“butthisiskindofanemergency.”Iturnedthetruck

around and headed down the driveway. “I’m going to try onemore place,” Isaid.“There’saloggerdowntheroadwhomightbeabletohelp.”Oneoftheoddestthingsaboutbuildingmyownhousewashowitaffectedmy

way of thinking. I developed a strange ability to doggedly forge aheadwhileshruggingoffanyemotionalattachmenttotheconsequences.Currentlytheissuewas the tree. Iwascalculatinghowmanydays Iwouldbe setback if the treesmashed the frame,orworse, cracked the foundation. Iwasneitherhappynorunhappybutdrivenlikesomeemotionlessrobot.Buildingmyownhousewasamonumentalundertaking,andIknewthatifIallowedmyselftopanic...Well,let’s justsaythatI triednottothinkabouthowitmademefeel inside;forifIdid,Iwouldneverhavethecouragetofinishthehouse.Theearlyafternoonskywasclearblue.TheJunesunshinewaswarm.Theloggerwasinhislogyard,unloadingtree-lengthlogsfromasemi;aone-

manoperation,hedidn’thaveamomentfreetohelpus.AsIturnedaroundinthelogger’syard,Jonspokeforthefirsttimesincewe

leftmyhousesite.“Driveintotown.Therehastobesomeonewecanfind.”“No,”Isaid.“I’mgoingback.I’mgoingtoblockthedrivewaysothatnoone

can drive in. Then Linda and I will go home and try calling places on thephone.”SuddenlyJonbecameanimated.“Iwasoverlyconfident.Butthewedgewas

perfect. I don’t knowwhat went wrong. I should have stuck a plastic pryingwedgeintothetreetrunkwhenIfirststartedcutting...”Hewas frantic; his voice grew in pitch. “The entire tree shifted thewrong

direction; it was just a fraction of an inch. It shouldn’t have, but it did. “Hebegan to sway and bounce in his seat. Hismoan caughtme off guard. “I ampayingforwhateverdamagethiscauses.”“Don’tbesilly,”Isaid.He was crying. “I am going to pay for the damage,” he sobbed. “I’m so

sorry...”Inthetwenty-fiveyearsIhadknownhim,IhadneverseenJoncry.

Fig.4.Cuttingupthetreeafteritfell

“Jon, listen; it’s all right,” I said. It was that emotionless robot speaking,something disemboweled fromhuman feelings, set only on a task that neededdoing.Isaidmygoalwassimplytotakedownthetreeandmakesurenoonegothurt. I toldhimIknewbeforewestarted that itmightnot fall right. Iknew it

might hit the housebut figured itwasbetter to hit the housenow than a yearfromnow.Theslabandhousewerereallynotimportant,andItoldhimso.Buthedidn’tevenhearmemuchlessbelieveme.Linda was standing blocking the entrance to our road. She stood with one

thumbupandonethumbdown.Shehadbeenpacingattheroadwhensheheardadistant,deepthudandknewithadfallen.Thumbsup:itdidn’ttakedownourframing.Thumbsdown:ithadhittheslab.Sheclimbedinthetruckwithus,andIdrovedownthedrive.WhenIreached

thehillabovethehouse,Istoppedthetruck.Thespacewherethebeautifultreeonce filled the air was now vacant sky, and the orderly symmetry of therectanglethatwastobeourhomewasnowfilledbythemassivegraybulkofthefelledtree.Themaplehadfallenexactly180(not179,not181)degreesfromwherewe’d

planned.Whatwehadnotknown,andhadnotpreparedfor,wasthattheinteriorofthe

beautifultreewasrotted.Insteadofbeingsolid,thecoreofthetreewasnothingmore than softwood,wet and crumbling to a dark, putrid brown.Because ofthat,ithadfallenthewrongway,acrosstheentirenortheastcorneroftheslab.Theupperbranchesofthecrownspreadoverhalfofthefloor—thethickgreenfoliage,likesomegrotesquehouseholdfurniture.JonandIspentthenextseveralhourscuttingupthetreeandhaulingbranches

away. We worked like men possessed—each of us manic with self-recrimination,doubt,andguilt.

I had just started living at the yurtwhen the disastrous fire at theCornucopiacommunedestroyedtheA-frame.Thesonofoneofthecoupleswassupposedtotend the woodstove in the A-frame, but something happened and the placecaughtonfire.Bythetimethelocalvolunteerfiredepartmentarrived,all theycoulddowaswatchandmakesurethefiredidn’tspreadtootherbuildings.Aside from the A-frame, Cornucopia consisted of an old adobe house, a

coupleofsheds thathadbeenconverted intosmall independentdwellings,andanassortmentofoutbuildings.Cornucopia began life as a small collection of coupleswho had a common

desiretoliveinacooperativemanner.SincehordesofpeoplewereflockingtothedesertSouthwest,jobswerehardtocomeby.Noonehadmuchmoney.Myfriendsfromlongagohadsharedwhattheyhadandtriedtoliveadeliberatelife.Thecouplewhoownedtheproperty,JimandMargaret,weretheparentsoftwo

children:agirlabouteightandanolderboy,theonewhoseaccidentcausedthefire. Jim was very handy with tools and a resourceful man. Margaret washardworking too, and she had a clever wit that often came to the rescue inconflicts.Thesecondcouple,RandyandMary,were recent immigrants from theEast

Coast.Theywerecraftspeoplewhomadestainedglassobjectslikelampshadesandwindowframes,andtheymadealittlemoneysellingstufftotouristshopsinSantaFe.TheywereQuakersandlovinglycalledoneanother“thee”and“thou.”Bob—myfriendwhohelpedmebuildtheyurt—andhiswife,Laura,hadjust

moved onto the communewith their infant son.Bob had quit a job as a highschooldramateacherontheEastCoastandhadjustmovedtoNewMexico.Hehad decided to quit teaching and hoped to start a life in New Mexico as acarpenter.He had learned the trade from his father backEast but had not yetfound a paying job outWest. Hemade what little money he could by doingsmallrepairjobs.Added to this assortmentwere occasional people likeme—hangers-onwho

alwaysmanagedtoshowupoftenenoughtohelpwithchoresinexchangeforagooddinner,plentyofwine,andalwaysinterestingconversations.Cornucopia’sresidentswereunitedbyasimpledesiretolivetogethercheaply

andharmoniously.Theymade ita ritual toshare theeveningmealasagroup;thatway, theycoulddiscussanyproblems thatneeded tobe talkedabout.Theideawas toshareworkand responsibilitiesequally,and theyalsoenjoyedoneanother’scompany.Thecommunemovementwasprobablyatitspeakin1972,andNewMexico

wasattheepicenter.It’seasytoimaginefromthisdistance—withhistoryfadingintosmall,bite-sizedchunks—thatahippiecommunewasfulloftie-dyed,pot-smoking,free-love,long-haired,unwashedweirdoeswhodidnoworkandneverbathed.ThetruthwasthatCornucopia,likemostcommunes,wasanattempttofind a more sustainable way of living. If ten or twenty or even hundreds ofpeoplecouldfigureouthowtolivetogetherunitedbyacommonbeliefthattheycouldcreateamorepeaceful,cheaper,healthier,andeveneasierlife,thensuchachangemightultimatelyinfluencetheworldforthebetter.Whilesuchidealismspawned everything from Earth People’s Park to the death cult at Jonestown,mostofthecommunesbackthenweresimplygroupsofpeopletryingtomakethingsbetterforthemselvesandfindawaytolivelifewithoutharmingothers.The fire was the beginning of the end of Cornucopia. I never knew much

about the details, but fingers pointed and relationships soured. Soon everyone

simplywenttheirseparateways.WhatthedisasteratCornucopiameanttomewasthatmyisolationattheyurt

wouldbe complete.Prior to the fire, the communehadplanned to relocateoneightyacresoflandalmostadjacenttomine.Ihadcountedonhaving(andtriedto reassure my rightfully worried-to-death mother that I would have) thecommune as my neighbors. Instead of having a community, I now had toconfront the fact that I would be living in total isolation on that high lonelyplateau.

10.

TheAmoeba

Miraculouslythemapletreemissedthefinishedframingofthestrawbalehousebymereinches.Thedamagetotheslabwasminimal,especiallyconsideringthepower to which it had been subjected. The next day, my neighbor came toremovethelargestchunksofthemassivetreewithhistractor;heestimatedthatit had weighed nearly eight tons. The bulk of it had hit the sill plate I hadinstalled just that morning. The pressure-treated two-by-six wooden planklookedlikeaslabofsquishedbutter.Panicky,Ireplaceditquicklyandhurriedtofinishframingthehouseinordertobereadyintimeforthebiggestdeadlineofthesummer:installingtherooftrusses.Jon,heofthedisasterwiththebeautifultree,wasapartoftheAmoeba,our

ever-changingcommunityoffriends.BeforelongthepainandanguishthatbothJonandIfeltaboutthatafternoonwasabsorbedbytheAmoebaandtransformedintolaughterandforgiveness.Thewordcommunitycomesfromcommunis,theOldFrenchandLatinword

for sharing something—as in say, a common good. Whether based on aphilosophicalpremise, like thecommunityataZenmonastery,orbasedonanexperiment in living, like the Cornucopia commune or Walden, somecommunitiesshareawayof thinking.PeopleworkingonaPTAbottledriveorthoseinvolvedinabusinessventurearetemporarycommunities,formedsimplytoaccomplishsometask.Othercommunitiesareformedthroughculturalbonds.These can be very temporary, like the community of office mates singingChristmascarols,ordeep-rooted,likethetiesthatbindpeoplethroughcommonheritage.Stillothercommunitiesaresimplyformedasaresultofcircumstances,the consequence of time and place. Of course, all these communities oftenoverlaporchangefromonetoanother.St. Johnsbury, where we raised our two sons, is a village of six thousand

peoplewholivealongthebanksofthreesmallriversinthenortheasterncornerofVermont.Manyofthepeoplehavelivedtherealltheirlives.Othersaremorerecentarrivals.Theyworkasloggers,waitresses,professors,andteachers.Theyworkinstores,insocialservices,andinoneortwoofthesmallmanufacturingcompaniesnearby.Mostofthemworryaboutwhetherthereisenoughmoney,orhowwelltheirkidsaredoinginschool,orifthatbigbucktheysawlastspringwill still be aroundcomehunting season.A smallpolice force tries itsbest to

keepupwithdomesticassaults,drugdeals,andmurder—crimesthatarejustascommonhereasinAnyplace,USA.Ourcollarsarewhiteandblueandsometimesstilltie-dyedinbrightrainbow

colors.Becauseofitsremotenessandthefactthatitstillhasthatwhitechurchsteeple

—Christmascard—Vermontlook,theplacehasalsoattractedahighnumberofcreativepeople.Writersandmusicians,moviestarsandfilmmakers,artistsandpoetsarealsoapartofthelandscape.LiketherestofVermont,thepopulationisaging.Youngadults,theireyesonsomethingshinierthanthedullnesstheyseehere, continue to flee the area, while retired refugees from the East CoastMegalopolismoveintotaketheirplace.WemovedtothetownfromtheWestbeforeeitherofourchildrenhadstarted

school. Soon after we arrived, we learned of a babysitting co-op. A group oftwentyorsocouplessharedbabysitting.Thewayitworkedwasyouwouldearnpointswhenyoubabysatforanothermember’skids.Youcouldthenspendthosepointsbygettingsomeonetowatchyourkidssothatyouandyourspousecouldhaveaniceeveningoutwithouthavingtheexpenseofababysitter.Wewereallofacertainage,withcertain-agedchildren,andweallwantedtoavoidpayingfor babysitters in order to savemoney. The co-op itself didn’t work out wellsince some members were forever in debt—they always dodged having tobabysit—whileothershordedtheirpointsandseldomwentoutevenforasingleevening.Buttheco-opdidsowtheseedsforacommunityoffriendswho,nearlythirtyyears later, still remainclose.Thatgroupofcouples (nowsupplementedby singlemen and women) still sharemuch together. Sometimes as many astwentyor thirtyofuswill gather fordinneror aparty; at other times, varioussmaller combinations will go on a hike or to a movie or will gather for aneveningofgamesduringthedark,darkwinternights.Somepeoplehaveeithermovedawayorsimplydriftedfromthegroup,whilenewer friendshavecomealong.Becauseoftheshifting,impreciseshapeofthisloosegatheringoflocals,onefriendhasdubbedittheAmoeba.While theAmoeba functions largelyas a socialgathering, it is also truewe

stillactalittlebitlikethebabysittingco-op.Whensomeoneneedshelpmovingfrom one house to another, the Amoeba descends to lend their hands. Thatfamilyinturnwilljoininwhenanothermemberfallsillandneedshelparoundthehouse.Webringinoneanother’sfirewoodorshowupwhenahouseneedsto be painted.We also know a great deal about one another’s life history;wehave met each other’s in-laws and family, have attended the weddings of

children,andoftencelebrateholidaystogether.Unlike the communemovement of the 1960s, these friends don’t share the

samelivingspaceorconstantlymeettodiscusscommonissues.Still,decisionsarefrequentlymadeinacollectivemanner.Everything,fromthesuggestionforacampingtriptothebestwaytohelpsomeoneintrouble,isresolvedbysomenearlymagicalseriesofconversations,personalities,andsharedresolve.Whenwedecidedtobuildourhouse,LindaandIknewwewouldn’tbeable

todosowithoutlotsofhelp.Myskillswithahammer(tosaynothingaboutmyskillswithachainsaw)arelimited.Booksonbuildingstrawbalehousesdevotechapters to howmuchof thework canbedoneby friends.Well, only if yourfriendsaretalented,hardworking,anddevoted.BuildingahousewasthemoststressfulthingIhaveeverdone.Notgoodold-

fashionedtemporarystressbutstressthatstretchedoutovermonthsandmonths,occupying every singlewakingmoment. Therewas no leisure time that year.Because of the short building season, I was shackled to a very strict timeschedule.Themostimportanteventonthatschedulewasfastapproaching.Ihadtohave

the post-and-beam framing in place by mid-July in order to be ready for thebiggest and most complicated job of the entire construction project—theinstallationoftherooftrusses.Themost critical factor—nay, my benefactor—in that undertaking was my

friendRickStodola.Rick works as an accountant, but he also has a reputation as a skilled

carpenter.Modestandalwaysabletocreatecompromiseandagreement,Rickishandier with a complicated building project than most people are with akeyboard.HehadbuilteverythingfromfinelycraftedfurnishingstoHabitatforHumanityhouses.Earlyonandforthelengthoftheproject,IsoughtRick’sadvice.Ibasedmy

plans, designedmy schedule, and formedmy budget aroundwhat he knew. IaskedhimeverydumbbellquestionanEnglishprofessor—turned—constructioncontractormightask.Rickexplainedthattherooftrusseswouldbethesinglemostlabor-intensive

partoftheconstruction.Trussesare large triangle-shapedstructures that support the roofofahouse.

Takeacardboardboxandimagineitastheframeforahouse.NowtakeabunchofPopsiclesticksandgluethemintobigtriangles.Maketwenty-sixofthem.Setonetriangleafteranotheracrossthenarrowopeningoftheboxandthensecure

themsothattheystandupright,andyounowhaveanideaofhowtrusseswork.Thedifference,ofcourse,wasthatmytrussesweremadeoutofmilledlumber,andeachweighedoveronehundredpounds.Eachonehadtobeplacedperfectlyupright ten feet in the air and then secured in just the rightplaces, or else thefinishedroofmightonedaysimplycollapse.Itwouldbeamonumentalundertaking.Iwouldneedscissorlifts,ladders,and

atleastadozenworkerstohelpplace,align,andsecureeachtruss.Evenifwewereluckyandnothingwentwrong,itwouldstilltakeuseighttotenhours;andwe had to be lucky, because there was only a single day, July 19, whereeveryoneandeverythingwouldbeavailable.Ohyeah,Iwouldalsoneedalargecranetoliftthetrussesontotheroof.AstheDayoftheTrussesapproached,Iwithdrewintoanextremeversionof

Automated Man. I became a man who saw to nothing but the complexarrangementsandminisculedetailsofthetaskbeforeme.Luckily,therewastheAmoeba.RickandJonweren’ttheonlytalentedmenin

thenebulousgroupwhohadmoreskillsand talent than I.Atcriticalmomentsduringtheconstruction,thesemenalwaysconvergedtohelpme.Manytimes,Iwouldsimplystandbackinamazementathowfourorfivemen,eachaskilledcraftsperson, could discuss, argue, and then agree on the proper way toaccomplishatask.The trusses, however, required more than just the talent and help of my

friends; therewas thematterof thecrane. Iknew itwasgoing tocosta lotofmoneytorentoneofthelargemachines.Also,Iwashavingtroublefindinganylocal contractors who were available that day. Then the Amoeba magichappened.OneeveningatourVictorianhousetherewasaknockonthedoor.Itwasoneofourneighborswhoworkedforalocalexcavatorcompany.“Ihearyouneedacranedownatyournewhouse,”hesaid.News of our project had spread through town. All sorts of friends and

neighborswereinterestedinourworkandoftencametothesiteforavisit.ItoldhimIsuredid,andIexplainedthatthedeadlinedatewasfastapproaching.“I’vegotnothingthatSaturday;I’llbringthecranedownthereandhelpyou

out.”“Youwill?”Istammered.“Thatwouldbegreat!”He turned to go. “What do you figure?About 6:00 a.m.?” he said over his

shoulder.“I’veaskedeveryonetotrytobereadyby7:30,”Isaid.“Sendmethebill;that

way,Icangetthebanktopayyouquickly.”

Hewavedahandintheair.“Youaren’tgoingtopaymeanything,”hesaid.“Noarguments.”

Therewas no sustainable compromisewhen it came to the trusses.Therewasonly one place thatmade themwithin five hundredmiles. Amanufacturer inQuebec, just north of theVermont border, prettymuch had themonopoly onbuilding wooden trusses for every construction project around. The trussesarrived thedaybeforewewere to raise them.Thedriverwhobrought themtothe site spoke onlyFrench, but I could tell hewas in a horriblemood. Itwasrainingmiserably, andhebarely acknowledgedme, chain-smoking in the colddampgray.HescrambledontothehoistatthebackofhisbigsemianddumpedmytrussesnearthehousesitesorapidlythatIthoughtIheardonecrack.Sureenough,hoursafterhewassafelybackinCanada,Idiscoveredthattwoofthemhad broken. I spent the darkening hours before T-Day hobbling two-by-fourpatchesontothebrokentrusses,aloneinthepouringrainandcrying.I slept that night at the house site, where I awoke before first light and

watchedthedawncomebrilliantlyintoacoolandcrystalclearsky.Just after sunrisemyneighbor arrivedwithhis craneon a flatbed truck.He

parkedandunloadedthebigmachine.Itstankliketreadsclankeddownthedriveuntil itstoppedat thepileof trusses.Thentheothersarrived:menandwomenandtoolsandladders.Oneofmygrownsons,whowasvisiting,arrivedwithtwoof his friends, aman and awomanwho hadmoved toNewHampshire someyearsearlierandwhohadcomebackjusttohelpus.Mymenfriendscamewiththeircompressorsandnailgunsandknow-how.Twoorthreeofthemweretheconductorswhofiguredoutexactlywhoandwhyandwhenandwhatneededtohappen.Overandoveragain, theyexplained toeveryone justwhere tobeandwhattodo.InthepreindustrializedcountrysideofHenryDavidThoreau’stime,neighbors

commonly helped one another to accomplish such difficult tasks. Back thenpeople routinely helped one another to plow, for example; and later in theseason,theysharedtheworkofreaping.Theycametogetherforlargerprojectsorforheavyortediousjobssuchasraisingarooforhuskingcorn.Intheseold-fashionedbees,peoplecombinedworkandpleasureandcreatedanintricatewebof interdependence. But soon newfangled machines came along and requiredfewer people to operate them. Farmers could now do much of the work bythemselves. At the same time, railroads and other improvements intransportation did away with the need to grow staples locally and further

diminished cooperation and contact between neighbors. Gone was the work-together and play-together cohesiveness of community. That change in ourcultural history was unfortunate, for such knowledge could help humanity inthesecomingdifficulttimes.Butthedayofthetrusseswasnothingshortofanold-styleroofraisingbee,courtesyoftheAmoeba.

Fig.5.Thedayoftherooftrusses

Fig.6.PartsoftheAmoeba,July4,2007

We started slowly. Someone attached the first truss to the cranewith ropesand then signaled the driver. He lifted the huge triangle slowly into the air.Others supported it and guided it into place.Otherswere on ladders, ready tonail the truss intobrackets thatwouldattach it to thehouse frame.Stillotherswere high above in the basket of a scissor lift, ready to plumb and secure thetrussupright.Even though it was a difficult and complex procedure, we soon fell into a

pattern,eachstepbeingrepeatedinjustthesamesequence,untilweallbegantomove like a single organism. Once in a while something halted us—movingladders, fixing a not-quite-level truss, eating lunch. The work was difficult.People squeezed into tiny spaces or climbed with monkey-like courage highaboveon thebareskeletonof the roof.High in theair, suspended inawkwardpositions,theyusedcircularsawsorhammers,levelsandnailguns.Therewerenohardhats.Just before sunset we raised and secured the final truss. Soon after, most

peoplewenthome.Weloadedthecranebackontothetruckandsaidinadequate

thankstoourfriends.Afewstayedawhilelonger,andwedrankcoldbeerinthesoft light of a summer dusk. We walked back and forth admiring our work,discussing the intricaciesofanengineereddesign thatcouldspana thirty-five-footopeningandyetholdanentireroofupright.ItwastheAmoebaatitsbest.Well,maybe secondbest.Our community of friendswasmost usefulwhen

thefloorturnedyellow.AweekafterweinstalledthetrussesandaftersomefriendsandIhadfinished

puttingonthemetalroof,thehouselookedalotlikeapaviliononemightseeatpicnicgrounds: a roof supportedbyposts, coveringa slabof concrete set inagreenwoods.That iswhenHarold, our concreteman, came back to color theslabfloor.We had decided not to cover the floor with carpets or wood so that the

concretecouldabsorbmoreheatonsunnywinterdays.Concretecanbeetchedorcut,coloredoracidstainedsothatitlooksliketileorstone.Wehaddecidedtostainittoanearthydark-browncolor.Haroldhadneverusedacidstainbefore,buthehadattendedworkshopsand

talkedoftenwithanothermanwhohaddonetheprocessbefore.Hearrived tostain the floor,onahotandhumidmorning.Lindawas there,

alreadynervous.Weassuredherthatitwasastraightforwardprocedureandthattherewasnothingtoworryabout.Haroldfilledasprayerwithadarkthickliquidthecolorofblood.Hestarted

inacorneroftheslab,slowlysprayingtheacidinlargeswirlingcircles.Afterafewmoments,hestoppedandweallstared.“Itlooksawful,”Lindasaid.HaroldandIwerespeechless.Thesprayhadturnedthegrayconcrete intoa

sicklyswirlofred-and-orangepuke;attheedgesofthosesplotcheswasyellowcrudthecolorofmustard,French’syellowmustard.“I’msureitisgoingtobefine,”Haroldsaid.“We’redoingeverythingright.”We?“Don’tworry,”Istammered.“It’lllookdifferentafteritsetsabit.”Harold fiddled awhile with the sprayer, adjusting the nozzle and pumping

more air into it, before hebegan again.This timeheworked for a longwhilewithoutstopping.Whenhedidstop,itwasonlytorefillthesprayerwithmorestain.“Weshouldn’thavedonethis,”Lindasaid.“Weshouldhaveusedsomeother

kindoffloor.”

Istormedawaywithoutresponding.Halfofmewantedtotellhertorelax—thiswas just onemore in a series of ongoing problems that building a housepresented,anditwouldallworkoutfine.Theotherhalfofmewaswrackedbyyetanother sudden realization that Ihadmadeamonumentalmistake,not justwiththefloor,butwiththeentireideaofbuildingsuchanunusualhouse.As soon as Harold finished, he packed up his gear and headed toward his

truck.Lindawasathisside,pepperinghimwithathousandquestions.Whydidit looksoawful?Whatcouldbedone?Couldhecallhisfriendandask?Whatwasgoingtohappennext?Haroldhadn’tseemednervousbefore,butIcouldtellthatLindawasgetting

tohim.“I’msureitwillbefine,”hesaid.“I’llcomeouttomorrowforasecondcoat.”“Doyouthinkitwilllookbetteronceitsetsovernight?”Haroldleanedtowardherandspokeassoftlyashecould.“Don’tworry,”he

said again. “Wearedoingeverything right.”Thenhe climbed intohis rig andwasgone.Lindadidn’tevenlookatmebutsimplystaredatthefloorandcried.Thedaygotworse.ArealtorfinallyshowedourVictorianhousetosomeone

that afternoon, but the people—flatlanders moving up from Massachusetts—didn’t like the neighborhood.Adding to thehorrible daywas the fact that ourdogwassickanddying;Ihadaflattireonmytruck;anditstartedtorain.Wewent to bed that nightwithout saying aword, each of us in a cloud of

darkness.Inthemorning,Ihadtodealwiththeflattireandanemergencyruntothevet,

soLindaarrivedat the landbeforeIdid.WhenIarrived,Iknewinstantly thatthings were bad. Linda and Harold were standing near the slab. Linda wasspeakingrapidly,leaningtowardhimandcrying.Haroldwasnoddinghishead,openinghisarmsinagestureofsurrender.Ijumpedoutofthetruck.“Whatarewegoingtodoaboutit?Wecan’tleaveitlikethis!”Hervoicehad

therare,strainedqualityofwhatsheherselfwouldcallamajormeltdown.Sheturnedtolookatme,butIwasstaringattheslab.The floor of the entire house was now yellow—a sickly, yellow-matter-

custard-dripping-from-a-dead-dog’s-eyeyellow.WhileHaroldcontinuedtomumblehowitwouldsomehowworkout,Imoved

quickly into that familiar, protective, nonemotional state, trying to ignore anyattachmenttotheconsequencesofapermanentlybright-yellowfloor.

Linda,however,wentfromtears toanger todespairandfinally toawoeful,wordlessabandonment.“Ihavetoleave,”shesobbed,andgotintohercar.“Honey,”Isaid.Shejammedthecarinreverseandraisedherhandintheair.“Idon’twantto

talkaboutit.Ijustwanttoleave.”She drove up the drive, and her car banged over a low spot before it

disappearedinacloudofdust.IturnedtoHarold.“It has to be some kind of by-product of the stain interacting with the

concrete,”hesaid.“Canyoucallyourfriendwhohasdonethisbefore?”“He’sgoneonavacation.Iwon’tbeabletoreachhimfortwoweeks.”“Okay,”Isaid.“ButIknowwe’vedoneeverythingright...”Haroldwastheretoapplyasecondcoatofstain.Whilehesprayed,Iworked

onframingthewindows.Justbeforehefinished,Lindareturned,butshewasn’talone.Youguessedit:theAmoebatotherescue.Out of the car poured Linda and three of her women friends. They barely

spoketousbutwentimmediatelytoinspecttheslab.Thewomenstoodinatightclusterofconcernandwordsand,onceortwice,short,softlaughter.Harold quickly loaded his truck and left. I busiedmyself with the window

frame.InalittlewhilethewomencametowhereIwasworking.Theyspokesoftly

as if outside a hospital room where someone was gravely ill. They did notindicatemeinthiscrisis,butsomehowIfeltindicatedallthesame.Finallyoneofthemspoketomedirectly.“How’stherestoftheworkcoming?”shesaid.ThewomenconvincedLindatotaketherestofthedayoff.Theydroveaway,

headedforthebeachatourlocallaketobaskinthesun,toswim,andtotalkofhusbands.Whentheyreturnedafewhourslater,IcouldtellthatLindawasabitbetter.Sheevensmiledasmall,pathetic,sadsmilewhenItriedtojokethatallweneededwastopaintthehouseketchupredtomatchthemustard-yellowfloor.During the next two, very tense days, the women of the Amoeba were

everywhere inLinda’s life.Theyshowedupat thehousesiteand talkedabouthowcarpetsorthrowrugscouldhelpmaskthedisastrousfloor.Theytookhertothemovies.Theyinvitedher todinner.Theyletheryellat themorcall lateat

night in tears and rage; andwith gentle hands, they caught their friend in thedepthofherdespairandsetherbackdownagainwhole.

11.

TheStrawThatBrokeThe

WhenHaroldshowedupacoupleofdays later,hegotdownonhiskneesandspiton theconcrete.He tookout a ragandbegan to rubat thebanana-yellowfloor.Hespitagain.Morerubbing.Hestoodup.“It’scomingoff,”hesaid.He was right: the yellow seemed to be a kind of powdery coating on the

concrete,andunderneathitwastheearthy-browncolorwehadhopedtohave.“I’m onmyway to another job site,” he said. “Youmight trywashing the

floortoseehowmuchmoreyoucangetoff.ThatmightputLindaatease.I’llsendoutacrewwithapowerwasherfirstthingtomorrowmorning.It’sgoingtobefine.”Anditwasfine.Althoughdubious,Lindaspentthatdaywithmopsandwater.

Then themencameand,withhigh-pressuredwater,washedoff the lastof theyellow,exposingthebeautifullymarbledfloor.Linda,tosaytheleast,wastemporarilyrelieved.Me,Ididn’tevenhaveenoughtimetobreatheasighofreliefbeforeIgota

callfromthefarmer.TenmonthsearlierIhadcalledadozenareafarmers,tryingtolocatesomeone

who could provide the straw bales. Armedwith a list of questions, I quizzedeach one about whether they had sold straw for house construction before(several had);what kindof string they tied thebaleswith (somematerials arestronger thanothers forconstructionpurposes);howtheyharvested theirstraw(if itwaswitha rotaryblade, theremightbemoredamage to the straw);howdense andhowheavy thebaleswere; and, importantly, if they could store thebalesuntilIneededthem.I choseanorganic farmerwhose farmwas less than fortymiles away.That

wouldcutdownonthecostoftransportingthebales,andIlikedthatthestrawwouldneverhavebeenexposedtopesticidesandotherchemicals.ThewordstrawdatesbackatleastathousandyearstoOldEnglish.Theword

wasusedthen,asnow,todenotethestalkofcerealcrops.Butstrawalsousedtomean,“toscattersomethinglooselyabout.”HenceitwasproperEnglishtosaythatyoustrawedthebabypowderorthatthetablehadbeenstrawnwithcrackercrumbs.Centurieslater,whenstrawhatscameintostyle,peopleoftenreferredto

themasyour“straw.”Even in the old days the singular—one stalk—was called a straw.At some

point early on, someone discovered you could use a straw to sip a drink.The“drinking straw”hasbeenaround for at least seven thousandyears; but in themiddleof thenineteenth century, it became fashionable formen todrink theirryewhiskeyusing—youguessedit—asinglestrawofrye.Apparently,usingthenaturaltubegavethewhiskeyahintofthefreshflavoroftheplant.Theproblemwithusinganaturalstraw,however,isthatbeforeverylongthe

thing begins to wilt and shred. In the 1880s, to combat this problem, a maninvented a machine that wound paper into a tube. The paper straw was thencoatedwithwaxtomakeitlastlongerinadrink.The stemof a stalkof straw is remarkably strong.Pay attention to thenext

patchofdryweedsyousee.Thosedeadstalksarestillstandingbecauseoftheirstrength.Cellulose, a sturdy chemicalmolecule, forms thewalls of theplant’scells.Whenpackedintobales,thetoughstrawformsanincrediblydurableandstrongmaterial.Abaleofstrawweighsaroundforty-fivepoundsifdry,closertoseventyifitisn’t.Strawisdifferentfromhay.Strawconsistsofthestalksthatremainaftergrain

hasbeenharvested.Hayincludesboththestalksandtheseeds.Youdon’twanttobuildahayhouse,fortheseedsmightattractrodentsandotherpests.Although themost common types of straw for building a house arewheat,

oats, barley, and rye,many other kinds can be used.My organic farmer grewwinterrye(Secalecereale),andthatsuitedmefine.Ialsochosehimoverotherlocalfarmersbecausehehadtoldmehe’dstoremybalesuntilIneededthem.Or so I thought. Instead, a fewdays after the floor fiasco abated, he called,

askingwhereIwanted thebalesdelivered.Wehadagreed thathewouldstorethebalesuntilIwasreadyforthem,butthehousewasn’treadyyet.Hedeniedthathehadpromisedtostorethem.Itoldhimthathehadbrokenouragreement,butmyangerwasmetonlywithamomentofsilencefromtheotherendoftheline.“Ihavethebales,”hesaid.“Ifyoudon’twantthem,letmeknow.”I had no options. It was too late to find another farmer. Not only did I

suddenlyhavetofindaplacelargeenoughtostorethebales,butitalsohadtobedryandclosetothehousesite.Ihadtosetasideeverythingelseinordertodealwiththisnewproblem.ThesituationalsomeantIwouldhavetomovethebalesnotoncebuttwice.I

hadcalculatedIwouldneedaround275balesforthehouse.Thatfiguresoutto12,375 pounds, or roughly six tons. I would need over 1,500 cubic feet of

storage area that could hold such a weight and was also dry and cool; and Iwouldneednearlyafulldayandacrewofthreeable-bodiedpeopleeachtimeImovedthem.Itookanotherdeepbreath,ignoredthevoicesinmyheadthatscreamedhow

insanethisentirethingwas,andbegan.

Iaskedacolleagueofminewhoownedabarnfivemilesfromourhousesiteifhe could store the bales.He said the barn had a lot of old stuff in it; but if Iwouldhelphimcleanitout,he’drentittomefor$100.Ispentadaycleaningoutoldlumber,horseharnesses,tractorparts,ancientkids’toys,ModelAcrankstarters, a 1930s-era picnic table, buggy wheels, tractor wheels, otherindeterminablewheelsandcranks,coalandgreasebuckets,andmore.Wesweptoutyearsofdirty,dustystrawanddebris,fixedadoorhingethathadfallenoff,and secured the rampwell enough to support new traffic. I found a couple ofteenaged boys who agreed to load the bales, possibly because their motherconvincedthemthattheirsummerwasn’tgoingtobespentsittinginfrontofascreenallday longand that theyweregoing todosomeactualworkforsomeactualpay.Icalledthefarmer;andafewdayslater,theboysandIandaworkerfromtheman’sfarmoff-loadedthebalesfromthefarmer’s trailerandintothebarn.Nowbehindscheduleevenmore,Irushedtocompleteeverythingthatneeded

tobe inplacebefore thecrew Ihadhired tobuild the strawpartof thehousearrived. As per their instructions, I ordered sand and lime and rented a hugegeneratorandwaterhoses.Icoveredthenewandnowbeautifulfloorwithpapertoprotectit,insulatedthebeam,andtriedtofinishallthethingsthatabsolutelyhad tobefinishedbefore thebuilderscame.Amid thisweekor twoofchaoticeighteen-hour days, the old and loveable family dog was getting worse,screaming (there is no other word) in pain in the middle of the night andcollapsing onto the floor; we endured a hot, thunderous evening of tornadowarningsandhail;andwewatchedasmallhandfulofpotentialbuyersvisitouroldhouseandthenaskourrealtorwhatelseshemighthavetoshowthem.Onedayatdawn,IpickedupthetwoteenagedhelpersIhadhired.Wedrove

tothebarnintheearlymorninglight,whileIunsuccessfullytriedtomakesmalltalkwiththesetwoadolescentboyswhohadbeenawakenedintheweehoursonasummervacationdaytoonceagainendurehardlaborforsomegray-beardedloon.Theownerofthebarnhadloanedmehisdumptruckandalargetrailer,and

theywereparkednearthebarn,waitingforus.Oneteenclimbedintothebarnanduptothetopofthehugestackofbalesandtossedorhandedorrolledbaleafterbaletous.TheotherboyandIstoodbelow,heftingeachbaleandwalkingitouttotherigs.Ihadtosuperviseloadingthewagonaswell,explainingtotheteenshowtostackthebalessothattheywouldnotfalloff.Thesuncrackedtheskywithearlyheat.Therewasnodewon thegrass,andalreadysweatsoakedourT-shirts.Weworkedthroughthemorning,asIwatchedthemammothpileofbales in the barn barely diminishing. The woman who rented the farmhousecameoutwithherfourchildrentowatchusaswemoved,ant-likefromstrawtotrucktobarntostrawtotruck,stoppingbrieflyforabreakofwaterandapplesandthenbacktoloadingthestraw.By noon the temperature had climbed nearly to ninety; by two, when we

finallydrovetherigsdowntothehousesite,itwasninety-five.Iftheboyswereexhausted—andtheslumpedshoulders,downcastheads,and

eagernesstopauseintheirworkseemedtoindicatethattheymostcertainlywere—then thisman,whowas fortyyears their senior,musthavebeenneardeath.Thesunwasdirectlyoverourheads.Inslowmotion,wegrabbedbaleafterbalefromthetruckandtrailerandluggedthemundertheshelterofthepavilion-likestructure that was to become our home. We did not speak, only uttering anoccasionalgruntwhenmeetingwithanunrulyorparticularlyheavybale.Onandon into theblisteringafternoonwe labored,moving increasingly slower as theheatandtheexhaustionbeatusdown.Finally, itwasdone.Ireturnedthedumptruckandtrailerandtooktheboys

home just as the sun finally began to cool in the early evening.Some zombieform ofmyself gotme back to the house site and then satmotionless on theconcrete floor.The stack of bales nearly filled the interior. I stared blankly atthem.Nothingregisteredanymore,notthestraw,nottheheat,nottheprogressIhadmadebuildingthehouse,andmostofallnotmyaching,exhaustedbodyandautomatedheart.

12.

Finances

Then therecame theGreatRecessionof2007.OnJuly19, thedayour trussesarrivedfromCanada,theDowclosedatoverfourteenthousandforthefirsttimeinhistory.ByearlyAugust,aboutthetimeIwasloadingandreloadingthestrawwith the boys, theworldwide credit crunch began. Lenders all over the globestopped offering home equity loans. The construction of our new house wasreaching its peak, and we weren’t getting any nibbles on our old house. OnAugust6,thedaytheworkersarrivedtostartbuildingthestrawwalls,AmericanHomeMortgageCompanybecame the firstofmany suchorganizations to fileforbankruptcy.Withinmonths,theDowwouldtumbletohalfitssize.Then the real estate bubble popped so loudly you could hear it from our

VermonthillsallthewaytothebanksofIceland.InMarch,whenwefirstlisteditwitharealtor,ourVictorianhousewasoneof

onlyelevenresidentialpropertiesforsaleintown.ByOctober,whenwetookitoff themarket, therewere seventy-eighthouses for sale; andnothing,nothing,nothingwasselling.Gettingaconstructionloanforourhousehadn’tbeensimple.Althoughstraw

bale houses have been financed using the federal Fannie Mae guidelines,obtaining a construction loan for our house involved a lot of work and luck.Evenintheheadytimesjustbeforethebubbleburst,bankerswereconservativeintheirloans.Sinceahousewon’thaveanyresalevalueuntilitiscompleted,abank’smoneyisataveryhighriskwhenit is tiedupintheconstructionloan.Anyconstructionprojectwasarisk;andbecauseourswasoutof theordinary,notmanybankswerewillingtotakeuson.Wesoonlearnednottobeginbytellingabank’sloanofficerthatweintended

tobuildastrawbalehouse.Whenwedid,sheorheimmediatelyaskedusifweknewaboutthethreelittlepigs.Wewouldhavetosmileandactasifwehadn’talready heard that joke hundreds of times already.We learned instead to tellthem that we planned on using alternative building materials for part of ourhouse.When the subject of straw finally came up, we were well armed withmaterials. I had documents from the U.S. Department of Energy and othergovernmentalagenciesthatspokepositivelyaboutstrawbaleconstruction.Ihaddataontheincreasingnumberofsuchhomes.IexplainedthatseveralstateshadbuildingcodesjustforstrawbalehousesandthatalthoughVermontwasnotone

of them,wewere going to build our house to the standards of those codes. Ideveloped a thorough and detailed budget for our house. I had gotten bids oneverythingfromthefoundationtotheroof.Ihadstatisticsonresalevaluesandstrawbalehouselongevity.AndIlearnedtolaughloudlywhenthestoryofthefirstlittlepigwastold.Wereceivedaconstructionloan,butpaymentsonitweresteep.Theideaisto

buildthehouseasquicklyaspossibleandthenturntheconstructionloanintoamortgage at a much lower rate. Our plan was to sell our old house, use thatmoney to pay down the new straw bale housemortgage, and presto, achievefinancial stability in a sustainable, energy-efficient home. Then everyoneeverywherestoppedbuyinghouses,andwewerestuckwithboth:onefineoldVictorianhouseandonehalf-finishedhouseofstraw.Wewillnowdiscusshowhouseconstructionanditsattendantfinancesplace

considerablestrainonamarriage.

Fig.7.Theauthoratwork

The tension manifested itself in many ways. I’d grow angry at Linda’sinsistenceonknowingeverylittledetailofwhathadtobedoneandwhy.She’dgrowfrustratedwithmysilenceandlackofcommunication.I’dgonearlycrazyat how shewould take it on herself to dowhat I saw as some little, needlesschorewhilesomuchelseneededdoing.Shehadneverseenmesobossyoraloofinourthirtyyearstogether.One night during the floor fiasco, we were driving back to the old house,

whenwe snapped.We had been talking about some frustration from the day,whenItossedasmallMolotovcocktail.

“Iaskyoutodoonething,andyouwanttodoanother,”Isaid.Linda’svoicegotthatslowandtersetonethatmeantshewasveryangryand

upset.“Ican’tunderstandwhyyoujustwon’tletmeworkatthingsmyway...”shesaid.“It’snotefficient,”Isaid.“...andyoudon’tsharethingswithme,”shecontinued,hervoicerising.“I

don’tknowwhatisgoingon.”“Themore Isharewithyou, themoreyouworry.And themoreyouworry,

theharderitisformetodothings.ThenIhavetohaveconversationslikethis.”“‘Like this’?”Sheburst into tears.“HowelseamIsupposed toknowabout

things?Itmakesmefeelworthlessandnotapartofdecisions.”Then, out of nowhere, I lobbed the first thermonuclear device. “You didn’t

havetomakesuchabigdealaboutthefloor,”Ihissed.“Nowtheentiretownistalkingaboutit.”There ensued such tears and rage andanger and finally as cold andblack a

silence as fewhave ever seen.WhatLindahad to dealwith, of course,was amanic,soullessman.Deepat thecenterof itallweremyownweaknessesandfear.Iwalkedarazor’sedgebetweentheblackresignationofabsolutedoubtandthe equally dark pit of blind overconfidence.Even if I had not already turnedmyself intoanemotionlessautomatedmachine,mycurt, rude treatmentofherwasdespicable.Such tensions between us found only small avenues of release, each of us

findingsolaceintheintimacyofaclosefriendorinsolitudeorinsilentanger.Onceinawhilewewouldstopattheendofadayandpraiseeachotherforwhatwehadaccomplished,orwewouldstandalongwhile,embracinginsilence.I’dgetweepy and apologize for being so incompetent,worried that Iwas inwayovermyhead.She’dtrytobuoymeupandactasifitwasallonebigadventure.Isupposewewereseekingwhathadalwayssavedtheloveandfriendshipthat

has been ourmarriage: a sustainable compromise. She tried to forgivememybadbehavior,andItriedtonotcareabouthers.

AsfarasIcandetermine,theyearIspentattheyurt,Ilivedonameasly$1,200.Mostofthat,$79amonth,wenttolandpayments.Thecostoffoodmadeuptherest.Ihadnohealthinsurance,norent,noutilitybills,andnocar.Ontherareoccasions Ineededaphone, Ihikedout to thehighwayandhitcheda ride tenmiles touse thepayphone in thesmallvillageofCerrillos.Every fewweeks,my friendBrendawould appear and takeme into Santa Fe for a night out.A

common treatwas to eat at Furr’sCafeteria, a buffet-style restaurant that hadeveryhome-stylefoodamancouldwant,frommeatloaftopumpkinpie.Ifithadn’tbeenforthoserarecartripstotown,Iwouldnothaveknownabout

the economic crisis that was then sweeping the world. It was the start of theworld’soilcrisis.Inafour-monthperiod,beginningthesummerIbuilttheyurt,oilpricesquadrupled,foreverendingtheluxuryofcheapenergy.According to a report from theShorensteinProgram inPolitics,Policy, and

ValuesatUCBerkeley,inOctober1973ArabmembersofOPECraisedthepriceofcrudeoilby70percentandplacedanembargoonexportstotheUnitedStatesand other nations allied with Israel. “Although the fighting ended in lateOctober,OPECcontinued touse the‘oilweapon’over thecomingmonths,” thereportstates.“InNovemberoilexporterscutproduction25%belowSeptemberlevels, and the following month they doubled the price of crude. By January1974worldoilpriceswerefour timeshigher thantheyhadbeenat thestartofthecrisis.”Theoil crisis had a profound impact on the international system.The crisis

worsened the economic difficulties that were then facing the industrializednationsof theWest.The increasedenergypricesslowedeconomicgrowthandcausedinflation—acombinationthatcametobeknownas“stagflation.”AndtheUCBerkeley report argues that“byputtinganend todecadesofcheapoil, thecrisisforcedindustrializednationstoseekwaystocurbtheirenergyuse.IntheU.S.thisledtosuchmeasuresasgasrationingandtheadoptionofanational55mileperhourspeedlimit.”Justbeingabletopayforgettingtoandfromworksuddenlybecameareasonwhypeoplehadtoworkevenmore.Noneofthismatteredawhittome.“Lo!”Thoreauwrote,“Menhavebecome

thetoolsoftheirtools.”NotI,whosesimplelifeandvolunteerpovertyfreedmefrombeingaffectedbytheeventsoftheworld.Naïve,yes;selfish,perhaps;butthatsimplicityandtheclosenessofthenaturalworldallowedmetocontemplatemyjourneyitselfandnottospendmydayslaboringformoney,withdistantanddimhopesforthefreedomtoonedaylivesuchalife.

13.

Collaboration

It’s not like I had a lot ofmoney in thosedays anyway.When Iwashired toteach at the Tesuque school, the September before I built the yurt, thecommunitytoldus—evenatonly$5aday—itmightbeamonthbeforewegotour first pay. It didn’tmatter.Noneof the teacherswere there for themoney.Some, like a former Peace Corp volunteer, were there out of a dedication tohelping the poor, voiceless ones in society; other teachers, like the marriedcouplewhowerehired,hadkidsintheschool;others,likeme,hadtheidealisticgoal of being able to educate young people for the betterment of society; andsometeachersweremotivatedbyareactiontothecorruptpoliticalsystemthatcausedthecreationoftheschoolinthefirstplace.Theprevious spring, the superintendent of theSantaFeSchoolDistrict had

pushedabondvoteonthetown.Hesaidthebondmoneywouldbeusedtobuildanewnorth-sideelementaryschooloutsidethecitylimits.Inprivatehetoldtheleaders of Tesuque and two smaller neighboring villages that their old schoolwouldbetorndownandthatthemoneywouldbeusedtobuildthenewschoolatthesamelocationinTesuque.Thebondissuepassed,butalmostimmediatelythe ideaofanewschool tookabackseat tootherbudgetaryconcerns.RumorshaditthatthesuperintendenthadallalongplannedonbuildingthenewschoolinSantaFe,inanew,high-endhousingdevelopment.Shortlythereafter,inwhatwould eventually be determined to have been an illegal vote, the Santa FeSchoolBoardclosedtheTesuqueschool.Theonlydissentingboardmember,adentist,feeblyobjected,sincethenumbersdidn’tindicatethattheschoolneededto be closed.By four to one, the board voted to close the last rural school inSantaFeCounty—acountylargerthanthestateofRhodeIsland.“We don’t have anything against busing the students,” a vocal Tesuque

communitymembersaid.“Itisn’talongridetotown.Wejustbelievethatourchildrenbelonghere,inourvillage.Wewantthemheresothatwecanseeaftertheireducation.IftheygotoSantaFe,theywillbeputintoclassroomsthatarealreadyovercrowded.Here,theyarestillourchildren.”The unity in the community was astounding. Nearly every family with

childrenintheelementaryschooldefiedtheschoolboard’sactions.Thefewthatdidn’t—onewomanwhoworked in the school systemandanother family thatcurrently held the school system’s busing contract—were understandable

exceptions.Shortly after the villages announced that they intended to start their own

school,IhitchedarideouttoTesuqueinordertoapplytheretoteach.Cars were parked in front of the school building when I arrived on a

midafternooninlateAugust.Thefrontdoorofthebuildingwasopen.Iwalkedin.Acoupleofkidsracedpastmethroughthedoors.Othersweresittingquietlyinthehallway,talkingandplaying.Inside a room, a handful of women sat at a table. Some were typing; two

otherswereonphones.Noonenoticedmyentrance.A slenderwoman hung up the phone. Shewalked over tome. “Can I help

you?” she said, not impolitely. The room grew silent. The others had finallynoticedmeandhadstoppedworking.“Icametoapplyforateachingjob,”Isaid.Theworkresumedonthetable.“Ohgood,”theslenderwomansaid.Herhairwaspulledbackthinlyagainst

herheadandtiedinthebackwitharubberband.“MynameisMollieFreeman,”shesaid,extendingherhand.“Iam,well,IguessIamtheprincipalofthenewschool.”She explained the situation to me. The parents of Tesuque and two

neighboring villages decided that their children would not be getting on theschool buses when school started the following week. Instead, somehow,somewhere,theywouldhavetheirownschool.Theparentswereunitedintheirresolve,nomatterwhathappened.TheSantaFeschoolsystemwasgoingtoloseoutona lotoffederalandstatemoneywithout thosestudents,andtheywouldnotbehappy.Aphonerang.“Mollie,”someonesaid.She tooka sheetofpaperoff the tableandhanded it tome.“I’msorry,but

thingsareabitchaoticrightnow.Here,we’vebeenusingthisasanapplication.”Sheturnedbacktowardthetable.“Ah,thisisablanksheetofpaper,”Isaid.She waved her hand in the air, reaching for the phone. “Just write all the

informationyouthinkweneedtoknowaboutyou,”shesaid.Iwalkedoutoftheroomandwentintooneoftheclassrooms.Ifoundapencil

and looked at the blank sheet of paper. That totally blank sheetwas, and stillremains,theoddestjobapplicationformIhaveeverfilledout.Iwrotemyname.My address. I wrote down my college education and listed my very limitedpreviousteachingexperience.Fourlines.MaybeIcouldwritereallybigandfill

thepage.IbegantoexplainhowIfeltabouteducation,aboutthewayteachingand learninghad tobecooperative,something thathappenednotonlybetweenstudent and teacher but between the teachers and the parents and between thestudentsaswell.I was almost finished, when there was a roar of activity outside the room.

Mollie sped past the door, did a double take as if rememberingme, and thenstuckherheadintheroom.“Don’trush,”shesaid,“butwhenyouarefinished, justputyourapplication

on the table in the other room.” She looked out thewindows nervously. “I’msorrytobesodistracted,butwejustgotacall.Thetrucksarecomingtocleanout thebuilding.Theschooldistrict isgoing to takeeverything: thedesks, thebooks,everything.”Sheturnedtowardthedoorandthenlookedatme.“Butwearen’tgoingtoletthem.”Andthen,asanafterthought,shesaid,“Youmightnotwanttobeherewhentheyarrive—itcouldbeugly.”Choicetime.Ihesitatedonlya second.“Doyouwant somehelp?” Iasked,and followed

herintothehall.The halls were a whirl of women and children. People were scattering out

over the entire building. Some positioned themselves in front of bookcases;otherssatonteacher’sdesks.“Thepiano!”Mollieshouted.“ThatpianowasdonatedtotheschoolbyMary

Ann.Wecan’t let themget thepiano!”She turned tome.“Oh,wedon’thaveenoughpeopletoholdontoeverything.”“Whydon’tIjuststandinfrontofthemaindoors?”Isaid.Mollielookedatmeforonlyamoment.“Thatisverynice,”shesaid,“butyou

don’thavetoget involved.Wearegoingtokeepourschool.Everyonewhoisstayinghereisapartofourcommunity.Youcouldgetinbigtrouble.”Ishrugged.“Goprotectthatpiano,”Isaid.“I’llbeoutside.”Iwentoutsideandclosedthebigdoubledoorsoftheschoolhousebehindme.

Thewarm,drylate-summersunfeltgood.Throughthetrees,Icouldseeafewhuddledadobehousesonahill.Icouldhearthesoundofasmallriver.Beyondthehouses,theSangredeCristoMountainsrosegentlytowardtheblue.Icouldhearbirds.Twowhitemoving vans slowed down and then turned into the drive. They

pulledstraightuptothedoorandthenstopped.Mengotout.Theywerebigandstrongandnotfriendlylooking.Theycameuptome.Thelargestonespoke.“Hello,”hesaid.

“Howdy,”Ianswered.“We’refromtheschooldistrict,”hesaid.“Wecametoclearouttheschool.”“Iknow,”Isaid.Themenlookedatoneanother.Istoodwithmyhandsbehindme,clenching

thedoorhandleswithmysweatingfists.Theyformedasmall,tightcirclearoundme.Anothermanspoke.“Wehaveto

gettoworknow,”hesaid,butnoneofusmoved.Just then, a state patrol car pulled into the drive, followed by the county

sheriff.“Ahshit,”someonesaid.The copswalked up to us. They looked at the trucks, then at themen, and

finallyatme.Thestatepatrolmanspoketome.“Okay,what’sgoingonhere?”“Theseguysarecomingtoclearoutthebuilding,”Isaid.“Andyou?”“I’mblockingthedoor.”Twoofthemenlaughed.Thecopshesitatedforamoment.Icouldtelltheyweretryingtodecidewhat

todo.Itisalwaystheunplannedmomentsofchoicethatdetermineourfuture.Itisthenthatwemostneedsustainablecompromises.Someonepushedatthedoorsfromtheinside,tryingtogetout.Mollieappearedbehindme.“Wearegettingacourtinjunctiontopreventthe

schooldistrictfromtouchinganything.”Themoverslookedrelieved.“Butyoudon’thaveityet?”thesheriffspoke.Ipressedmyselfharderagainstthedoors.“We’llhaveitfirstthinginthemorning,”Molliesaid.“Listenhoney,” thesheriffsaid,“if there’snocourt injunction, thenyouare

preventingthesemenfromdoingtheirjobs.”“Well, honey,” Mollie said, “we will have one by 8:00 a.m. tomorrow.”

Before anyone could say a word, she added, “There’s a fresh pot of coffee;anyone want some?” She shouted back into the school. “Henrietta, bring outsomecoffeeandabunchofcups.”Amoment later a woman appearedwith coffee and a huge plate of home-

bakedchocolatechipcookies.Themenwhohadcome tomove theequipmentout of the school turned and then sat on the steps. The story of the parents’defiance was well-known; and despite the fact they worked for the school

system, it was clear the men were on the parents’ side.We sat down besidethem,whilethetwocopsjustwatched.Theconversationwaspoliteatfirst;wealltalkedaboutthedryweather,therecentheatspell,andeachother’splansforFiestaweekend.Thenitgotdowntobusiness.Themenhadajobtodo.Theirsuperiorsknew

theywere sending them to do a thankless task, but their bosseswere back inSantaFe in their air conditionedoffices. “Wedon’twant todo this,” themensaidoverandover,“butwehaveto.Theymightfireusifwedon’tbringstuffback.”“I have an idea,” someone finally said. “Why don’t you just take all the

uselessstuff—youknow,thetrashcans,maybethemopsandjanitorialsupplies,there’sabrokentableInoticed,andsomeextraplaygroundequipment.”Themen thought amoment and thengrinned. “By the timeweget back, it

willbetimetoquitfortheday.”“Andbytomorrowwe’llhavetheinjunction,”Molliesaid.Soon the state policeman left. The sheriff stayed only a little while longer,

watchingusloadalargebarreloffloorwaxintooneofthevans.Whenwehadfinishloadingthetruckswithuselessthings, therewasanotherroundofcoffeebeforethemenclimbedintheirrigs.“Thankyou,”someonesaidtothem.“We are glad to help you people,” the largeman said from the cab of his

truck.“Don’tletthemcloseyourschool.Standupforwhatisyours.”Hestartedthetruck.“VayaconDios,”hesaid,anddroveaway.

Ofthefortyorsopeoplewhohadappliedtoteachattheparents’school,Iwasamongthesevenwhohadbeenselectedtobeinterviewed.Iwastoldtobeattheschoolatseveno’clockoneevening.Someonewouldbetheretotakemetotheinterview.Afrienddroppedmeoffattheabandonedbuildingataquartertill.Iworethe

onlydress-upclothesIowned:aclean,goodshirtandcorduroypants.Istoodintheemptyparkinglotwaiting.Alittlepastsevenapickuptruckswungintothelot. A thirty-something handsome Chicano was at the wheel. He stopped androlleddownthewindow.“CanIhelpyou?”heasked.“That’sokay,”Isaid,“I’mjustwaitingforaride.I’mhereaboutteaching.”Themangrinned.“Jumpin.I’monmywaytothemeetingmyself.”Iclimbedin.Weshookhands.“I’mJuanRomero,”hesaid.“I’mthepresident

ofthenewschoolgroup.”Hereachedbelowtheseatandpulledouttwocansof

beers.Heopenedoneandofferedmetheother.I took it.Not bad, I thought. The president of the school group and Iwere

sharingabeer.Abeer?Onthewaytoajobinterview?Ten minutes later we were bouncing up a dusty back road that led past a

handfulofsmalladobehouses.Wepulledtoastopnearoneofthehouses.Carsandtrucksfilledtheyard.Juangrabbed the remainderof the six-packand jumpedout. I followedhim

intothehouse.“Juan,”someonesaid,“it’sgoodtoseethatthepresidentcouldmakeit!”Juanlaughedandshookhands.I quickly took a seat on the floor near the fireplace andwaited. The small

living room was packed with people. Most of them were Hispanic, althoughtherewere also a number ofAnglos. I began to pick out the otherswhowereheretobeinterviewedtoteach.Juanstartedthemeetingbytappingaspoonagainsthisbeercan.I watched that evening progress in silent amazement. There was neither

agendanorformalitybutrathersomemagicalforcebywhicheveryoneseemedtocometogether.After a little while, Juan turned to a massively built man who had been

standingsilentlyinacorner.“People,” Juan said, “this is FatherBen. If you don’t already know, Father

Benisournewpriestatthechurch.”FatherBensteppedforward,acanofbeerinonehand.“Iamheretoofferthe

churchasaplaceforthevillageschool,”hesaid.Fromthere, theeveningseemedmore likeone longconversation than likea

meeting. Somebody would say something; then there would be a moment ofsilencebeforeanotherpersonwouldspeak.Afterawhilepeoplesimplycametoanagreementaboutwhathadtobedoneandwhoseresponsibilityitwouldbetomakeithappen.Theroomwasfoggedinwiththesmokeofcigarettes.Peopleofferedwhattheycouldcontributeorhowtheymighthelpwiththings

like tents for more classroom space, chemical toilets, books, school supplies,chalk, lunches for one hundred kids, and so on. It seemed as if a thousanddecisionswerebeingmadethatnight,withfairdebateandwithoutrancor.Juanstoodallnight, summarizingeachdiscussion;and then,almostasan intrusion,therewouldbeavote.Theteachersweresavedforlast.Finally,weeachwereaskedtostandandsay

something about ourselves. One by one we spoke. Juan asked us all to step

outsideforawhile.Tenminuteslaterwewerecalledbackinside.Allsevenofushadbeenhired.

In the coming months, I watched as the people of three small NewMexicanvillages set aside race and wealth, old grudges and newlyminted offenses tocreateavibrant,successfulschooloutofabsolutelynothing.Collaboration,theabilitytoworktogether,wasessentialtothesuccessofthe

school.Clearlytheurgencyofthedecisionsandoftheworkthathadtobedonecontributedtotheirabilitytocollaborate.Surelyeveryone’sstrongcommitmenttokeepingtheschoolopenhelpedaswell.Still,therehadtobesomethingmoregoing on in order for those widely divergent people to work together soharmoniously. In the months that followed, it became clear to me that thesepeople had overcome the usual impediments to accomplishing a difficult task,overalongperiodoftime.Theschoolwasincrediblysuccessful,becauseeveryperson set aside personal pride for community pride, selfishness formagnanimity,and,perhapshardestofall,theneedtoalwaysappearright.Howcanwekeep alive the desire and thedream that in our striving for an

idealcommunity,wewilltranscendtheoverwhelmingevidenceofthebasenessof human nature? “How to love,” Dorothy Day wrote, “that is the question.”Althoughthetimesaredarkandthedesertwepassthroughisbleak,hopeshouldnever be abandoned, she said, because in every person, there is something“whichisofGod.”Justlooktothepoorestamongus,sheclaimed;justlookatthepoorestandmostdestituteamongus,andyouwillfindtranscendenceintheirdesiretocreatecommunitiesofmutualhelpandprotection.Tomeetthefuturerequires an act of faith, and “faith, like love, is an act of the will, an act ofpreference.”

Fig.8.Thestrawhousetakesshape

The idea of working together for a common goal, even though the peopleinvolvedmightnoteverotherwiseformacommunity,makesalotofsense.Weoften share the same goals as other people but lack enough tools or talent orknowledgetoaccomplishthembyourselves.Today,theideaofcollaborationiseverywhere. Regional hospitals work together in order to share services anddoctors; schoolteachers collaborate, leaning on one another’s skills in order tobetter educate their students; and corporations, town governments, and manyotherorganizationshavejumpedonthebandwagon.Possiblynootherareahasmore companies touting themselves as collaborative than the alternative-constructionindustry.ThecompanyIhiredtohelpbuildthestrawbalepartofmyhouse,forexample,wascalledGreenSpaceCollaborative.ThecrewfromGreenSpacewasduetoarriveonaMondayinearlyAugust.

Sureenough,justafterdawnIheardtheroarofatruckdrivinguptheroad.Inamoment, an ancient InternationalHarvester—a big, boxy pickup the size of aHummer—bounceddown thedriveandpulledup towhere I stoodnext to thehouse.Theenginecoughedonceandthenslowlydiedinacloudofbluesmoke

thatsmelledofhamburgers.Outjumpedamedium-sizedmanaboutthirty-five.Hehadpiercing,friendly

eyesandanearnest,sinceresmile.HeintroducedhimselfasDaniel.Afteralittlesmalltalk,Icouldn’thelpmyself.Iaskedhimaboutthestrange

smell.Heopenedthecampershellonthebackofthetruck.Insidewasalargetankconnectedtopipesandstrangemechanics.Hehadconvertedtheoldtruckto runonvegetableoils,whichhegot for free fromfast-food restaurants.Lastwinter,hetoldme,hehaddriventhetruckallthewaytothetipofBajaMexicoandbackagainonnothingbutfreefuel.Twentyminuteslater,Andyarrived.AndywasthemainownerofGreenSpace.Thebusinesshadbeenlaunchedin

1996 to integrate green site design and construction.Many of the company’sprojectswere centered on straw bale construction in theNortheast. Andy hadtakenoverthecompanytwoyearsearlier.The ideabehind thebusinesswas toproduceeconomically andecologically

soundhousesbyusinga teamofworkersfromavarietyofprofessions.Todothis Andy gathered crews with different skills depending on the project. Inadditiontohisconstructioncrew,hecontractedwithprofessionals in thefieldsof energy-systems engineering, renewable energy, and building-sciencetechnology. Ideally, this type of collaboration alsomeant trying toworkwithsimilarandoftencompetingconstructioncompanies.TheconceptmeansthatifCompanyAneededaspecialpieceofequipment,theywouldbeabletoborrowitfromCompanyB,eventhoughCompanyBwasadirectcompetitorforothercontracts. Company B, in turn, would feel fine about using the skills orequipmentofCompanyAatalaterdate.In theory this works fine and everyone benefits. The trouble comes, as it

always seems todo, fromcompetition. Ihadgottenbids from twoother strawbale construction companies before I selected Andy’s. Now those companieswere supposed to loan their expertise (and get less pay) or their equipment(putting it out of service for their own use) to help their direct competitorbecomemoresuccessful.Itwasatenuousarrangement.Intheend,Andydidnotaskforhelpfromtheseothercompanies.

Fig.9.Theinteriorofthehouseduringthestrawbalesphase

Before thedaywasout, threeotherworkers arrived.Twoof them, ayoungmanandwoman,hadjustgraduatedfromHampshireCollege,whichspecializedinalternativeeducationwithanexperimentalcurriculum.Theywereanxioustoput intoaction their idealsofbuildinga sustainablebuilding.The third,alsoayoungman,was the typeof strongandcapableworkeryouareveryhappy tohaveonajob.Theirfinalworker,theonewiththeleasttalentorskill,wasme.For the next ten days, I worked alongside this crew, aswe cut and shaped

bales to build the walls of my house. Slowly, I got a picture of howcollaboration,cooperation,andcommitmentcouldhelpsustainhumanlifeinthecomingdecades.Foronething,thesepeoplemadefewcompromiseswiththeiridealofleaving

asmallcarbonfootprint.FromDaniel’sbiodiesel truck toeveryone’sdesire tocamp on my land rather than waste resources by taking a motel room, theypracticed what they preached. They showered with water from a solar-heatedshowerbagandatemealspreparedfromveggiespurchasedata local farmer’sstand.Although I thought Iwas buildingwith environmental awareness, these

folksmademeacutelyawareofthecompromisesIhadmade.Butthereishope.Evenforme.Wecanchange.WriterDianeAckermanhas researched the latest scientific evidenceofhow

thehumanbrainworks. “Thebrain isconstantly rewiring itselfbasedondailylife,”shewrites.“Intheend,whatwepaymostattentiontodefinesus.Howyouchoosetospendtheirreplaceablehoursofyourlifeliterallytransformsyou.”Ifwe spend the irreplaceable hours of our lives in competition, selfishness, andgreed,wellthenwebecomeselfishandgreedy,andtheworldsuffers.Hope comes againwithin the practice of deep ecology—being awareof the

implicationsofourownactionsinallaspectsofourlife.Ifwespendourhoursincooperation,awareness,andcollaboration,thenwesurvive.

14.

Artifacts

YearsafterIleftNewMexicoforgood,Ivisitedthesiteoftheyurtonasummervacation,fromVermont,withLindaandtheboys.Naturally,Ihadtoshowmysonstheplacewheretheoldmanoncelivedahermit’slife.Ithadbeenovertwenty-fiveyearssinceIbuilttheyurt.TheroadfromSanta

Fe had changed, of course; now fancy haciendas (most of them, large wood-framed things, plastered and stained to approximate the look of a real adobehouse)werescatteredoverthehillsides.SeveralmilesbeforeMadrid,darklowtreesshelteredahouseandahandfulofbuildingsthatcouldhavebeenthesiteoftheCornucopiacommune,butIcouldn’trememberthelocationforcertain.FromtheretoMadridtheroadwasnowlitteredwithhousesanddirtroadsthat

disappearedoverhillstomorehouses,all-terrainvehicletracks,andmailboxes.Several little, boxy ranch-style homes were surrounded by ticky-tacky polefencesmadetoresemble thekindyoumighthavefounddecadesagoonarealranch.Homeafterhome,separatedviasomezoningforesightbyanacreortwo,appearedrightupuntilwedrovearoundthelastcurvetothetownofMadrid.Madrid.Whathadoncebeennothingbutahandfuloframshacklebuildings,

nearlyblownawaybytime,wasnowalivingcommunity.Foundedin1869,Madridstarteditsfirstboominthe1890s,whentheworld

begantodemandthecoalburiedbeneaththetown.Themineshaftwentdeeperanddeeper,andthetown’spopulationgrewtoatleastthreethousand.By1906Madridwasacompanytown.ThetownandtheseamsofcoalbeneathitwereallownedbytheAlbuquerqueandCerillosCoalCompany.For thedangerous jobofmining coal, the company provided a tiny house to eachminer and a storewhere they could get supplies on credit. The men worked long hours inextremely hazardous conditions and “bought” their groceries with company“money.”Theyoftenendedupowingallofeachweek’swagestothecompany.Those conditions improved under the leadership of a more civilizedsuperintendentwho tookover in the1920s.OscarHuberpaved thestreetsandsidewalksof the town,built a school for thechildren, andevenaddeda smallhospital.Electricitywasfreeandcreatedviathetown’sowngeneratingstation.In1936Hubergainedcontrollinginterestinthetownandmine,butMadrid’s

heydayhadpassed.Whennaturalgasbegan to competewith coal in the early1950s, people left the company and the company-owned houses, tavern, and

store.Theminingoperation shutdown.Soon the townwasnothingbutdusty,weed-chokedstreetsandbrokenwindows.By the late1960s the townwasunder theownershipofHuber’s son.There

was nothing left of Madrid but empty buildings and rows of small woodenhousesslowlydisappearingtotime.Huber’ssonplacedanadintheWallStreetJournal, offering to sell the entire town—over one hundred houses, a dozenlargebuildings,andonelargecoalmine—for$250,000.When I first saw Madrid in the early 1970s, there were rumors the Walt

DisneyCompanywas interested inbuying it foramovieset,but the towndidnot sell. Finally the owner decided to sell or rent individual buildings. Theadventofanalternativelifestyle—backtotheland,beautiful-losertypeslikeme—fit precisely with this man’s desire to reap some benefit from his father’sinvestment.Apersoncouldbuyahouse,albeit aderelict, isolated,ghost-townhouse,for$50.ThesecondboomtohitMadridhappenedjustasIlefttheyurt.Intothetinyclapboardandframedhouseswherethefamiliesofminersonce

triedtofindhappinessinaworldfulloftoilandtroubles,long-haireddreamersnowmoved.Althoughoftendestitute,theybroughtwiththemahopeagainstallevidence that theycouldmakeabetterworld. Insteadofpickaxandcoaldust,these men and women labored with pottery wheel or water colors, withcantankerous ancient John Deere tractors or VW microbuses, with feeding thekidsandtryingtosurvive—inshort,withthesimpleessentialsofliving.Slowlythetowncamebacktolife.Today,Madridtoutsitsuniquehistory.In

additiontotheCoalMineMuseum,thetownbragsaboutbeingacommunityofartisans.Acasuallooktellsyouthattheplaceisunique.Housesmadefromoldrailroadboxcars,or stainedglassembedded inanancientwoodengate,oranyone of a thousand other artifacts says something meaningful about the town.Beforeanyonehadeverheardofrecyclingorsustainability,thesepeopleknewitiswiserandcheapertoreusematerialsalreadycloseathand.Theyhadwisdomasoldasthehills;forasanyonewhohashadtoliveonlittlemoneyknows,youfindauseforeverythingandyouwastenothing.We were just crossing the big arroyo south ofMadrid when things finally

begantofeelfamiliar.“Thisismorewhatthingslookedlikebackthen,”I toldtheboyswithawaveofmyhand.Onthehillsidewererowsofwoodenshacksthathadonceservedas thehomesof theminersand their families.Mostwerenotmuchlargerthanasinglecargarage,whileothershadbeenexpandedwithsmall additions and porches. Now many were clothed in pale-colored vinylsiding,while stillothers lookedas ifnothinghadbeendone to themsince the

1970s: brownwood siding the color of coffee, small windows, and a dull tinroof.

Fig.10.Thestrawbalehouseunderconstruction

People in the building trade are well aware of the costs of wasted materials.Ideally, you try to build an entire house without having a scrap of unusedmaterialleftover.WhenIdesignedandbuiltthestrawbalehouse,Itriedtobevery conscious of waste. For one thing, I tried to design my house usingstandard-sizedmaterials.Icouldusestandard-lengthstudsformyinteriorwalls,forexample.Thatway, Ineverhad to shortena longerpiece toanonstandardlength—hencenowaste.OtherproductslikeSheetrockandfoamboardcomeinstandardsizestoo,soIdesignedthesizeofthingstofitthem.Whileit’sdifficultto build a new home without waste, my sustainable compromise was to becontinuallyawareoftheproblemandtoconstantlylimitwhatIthrewaway.EventhoughIcarefullyconsideredtheproblem,bythetimewefinishedthe

straw bale house, we still had generated a fair bit of trash.What couldn’t be

recycled or reused, we either took to the dump or threw in one of thebiodegradablewaste pileswe created not far from the house site.Most of thewastewaswoodscraps,pilesofstraw,andothermaterials;butinonepile,weput things that might last a little longer, like concrete. You end up wastingconcreteonanybigjobbecauseoftenleftovercementhastobedumpedorelseitcanruinthetruck.Therewasn’tagreatdealofconcretewaste,butwhattherewas now sits at the bottom of a slope not far from the house. On top of theconcretearethelessgreenwastesItossedaway:boardswithnailsstillinthem,shreds of tar paper, a pair of ruined cotton work gloves, and entire woodenpallets.Blackberries andbrambleshavemademywastepiles allbut invisible,andslowly,butperceptibly,theyaredisappearingbackintotheearth.Wehadthegoodfortunetoliveclosetoastorethatsoldawideassortmentof

used and salvaged buildingmaterials. Itwas located in an oldwarehouse in anearbytown.Doors,windows,hinges,nails,electricalfixtures, fancytrim,andeven theGreek style columns from an old churchwere all there to be had. Ifound a couple of perfectly fine cabinets for next to nothing, as well as theexteriortrimforourwindows.Ialsopurchasedseverallongslabsofmarbleforunder$50.Onepiecenowservesas thebar topforourkitchenisland,andtheothercapsthehalfwallthatdefinesasmallhallway.Ourstrawbalehomeisfullofsuchrelics.When I needed something to use for door handles on our screen porch, I

remembered having seen an old piece of farm equipment rusting away in thewoodsabovethehouse.One evening, I walked up there to see if I could reuse any of it. The

dilapidatedmachinewas shelteredby a couple ofmaples that grewout of thecellarholeofa long-agoabandonedbuilding.Itwasawoodenwagonofsomekind; but instead of a flat bed, it had a hopper with the rusted remnants ofmechanical contraptions attached. I later learned the old machine was aMcCormickNumberFourEnsilageandForageBlower.Thedevicewasmadein1956 andwas one of the last farm implements ever built that could be eitherpulledbyatractororhitchedbehindateamofhorses.Armedwithawrench,pliers,andacoupleofbeefyscrewdrivers,Icircledthe

oldwreck likeabutcher, looking for thebestplace tocut.Squareandwagon-sized,ithadchainsandlittlemetalbuckets;andupneartheremainsofawoodenseat, a brake handle poised and ready to be used. As interesting as all thesethings were, I still hadn’t found anything that I could use as door handles. Istopped to inspect an axle of some kind.At either endwas a longmetal tube

withagreasecuponthetop.Eachmetalcupwasaboutthesizeandshapeofalargeshotglassandhadametalcapcoveringthetop.Youwouldscrewoffthecapandthenfillthecupfullofgrease.Gravitythenfedthegreasedownthetubetotheaxle.Istoodandstaredatthem.Yes!Theperfectdoorhandles.Onthewaybackthroughthewoods,Ifeltthetiniestcringeofpothunterguilt,

asifIhadransackedsomearcheologicaltreasureformyowngain;butIshookthatoffasIstudiedmyplunderandsawhowperfectlytheywouldwork.AssoonasIgotbacktothehousesite,Iunscrewedthecaps.Iscrapedoutbig

globs of fifty-year-old grease, chocolaty dark in color and as thick as peanutbutter.Ipouredsomegasolineintoasmallbucketandusedittocleanthem.AsIsplish-splashedinthegasolinebath,delightedwithmyfindandsmuglypattingmyselfon theback forbeingsogreen, I suddenly realizedhowIcompoundedthings.HowdoIdisposeofthedirtygasoline,therags,andallthatgrease?Sure,itisn’tbutaquartofgasandnomoregreasethanwhatmightoozeoffmytruckinjustafewmonthsofsittinginthedrive;butsincemymindhadbeenworkingon theethicsofmyactions, itbecameacentralquestion:howdo Idisposeofthisdirtygasolineandthisgrease?IputthegreaseandtheragsinabagthatIwouldtaketothetowndump,and

thegasItossedintothetrashwoodpileontopofthediscardedconcrete,falselyassuringmyselfitwouldbethebestthingIcoulddowithit.The incident causedme to spend the rest of that evening contemplating the

differencebetweenpastandfuture,andmyplacestuckheresmack-dabbetweenthetwo.Ourhumanartifacts,fromstonetooltospentnuclearfuelrods,telluswho we have been. In the present time there are millions of humans whoscrambleovergarbageheapslookingforfood,whileahandfulofothersbatheinriches. Ultimately, as science and human consciousness tells us, in the futuretheremaybenothing leftofhumanityexcept theobjectswe leavebehind.Weowe it to the future of life on this planet to ensure that our artifacts do notthreatenthepossibilityofexistence.

Ifoundtheroadintotheyurtwithnoproblem.Wedroveupthedustypathandparkedwhere thewindmillhadstood.Nowonly itscollapsed frameremained,the gray-bleached bones scattered about on the sunbaked yellowdesert. Therewasnotraceofthewatertank.Wegotoutofthecar,andIledtheboysandLindatowardthesite,following

apathonlyIcouldsee.ItwasasifIwatchedafilmplayinginmymemoryandsimplyfollowedit.Butafterahalfmileorso,Ilostconfidence.Iknewwewere

close, butwherewas theyurt?The fourof us spreadout andbegan to zigzagthroughthejuniperandpiñon,lookingforanyclue.ThenLindacalledout.Shehadfoundametalframeofsomesort.OnceIjoinedher,ittookmeamomenttorecognize that she had discovered the remains of the school desk that onceservedasmytoiletintheouthouse.SoonIfoundwheretheyurthadbeen.Thefloorwasstillthere,althougheach

pie piece had fallen off the foundation and was collapsed and rotting in amisshapenclutter.Irecalledastonestepbutsawinsteadatriangularrockjuttingfrom the ground that seemed as familiar as family, and as strange.Any othertraceof theyurt itselfwasgone.Either ithadrottedaway,orscavengersfromMadridhaddismantledit.Ididn’tgeneratealotofdebrisattheyurt,Iamproudtosay.Theplanswere

sowelldesignedthattherewasvirtuallynowastedwood,andwhatlittlerubbishI had while I lived there I burned in a fifty-gallon drum. What didn’t burn,includingthefifty-gallondrumitselfandsomeoldfoodcanssmashedbysomeunknowncrushofwindorsnoworhoof,hadallbutdisappearedintoafewsmallmetal scraps rusting into nothingness on the desert ground, around them thesparklingfalsediamondsofshardsofbrokenglass.Ibegantomoveaboutthearea,searchinginthedustforthepast.Whatfollowedwasthestrangestforty-fiveminutesofmylife,forIbecamean

archeologistofmyownhistory.From theartifacts leftbehind, I tried tobetterunderstandthemanwhohadoncelivedhere.Idiscoveredanailhere,ascrapofwirethere,thebrokenrimfromanoldcoffeecupIrecognizedinstantly.WhatIhadbelievedwasmymemoryofthosedaysconfrontedtherealityof

vague,ghostlyartifactsscatteredonthedesert;truememory,likeabodybelowthesurfaceofapool,triedtoriseupwitheachfoundobject.

15.

Solitude

Althoughtheinterveningyearshaveallowedmetoromanticizethememoriesoflivingattheyurt,thereisnodenyingthefactthatIwasnevermorealonethanthe time I spent there. Amonth would often pass without me seeing anotherhumanbeing.Thesolitarydaysmarchedbywithmyforcedregimeofhabitandpattern, that therapeutic monotony broken only by occasional forays into theunexplored areas of the desert that surroundedme or by the rare visit from afriend.Sincethemainpurposeofmysojourninthedesertwastowrite,Isatnearly

everymorningatmymanualtypewriterandbeatonthekeysforanhourortwo.Trustingthemuseofinspiration,Iletmyfingersflywheretheywould.Iwrotepoems, letters, lists of supplies to buy, and short stories that leftme cold theinstant I finished them.As I said,nothing Iwrotewhile livingat theyurtwasanygood.Ifmygoalforlivingtherehadbeentobecomeawriter,thenbyanystretchoftheimagination,Ifailed.Lookingbackatit,itseemsoddtomethatIwouldwritesopoorly,giventhe

numberofwordsImusthavehadpentupinsideme.Youwouldthink,asIwasbottleduptherewithnobodytotalkto,myvoicewouldgowildontheprintedpage.Notso,althoughIcontinuedtotrynearlyeverymorningIwasthere.Whentheday’sfrustratingwritingsessionended,Iwouldpushmychairaway

frommydeskandwalkoutintotheglareofthedesertsun.Then,nomatterwhatIdid—workontheroof,fiddlewithmymeagerplants,getwaterfromthewell,or simply roam thedesert—Iconfrontedonly theunsoilednaturalworld.Liketheants,snakes,rodents,birds,andothercreaturesofthedesert,Iwouldhideintheshadefromthemiddaysunandthengobackoutagain,roamingandworkinguntilthestarsdancedabout.Aside from thedog,withwhomI sharedagooddealofmy thoughts, there

was no one to bounce my words off, to see if what I heard on the reboundsounded reasonably sane and cogent. Given that isolation, there wasn’t muchdifferencebetweenwhatIspoketothedogandwhatIthoughtwithoutspeaking.Nomatterwhat else, solitude forcesyou to confront fundamental questionsoftheself,tobefacedwithconstantremindersofhowthintheveneersofegoandself-imagereallyare.Iwas alone, but I was seldom lonely. Loneliness is different than solitude.

Lonelinessisbeingunhappywithyourself.Beingcaughtupindoubtaboutyourownworth,youcan’timaginehowanyoneelsecouldfindsomethingofvalueinyou.Beforelongthatkindofthinkingdescendsintoself-pityandself-loathing.Soonenoughyoufindyourselfinadifferentkindofisolation,alonelinessofthespirit, where you create elaborate charades of false confidence and emotionaljustificationsinanattempttogetoninaworldfullofpeoplewhoseemtowanttohavenothingtodowithyou.Itispossibletobelonelyinthemidstofacrowd,inthebosomofafamily,or

inacabininthedesert.Lonelinessisuniversal,butsolitudeis,well,solitary.Itrequires isolation.Thoreausaidthatonce,shortlyaftercomingtothewoodsatWaldenPond,hehadfeltlonesome“foranhour”andhadstartedtothinkbeingalonewas something unpleasant. “But I was at the same time conscious of aslight insanity in my mood.” That insane mood passed when he began tocontemplatethenaturalworldallaroundhim.Hedecidedthat“therecanbenovery black melancholy to him who lives in the midst of Nature and has hissensesstill.”For themostpartwecareonlyabout themost trivialand transient things in

our lives: our work, food, shopping, social obligations, gossip and rumors,televisionorinternetoriPods,andphones.Thesedistractionsallowustoavoidcontemplating theessentialquestionsofexistence.Just look intoastarrynightandconsider thevastdistancesof timeandspace:byanykindofcomparison,we are always close enough to a human neighbor. But seldom dowe find insocietyanythingmorethanamindlessunconcernwithsuchinfiniteissues.Weavoid confronting the essential facts of life by our texting, superficial chatter,andselfishblinddesiretolookgood.Whenwearedistractedbysociety,wecan’tbecomeawareofwhatThoreau

called our “spectator.”Nomatter how intense an experience, Thoreau said hewasawareofthepresenceofaspectatorthatdoesn’tshareintheexperiencebutsimplytakesnoteofit.Thisspectatorisnothingmoreorlessthanourownmind.To truly live, tobemindfulofourownconsciousness,weneed to look insideourselves rather than outside at those people and things that surround us.Loneliness has nothing to dowith the distanceswe are from one another butrather with how isolated we have become from self-awareness. Our days arecrowdedwithpeople.Societyiseasytofind.Thecrowdofpeopleandofthingsallows us to ignore the persistent yet faint presence of that spectator whoremindsusoftheinfinityoftime.Withoutsolitudeinourlives,awayfromthepollutionofsociety,wewillneverbeawareofthisqualityofconsciousness.

Late in the afternoon, when the sun’s heat was finally giving way to thecomingdusk,Iwouldsetaside theenforcedbusynessofmyday.Ihadbuiltasmallfirepitofstonesnotfarfromtheyurt;andalmosteveryevening,Iwouldretiretheretocookmymealandwatchthenightcomeon.Iwouldsitbeforethecrackling fire, its juniper-piñon perfume mixing with the sage-like smell thatseems everywhere in desert country. From where I sat, the land slid downtoward thedistantGalesteoRiveramidcraggycanyonsandacrossvastplains.Thewide,emptybasinwasthecolorofstraw.Sixtymilesbeyond,thetoweringSangredeCristoMountainsturnedthecolorofbloodinthesettingsun.Itwasthenthatmythoughtshadtimetotakerootandunfoldthemselves.It

was then that I most often missed the company of others—not the crowded-street-corner, busy-workplace kind of society, but the company of a friend orfriendswithwhomImightsharethoughtsandlaughter.Whenthevastnessoftheviewbeyondbecametoomuch,Isoughtthefaceofanotherhumanbeingseatedcloseandcomfortinginthewarmlightofthefire.Instead,thenighthawksappearedeachnightjustbeforesunset,callingoutin

their high-pitched faint whistles and swooping down to grab insects from thecooling air. When they dove, their wings buzzed like cards shuffled by anunseenhand.Whentheyappeared,Iimitatedtheircallsothatsoontheycircleddirectlyaboveme.ThenIwouldthrowahandfulofdrydogfoodintotheairandwatchthemplungeforittowithininchesofwhereIsat.Manynights,afamilyofcoyotestraversedanearbydryriverarroyo.Thedog

would sense them first, and soon I could hear them too. Unconcerned, theywouldyipandcackle,barkandwhineandyodeltheirwaypastme.Thecoyoteswerenotanxiousabout tomorrow; thenighthawksneverfretted

overwarorthepriceoffuelorpettygossip.Likethem,Iconfrontednothingbutthebareessentialsof life:water,food,shelter.Ididnotunderstandit then,butlivingsuchasimpleandpurelifemademeatpeacewiththeworldasitis.Webecomewhatweare:caughtupintheratraceoflife,tryingtobethelastvoiceheard, we become prideful and selfish. For that year of solitude in the wilddesert, Iwasnomore significant than the rocksand thedust.My lifewasbuttwilightonthewingsofanighthawkinadark-turquoisesky.

Mylifeattheyurtwasadisciplinedone.AlthoughmywritingwaslousyandIneverdidgettheroofabsolutelyleakproof,Ikeptmyselfbusy.Towasteawaymydaysinlethargywouldsoonleadtomadness—ofthisIwascertain.Andyetitwasanidylliclifeaswell.Iwassoaloneandinsuchclosenesstothenatural

worldthatIcametoexistinaneasy,mindfulharmonywithit.Although no houses are visible, here inVermontmy neighbors are close. I

onlyhavetowalkaquartermiletovisitthem.Vermontconsistentlyranksasthemost rural state in theUnion,whichmeans thatpercapitamorepeople live inthecountrysidethaninanyotherstateintheUnitedStates.ThatmeansthatalotofpeopleliveintheseVermonthills.Eveninthemostremotepartsofthestate,youarealwayswithincloseproximityofotherhumanbeings.Still, solitude and isolation are to be found here as well, for—as I said—

lonelinesshaslittletodowithhowcloseyouaretoanotherperson.I spent many hours alone working on the straw bale house. Instead of

contemplative, productive solitude, this isolation brought loneliness anddissatisfaction. If it is true,asDianeAckermanasserts, thatwhatwepaymostattentiontotransformsus,thenduringthetimeIbuiltthestrawbalehouse,Iwaschangedfromahumanbeingtomechanicaltool:mybodyabucketfullofnails,mysoulahammerceaselesslypoundingwithoutemotion,all inserviceof thisthing that had to be finished nomatter what. The pressure of completingmyhouse was changing me into someone I did not like, a detached automatedcreature,butonethatIcouldnotabandon.If loneliness isbeingunhappywith the self, then Iwasnever as lonelyas I

was during the long days while building the straw bale house. Even whensurroundedbythehelpfulhandsoftheAmoeba,Iwasawareofmyspirit’sdeeploneliness and of the farce of confidence I displayed. One of my friendscommentedhowIwastheonlyonewhoneverlosthiscoolwhilebuildingthehouse.Whatheneverunderstoodwasthattolosemycoolwouldbeawastefulextravaganceofemotions,aself-indulgentdivergencefromthedemandsofwhatneededtobedone.TheonlyreasonthisspiritualisolationdidnotfinallyruinmewasthatIwas

abletorecaptureatinybitoftheblessedsolitudeIonceknewsoperfectlylongagoattheyurt.Ironically,IwasabletosalvageenoughsmallshredsofmyspiritinthenightsIspentaloneinasmalltrailerparkedonalittleknobjustupfromthehousesite.Wedecidedwecouldsavealotof time,gas,andmoney, ifIhadaplaceto

sleepatthelandwhilewebuiltthehouse.Webudgeted$2,000forausedhard-shellcamper,withtheideathatwewouldsellitoncewefinishedconstruction.Onedayinspring,justweeksbeforewestartedbuildinginearnest,wedrove

toalocalsaleslot.Toomanyidlemeninniceshirtsandslackscameoutoftheheated showroomandbegan to showusaround.Allbutoneguydriftedaway

onceIconvincedthemthatIwantedtoseethecheapestcamperonthelot.Thesalesmanglancedlonginglyathisretreatingcolleagues.“Thecheapeston

thelot?Well,wedohavea1987fifthwheeler...”hesaid.“Itcameinhereonatradeawhileback.”Heexplainedthatafifthwheelerisatrailerthathooksonlyintothebedofapickuptruck.“Wedon’thaveapickup,”Lindawhispered,asiftoremindme.He led us past Queen Elizabeth II—sized tour busses and large, shiny

campers,toashort,plumpmetalboxattheverybackedgeoftheveryfarsideoftheverybiglot.Westeppedinside.Itwastinybutcomforting.Atoilet,sink,andshowerwere

squeezedintoatinyroom.Therewasacozyloftthatslepttwo,whileatthefarend therewas a table and benches that collapsed into another bed. The stoveworked, the fridge “probablyworks fine,” and the gas heater . . . well, if wecompleted the exterior of the house on time, there would be no need for theheateranyway.Before it evenappearedat thehouse site, a friendhadalreadychristened it.

The“LoveShack”wasdeliveredaweeklaterbyamaninalargepickuptruck,who drove up the snowy-edged driveway to drop it off at the land.Hemadeseveraltries,spinningtiresontheicysoilbeforehewasabletozigzagittotheidealspotIhadchosenforitatthetopofthedrive.Weeventuallygotitinplace,leveledandsecuredwithsmalltripodjacksateachcorner.Igavetheguyatipforhisgallanteffortandwatchedhimdriveaway.Itwas

theendofMarch,and thesunwassetting through thegray-bluebranchesofacoldlate-wintersky.IwaiteduntilIcouldnothearhistruckanymore,beforeIopenedthedoorandsteppedinside.Ihadbroughtwithmeahugestackofpapersthatabsolutelyhadtobegraded.

IfiguredIwouldn’thavemuchtodistractmeattheLoveShack.Thelate-winterduskcameearlyandstayedlate.Icookedasimplemealonthestoveandatebycandlelight.Icrawledintothebunkandlistenedtoabarredowlwhoo-coo-coo-cooing.Ittookonlythatlongformetofallasleep.TheLove Shack soon becamemy home away from home and construction

headquartersforbuildingthehouse.BeforelongtheunusedbathroombecameashelterfortoolsandplumbingmaterialsandanythingelseIcouldfit.IkeptthehouseplansononeofthebenchessothatIcouldspreadthemoutonthesmalltable.Ikeptapotofcoffeeonthestoveandabottleofwineandsomebeerinacooler,sothatmosteveryfriendwhohelpedussoonerorlaterfoundherorhiswayinside.

On one wall was a clock perpetually stuck at a few minutes past five. Arunningjokehaditthatnodrinkingwasalloweduntilitwaspastfive.Soyes,afew glasses ofwine and a cold beer or twowere also always available at theLoveShack.ThecalmsolitudeI foundthat firstnight in theLoveShacknevervanished.

Nomatterhowfrenziedthenexteightmonthsbecame,nomatterhowhorriblethedayhadbeen,nomatterwhatcrisisloomed,andnomatterhowdistantandcoldmy heart and soul had become, when I stepped inside that tiny space, Ifoundaplaceofsolitudeandpeace.It seems incredible, butdespite all the coldness inmyheart and soul, every

nightIspentintheLoveShackwasperfect.Ihadthedeepestofsleepsandthegentlestofdreams.Itwasasifthethinwallsofthatrustingantiqueshelteredmefrom the lovelessworldoutside and from the loveless one inside.Most nightsduring thecomingmonths, I climbed inside theLoveShack,exhaustedby thebrutally tiring day, hounded by a million and one thoughts, and troubled bydoubt.Instantly,onceinsidethatintimatespace,therewasloveandcontentment.The nights of comfort there were as precious and rare a gift as life has everbroughtme.Iwouldawakewiththefirsthintofdawn,fireupsomecoffee,andlistento

thebirdscomealiveinthegoldensunrise.Isteppedoutsidetofindthewoodsonfirewith thedeepgreenofhighsummer, thecanopyof theircrownsablaze inthenewlight.Thenintheawakeningworldofmysolitarywalkdownthehilltothe house, if only for one sanity-saving moment, I forgave myself and couldbeginagain.

16.

Visitors

Oneearlyeveningattheyurt,IhadjustgatheredfirewoodformycookingfirewhenIstooddeadstill,listening.Atfirst,therewasnothingbutthehigh,lonelywhineofthedesertinsects,butthenIhearditagain.Fromfaroffonthehighwaythefaintsoundofacarhornhonkedwiththepatternofourpredeterminedsign:SHAVE-AND-A-HAIRCUT...SHAM-POO.“Wilson!”Ishoutedaloud,droppingmycookingpottotheground.Igrabbed

the dog, threwher inside the yurt so she could not chase afterme, andbeganrunningfortheroad.“Wilson!”Icriedagain.Sixweeksearliermybestfriendfromcollege,JimWilson,hadwrittentotell

mehewascoming toNewMexico foravisit.Hehadanapproximate ideaofwhenhewouldcome,andIgavehimapproximatedirectionsonhowtofindme.I toldhimhowtoget toacertainpointonthestatehighwaythatcamenearesttheyurt.Oncehegotthere,hewastolayonthehornandwaituntilIcameouttotheroadtodirecthimin.Fordays,Ihadbeenlisteningforthesoundofhishorn.Istartedforthewindmillatarun,butthenIheardhimhonkagain,fainterthis

time.He had driven farther away andwas going too far down the highway. Istartedtosprint,pickingmywayaroundrocksandtrees,tooanxiousabouthimandignoringthetimeofday.Politely the rattlesnake chose to slither away fromme before it coiled and

rattled.Inthathalfinstant,Ihadjustenoughtimetostumblebackandstop.Thesnakehadbeenusingthecoolshadowsoftheearlyeveningtohuntforfood.Itwasabigone;thedust-coloredpatternofdiamondsonitsbackslowlyundulatedasitstudiedme.Thestringofpale-graybuttonsonitstailrattledlikedrybonesshakenbysomedevil’shand.Ibackedawayandwentaround it inawidecircle.Onanyotherevening, I

would not have been running; on any other evening, Iwould have been on akeenlookoutforsnakes;onanyotherevening,Iwouldlikelyhavebeencarryingawalkingstickormyshovel,using it toalert rattlers tomyapproach.But thethoughtofseeingmyfriendhaddistractedme.I needn’t haveworried about Jim. Just as I reached thewindmill, I saw the

lightsofhiscarbouncingtowardmeonthedustypathfromthehighway.Thecar wheezed to a stop. My old friend jumped out of the car. With his neatVandykebeardandfurrowedbrow,he looked likeabenevolentcrossbetween

MarkTwainandCharlieManson.Jimwas about the best companion I could have. Likeme, he had been an

English major, and he could talk forever about books and ideas. In our finalyears at college our friendship had deepened during smoky barroomconversations and coffee-house debates over Faulkner and Hemmingway andwhethersomeonewouldbeable tostopNixon’seasy ride toasecond termaspresident.That night, sitting outside at the yurt, we talked for hours. We sat by the

cracklingfire, tossingourwords into therisingsmokeof its flames.Wedrankwhiskey and listened to the coyotes’ call.Soon enough the conversation camearoundto literature. Imentionedthat thewriterJackSchaefer lived justup theroad.

Fig.11.JamesC.Wilsonattheyurt,July1973

Jim nearly jumped up. “You’re kidding me,” he said. “Jack Schaefer livesnearhere?”Jack Schaefer’s small novel Shane came out in 1949 but did not become

widelyknownuntil themid-1950swhenarevisededitionestablishedthebook

asaclassicinAmericanliterature.Intheice-coldcadenceofsimpledeclarativesentences, Schaefer tells the story of a lone drifter who appears at ahomesteaders’house.“Herodeintoourvalleyinthesummerof’89,”thebookbegins,“aslimman,dressedinblack.”“CallmeShane”isallthemanwouldeversayabouthimself.Theemotionalandpsychologicalsolitudeof thestranger issovivid that the

readerchillsathisisolation.Oftenmistakenasakid’sbookabouttheOldWest,Shaneisinsteadaremarkableportraitofthepossibilityofhumandignityinthefaceofdeep,moralchoicesandthespecterofthedarkpast.Its author, Jack Schaefer lived on a ranch higher up in the Ortiz. He had

movedthereafterthesuccessofShane.Hewasstillwritingbooks.In1963,tenyearsbeforeIbuilttheyurt,hewrotethenovelMonteWalshwhilelivingathisranch. The novel follows two close friends from youth to old age. They arecowboys,buttheWestischanging.Theautomobileisreplacingthehorse,andtelephone lines dot the horizon. Eventually one of them moves to town andbecomesabanker,but theother,MonteWalsh,refusestogiveuptheoldpurewaysofliving.

Thenextday,JimandIdrovetothefrontgateofJackSchaefer’sranch.Adirtroadwentbeyond thegateandup into theOrtiz. In the fardistance,wecouldmake out the house itself.After awhilewe simply turned the car around anddroveoff.No,Inevermethim.Ineverhadthecouragetogoupthatlongdustyroad to his ranch, to knock on his door.Whatwas I to tell him?That I livedalonelikeahermitbutthatIlovedhisbooks?ThatIlovedhowhecouldtaketheverysoilitselfandturnthatred-and-yellowpowderintodreams?ThankstoJim’svisit,forthenextseveraldays,Irejoinedthehumanrace.For

aweek,we talked, hiked, andwent sightseeing.We joked andwe drank.Weplayedcards,visitedSantaFe,droveaimlesslyaroundthearea,andlaughed.Ihadafewothervisitors thatyear.Mymothercame,abrotheror two,Bob

and Jim from Cornucopia, and the regular visits from Brenda. Even HenryThoreausaidthathewasnotnaturallyahermitandthatiftheprospectofagoodconversation was at hand, he could “sit out the sturdiest frequenter of thebarroom.”

UnlikeThoreau,Ididn’talwayshavemuchpatiencewiththenumerousvisitorswegotwhilewewerebuildingour strawbalehouse.Often timesacarwouldslowly make its way down the driveway. A quick glance told us they were

strangerswhohadheard about our project. “Tourists,”webegan to call them.WorkwouldslowaseitherLindaorIshowedthemaround.Peoplewerecurioustoseewhatweweredoing.Somecamejusttoseehowahousemadeofstrawlooked,othershadsimplyheardaboutitandshowedup,whilestillotherscametofindoutmoreaboutsustainableliving.Perhaps themost interestingwere thehandfulofvisitorswhocamebecause

theyweregoingtobebuildingtheirownstrawhouseandwantedtostudywhatwe were doing. These included a visit from a polite couple who were juststarting the process of building a small, sustainable house. They asked greatquestionsabout thedesignofourhouseand listenedcloselyasIexplained thefinancialcomplicationsofourdecisiontogooffgrid.Anotherwomanvisitedbecauseherdaughterwasabout tostartconstruction

ofastrawbalehouseandwantedtolearnhowtodoitsothatshecouldhelpherdaughter.Sheshoweduponedaywithtwocoolersfulloficeanddrinksandsaidshehadcometohelp.Shehadheardthatitispossibletodoalotofthebuildingwith the help of friends.We had nevermet her before.Wewere pouring theconcretefloorthatday.Iwastryingtodirecttheparadeofhugecementtruckstrying toback theirwaydown thedrive.Linda thankedherandgaveherbackthecoolers.Then therewas theman fromNewYorkCity.He had contactedme via e-

mail.A friend of a friend of a friend had told him about us.He had recentlybought a few acres in upstate New York and was planning on building asustainablehouse.Heasked ifhecouldstopbyonhisnext tripnorth.Hewasparticularlyinterestedinlearningabouthowstrawbalewasdone.Wepickedadateviae-mailwhenIknewwewouldbeinthemidstofputtinginthestraw.Ontheappointedday,heshowedup—aneatlydressed,quietmaninhisearly

forties. We shook hands and talked briefly, but then the work day began.Throughout the day of organized chaos—replete with everything fromcompleting an entirewall to the crisis of a broken tool—he studiedwhatwashappening.Henevergotinanyone’swaybutinspectedeverythingcarefully.Hetooknotesonasmallpadhekeptinhisshirtpocket,andoccasionallyaskedifhecouldsnapaphotograph.Hewasremarkablyinvolvedineverythingwedidthatdayandremarkablynonintrusive.Heaskedifhecouldclimbupladdersandthendidsoonlywhenitwasclearnooneneededitatthatmoment.Onceontophesqueezedintothetightestofplacestogetabetterlookat,say,howyouneedto insulate the place where the straw meets the roofline. He stayed untilmidafternoon.Beforeheleft,hecametosaygood-bye.HewaiteduntilIwasnot

busy,chattedamoment,shookmyhandagain,andwasgone.If we spend time likemoney, then that visitor was a richman.He did not

wastemytime,andhecertainlydidnotwastehisown.Heneverstoppedpayingattentiontowhatweweredoing.Oncehehadabsorbedasmuchashethoughthecouldget,heleft.

Thoreaugotalotof“tourists”atWaldentoo.Heclaimedthatovertwentywerepackedintohistinycabinonce.Hehadthreechairsathiscabin:oneforhimself,thesecondforafriend,andthethirdforsociety.Thoreauwasgenerouswithhistime.Heknewthatmanyofhisvisitorswouldnevercomeagain.Heunderstoodtoothatcommunicatingwithothersalwaysinvolvesarisk.Visitors come and go, the result of chance. Sometimes they appear out of

nowhere like ghosts on the wispy edge of our life and then disappear. Othertimestheyappearwiththecarhornblaringandendureaslifelongfriends.Butifweareindifferentattheappearanceofavisitor,thenweareindifferenttobeingalive. They may welcome us or shun us, but if we do not give up our ownisolationandtrytounderstandthosearoundus,societyitselfwillnotendure.

17.

ThickSkininaWinterofDiscontent

I.TheFirstCoat

Bylatesummerintheyearwebuiltourstrawbalehouse, therealestatecrisiswasinfull force.NoonewasinterestedinbuyingourVictorianhouse.Infacttherehadonlybeenthreeorfourpeoplewhohadviewedtheplaceallsummerlong.Onesaiditwastoosmall.(Small?Thehousehadthreeorfourbedrooms,an office, and a formal dining room! It had enough space to raise an army.)AnothertoldtheRealtorthattheydidn’tliketheneighborhood.(Neighborhood?Inatownoflessthansixthousand?)OnSeptember 11 six years after the national tragedy,Linda spokewith the

bank about our predicament. Our plan had been to turn our expensiveconstruction loan into amortgage as soon aswe sold ourVictorian; but sincenothinganywherewasselling,weweremakingpaymentsonboththeloanandouroldmortgage.Wewouldgobrokeifwehadtodothatforverymuchlonger.There was not much the bank could do about it, except to extend our

constructionloanforanotheryear.That,atleast,boughtmealittlemoretimetocomplete the construction. We tried not to panic, but the darkness seemedominous.Winterwascoming.Nohousesweresellinganywhere,andmorethanhalftheworkonthestrawbalehadyettobedone.Ontopofeverythingelse,thefamilydog—theeasygoingmuttthathadsurvivedtheboys’teenageyears—wasdying.Shehadinternalbleedingduetoagrowthonherspleen,aswellasseverearthritis in her spine. At night we awoke to her howls of pain; and in themorning,wefoundthatshecouldbarelystand.Itgrewsobadthatweknewwehadtoendhersuffering.Thedayourveterinariancametoputherdown,Ihadtobeattheconstruction

siteearly.AndyandDanielwerecomingbacktoplaster.BeforefirstlightIsaidmygood-byestothedog,bylyingonthefloornexttohersnout.Shetwitched;andalthoughhereyeswereglazed,shestaredatmeandthensighed.Bothofourgrownsonswereintownthatdayandwereabletosayfarewelltotheiroldpet.Lindaborethebruntofit,havingtositwithheruntilthevet’sinjectiondidits

dutyandouroldpetwasgone.Lindaandoursonsdecidedtohavehercremated.Ifapersonneedstogrieveforafamilypet,thenImissedthatrequirement.I

hadthestressofthenextbigstepinbuildingourhouse.IhadeverythingAndyand Daniel had ordered me to have ready; I had rented a giant compressor,stockpiledbagsoflime,orderedtruckloadsofsand,andcoveredallthewindowsanddoorswithtarps.Theplastercoveringofastrawbalehousefunctionsasitsskin.Itprotectsthe

balesfromrainandsnowaswellasfrominteriormoisture.Italsoreinforcesthebuilding against highwinds or earthquakes. In addition, it adds beauty to thefinished structure. Most importantly, the plaster covering helps to allow thestrawtobreathe—thatis,toallowwatervaportoescapetotheoutside.Becausecement does not allow vapor to pass, few straw bale houses are plastered inconcrete. If they are, thebales are sealed in andoftendeteriorate.As a result,moststrawbalebuildersuseaplastermadefromclay,sand,lime,andabinderlikechoppedstraw.Atleastthreedifferentcoatsofplasterareappliedinordertocreateathicklayerofprotection.Eachcoatusesadifferentsandsize.Theideaistousecoarsesandinthefirst,finersandinthesecond,andonlylimeinthethird coat.Water vaporwillwick itsway out from the straw, finding itswaythroughthelargestsandparticlesfirst,whileontheexteriorwall,becauseofthesmalldiameterofthelimeparticles,waterfromrainandsnowwilltendtobeadup and shed away. When finished, a plastered straw bale wall is not onlybeautiful,butitalsoservesasthefinalsurfaceofaveryefficientthermalbarrier.

Fig.12.Danielapplyingthefirstcoatofstucco

Abigadvantageofbuildingwithstraw is itsability to insulate.Howwellamaterial resists heat flow from one side to the other is called its R-value: thehigher theR-value, the better the insulation.TheR-value of a typicalmodernhouseisaboutR-18.ThewallsofatypicalstrawhouseareR-49.Thedifferenceislikespendingacoldwinter’snightwrappedinaheavyquiltratherthanathinsheet.In addition, theR-value for the roof insulation is very important. “When it

comes to the insulation inyour roof,”oneofmyadvisors toldme,“make likeBabeRuth andgo deep.”So I spent several days blowing cellulose insulationintoouratticbeforeIreachedathicknessthatgavemeaboutR-90.AstandardhouseisoftenlessthanR-30.WhileIusedacommoncommercialinsulation—blown-incellulosemade fromrecycled fibrousmaterials—thereareevenmoresustainable options. Although you have to build extra-strong walls and takemany precautions against fire, straw bales have been used as roof insulation.OthernaturalinsulationincludesaproductcalledAirKrete,whichismadefrommineralsandseawater.Oneofthemostinterestingwaystoinsulateyourroofis

touse rawwool. I learned thatone fromDaniel,who toldmehe insulatedhisroofwithwool he got for free fromvariousMassachusettswoolenmills,whogladlygavehimtheirscraps.

II.TheSecondCoat

On aMonday in lateOctober,Daniel andAndrew returned for the three-day-long job of applying the second coat of plaster. Daniel arrived first, drivingdowntothehouseinhishamburger-and-fries-smellingbiodieseltruck.Astout,strong-framed man in his late thirties, he jumped out and greeted me. TenminuteslaterAndyarrived,pullingaflatbedtrailerloadedwiththeblowerandother equipment we would need. Andy emerged, all seriousness behind afurrowedbrow.WewentinsideandinspectedtheworkIhaddoneinthetwomonthssincewe

had built the straw walls. Everything was ready. The interior ceiling wasfinished; it hadbeen a nightmareof a job.Awallmadeof strawhasno evenedges like awall of Sheetrock and lumber. Instead of a nice straight line, thejunctionwherethestrawmeetstheceilingisundulatingandwavy.ThatmeansIhadtocustomcuteachsheetofSheetrock(ourceilingisabouttheonlyplaceweusedSheetrockinthehouse).Whilesuchlinesgivetheinteriorwallsofastrawbale house its organic beauty,matching themupwith the flatness of a ceilingwasacumbersomeanddifficultjob.InsteadofsimplysecuringtheSheetrockinplace, I had to raise eachheavy sheet to the ceiling,mark it against the curvyshapeofthewall,lowerit,cuttheSheetrockalongtheline,andthenrepeattheprocessahalfdozentimesuntilthecutwasperfect.“Thatlooksgood,”Andysaid.“Andyouhavethesandallready?”Wemoved back outside and set towork.We unloaded the trailer, set up a

stagingplatformforthemixer,ranpowerlines(bythenmysolarpowersystemwasupandrunning),gotthewaterhoseinplace,andbegan.Thesecondcoatofplasterformywallswasmadefromlime,sand,andwater.

MyjobwastokeepDanielsuppliedwiththerawmaterials.Ifilledfive-gallonbucketswithsandIgotfromabigpileatthesideofthedrive.Icarriedbucketafter bucket to Daniel, who hoisted them and dumped them into a large,electrically powered mixer. I also opened eighty-pound bags of lime, andtogetherwewrestledthemintothechurningbladesofthemixer.Danielsprayeditalldownwith just therightamountofwater.Onceabatchwasfinished,wedumpeditintoalargewoodenhopper.Fromthehopper,wefedtherawstuccointotheblower,whichpusheditthroughathickundulatingtubetotheinsideof

thehouse,whereAndy,speckledheadtotoeingrayplaster,sprayeditontothewalls.DespitemyconfidencethatAndyandDanielwouldlaughat theidea,Linda

made sure I took themetal box containing the ashes of our dogwithme onemorningduringtheirstay.“Ofcourse!”theybothshouted,nearlyinunison.“Ofcourseyoucanaddher

ashes to themix!”They toldme Iwasn’t the first personwhohad included afamilypet’sashesinthestuccoofahouse.TheystoodwhileIopenedtheboxandliftedouttheplasticpackage.Whoever

hadcrematedherhadputher ashes insidedoubleplasticbags—the largekindwiththeziplockseal.Istoodoverthebigmixerandremovedtheinteriorbag.Itwas surprisingly heavy, for a dog that weighed less than thirty pounds whenalive. I pried open the bag and held it against the lip of themixer. I stood itupright andwatched the dark-charcoal flecks swirl into the gray.ThenDanielandI tipped themixer,and thenewplaster fell into thehopper.Andynodded,pickedupthesprayingtube,andresumedhisworktoo.IfIfeltanything,itwasonlyakindofastonishmentatmyowninsensitivity.

My faithful pet’s death seemed tomean nothing tome. I knew I should feelsomething—wanted to feel something for the poor dog and for the way herpassing affectedmy family; but all I feltwasmore of the numbness that hadbeenwithmesincelongbeforeweeverstartedconstruction.

Earth-basedplastershavebeenusedallovertheworldforcenturies.TheoldesthousesintheUnitedStates—theancientadobepueblosofNewMexico—havebeencovered in suchplasters forcenturies.Modern-dayadobehousesare stillplastered with essentially the same materials that have been used for over athousandyears.Ihadhitchhikeddownfrom theyurt toCornucopia theday they replastered

theoldadobethatservedasthemainbuildingforthecommune.Icaughtarideall the way with an ancient Hispanicmanwhowas headed to see his cousinsomewherenearLaBajada,thebighillhalfwaybetweenAlbuquerqueandSantaFe.Hedroppedmeoffatthemailboxaroundmidmorning.Severalpeoplewerealreadyatwork.Everyonefromthecommunewasthere,

plus an artist I had met before. Jim Exten painted exquisitely imaginativerenderings of bones and feathers or quirky human portraits bordered by adancing line of raven-beaked figures. Idiosyncratic in his keen observations,handsome,andstrong—Jimwasanidealcompanion.Likeme,hehadwandered

intothecircleofexpandingfriendsthatwascenteredatCornucopia.Heknewalittleaboutplasteringandhadvolunteered tohelp.WhenIarrived,hehad juststarted.Ipickedupatrowelandtriedtocatchontowhathewasdoing.“WheredoI

begin?”Iasked.“That’sgood,”hesaidtome,noddingatthetrowel.“Butyou’llneedahawk,

too.”Hehandedmewhatappearedtobeaneight-inchsquarepieceofplywoodwithawoodenhandleononeside.“Thehawkiswhereyoupileaworkingloadof plaster,” he said. He ledme to a wooden trough filled with plaster. Otherpeople were addingmaterials to a second trough andmixing the plaster withlong,narrow-handledhoes.I glopped a bunch of the plaster onto my plywood hawk. It had the

consistency and color of chocolate ice cream that had melted just enough toscoop easily into a dish. I followed Jim back to the house and watched himbegin.“Youneedtomakesurethereisalittlemoistureontheadobesotheplaster

will stick to it,”he said.Heheld theedgeof thehawkagainst thewallwhereseveralnewbutexposedadobebrickshadreplacedolderones.Heusedhislargerectangulartrowelandslidabitoftheplasteruntilitcoveredasmallsectionoftheexposedadobebricks.“Youwant towork it inwithabitofpressure;makesure that it isgoing to

stick,” he said.Hewas a year or twoyounger than Iwas and—tomywayofthinking—far more creative. I watched him work more plaster onto the wall.Soonhebegantosweephistrowelacrossthewetplasterinlong,gracefularcsuntil it shimmered as if glass. Instead of a trowel, it was as if he held apaintbrush,andthatoldwallwashiscanvas.ItwasnotsosimplewhenItried.WhileJim’sartisticsensitivityandattention

to detail served himwell, I workedmuch slower and with far less satisfyingresults.SometimestheplasterwouldfalloffthewallassoonasIputitthere.Myworkwiththetrowelleftunsightlylineswherethesteeledgehadcutdeeplyintothefreshmuddysurface.Iswitchedfromthefinishworktohelpingmixtheplaster.Icarriedbucketsof

sand,shoveledinclay,anddumpedbagsoflimeintothetrough.Wepouredinoxbloodtocolortheplasterandshoveledmanureintobindit.We stopped working and had a big lunch; there were sandwiches on thick

homemadebread,fruit,andgallonsoficetea.Aradioplayed.Peopletalkedandlaughed.Wesettoworkagaininnoparticularhurry,andbylateafternoonwe

werefinished.Theoldadobehouseglimmeredinthegoldensunlight; thewet,smoothplaster,thecoloroftheearthenhillsthatsurroundedus.Wefoundourwayinsideandsoonhadplatesheapedwithsummerstewmade

ofsquashand tomatoes,carrotsandkale.Weatemoreof thatgreatbreadandwashedeverythingdownwithgobletsofredwine.Afterthedishesgotwashedandthingswereputaway,wesatdowninthebigcommonroom,passedthejugofwine,andlettheconversationflow.Cornucopia almost had it right, almost had regained that lost knowledge of

interdependence.Butnopastoralcommunitycansurvivesimplybyhopingandbelievinginthepossibilityofhumanharmony.ThefirethatdestroyedthecommunityknownasCornucopiawastwoweeks

later.Theblind,romanticidealismthatcreatedCornucopiawasresponsibleforfar

more tragic failures. Vermont’s Earth People’s Park,WavyGravy’s dream of“free land for free people,” ended in crime, squalor, and greed. Even manycommunities that formed because of a religious vision—especially thosecommunes—producednotamoreharmoniousworldbutamoreevilanddarkerone.LindaandIwere living inOregonin1981whena largereligiouscommune

appearedalmostovernightinthecentralpartofthestate.Soonthecommunehadtaken over an entire county. Before long their exploits were being reportednationwide.Thecommune’sresidentswerefollowersofBhagwanShreeRajneesh,aself-

proclaimedIndianguruwhocombinedclassicphilosophy,mysticism,andotherreligious traditions to create a vision of spiritual perfection. Among othersurprisingtenants,histeachingsincludedeuthanasiaforchildrenbornwithbirthdefectsandtheuseofgeneticselectiontoimprovehumanity.In June 1981, following mounting tensions with the Indian government,

Rajneesh fledhis commune inPoona, India. In Julyhis followerspurchaseda64,000-acre ranch in Oregon, claiming they were going to start “a simplefarmingcommunity”withaboutfiftypeople.Withinmonths,overtwohundredpeoplelivedatRajneeshpuram,asthecommunewassoonnamed.ThefollowingyearenoughRajneesheeshadmovedtotheareathattheysuccessfullytookoverthe city council ofAntelope,Oregon.They immediately called for a vote andchanged the nameof the town toRajneesh.Once in power, they created theirownpoliceforce,andmanyoftheoriginalresidentsoftheareawereharassed.Soon theRajneesheesbeganbusinghundredsof streetpeople fromaround the

UnitedStatestothecommuneinanefforttohavethevotesneededtocontrolthecountywideelections.Then,acountyexecutivewhovisitedthecommunenearlydiedofpoisoning.Doctorsdiscovered“ahighlytoxicsubstance”inhiskidneys.SixweeksbeforetheNovember1984elections,leadersofthecommunemade

the first bioterror attack in U.S. history. Afraid that they still did not haveenough votes towin control ofWascoCounty, followers ofRajneesh decidedtheywould incapacitatevoters in thecounty’smostpopulouscity,TheDalles.As a trial run for this plan, they contaminated the salad bars of ten localrestaurantswith salmonella. Over eight hundred peoplewere sickened—manyhadtobehospitalized.Itwasn’tuntilnearlyayearlater,whenRajneeshhimselfaccused his aids of the crime, that it became clear what happened. Later,informants claimed that the poisoning was just a test for a far more wide-reaching attack that had been planned to take place immediately before theelections inNovember. Inaddition,Rajneeshaccusedhisaidsofothercrimes.People under the influence of his ideas tried to murder doctors, dentists, theJeffersonCountydistrict attorney, aWascoCountyexecutive, aU.S. attorney,andOregon attorney general David Frohnmeyer. They burned down aWascoCountygovernmentbuilding,andtheyhadplanstoblowuptheWascoCountyCourthouse.Althoughheclaimednopartintheseevents,in1985Rajneeshpleadedguilty

totwoofthirty-fiveimmigrationchargespendingagainsthim.Hispleabargainincluded deportation. He returned to India, changed his name to Osho, andcreatedanewspiritualcommunityknownastheOshoInternationalMeditationRetreat.Hediedin1990.Hisideassurviveviaagrowingnumberoffollowers.Thedarkersideofhumanintentcanalsobefoundinfarlessnotoriouscases.Almostanywayyoulookatit,theschoolofLasTresVillas,whereItaughtin

Tesuque,wasasuccess.Agroupofverydiverseparentsandotherswereabletocreate a good, viable school and to keep it running for an entire school year.Despite many times when tempers flared and anger threatened to ruineverything,thecommunitysurvivedandtriumphed.Weallthoughtthatwithourharmonious and successful work, we had changed something for the better.Maybe we had in some small way, but darkness too lurked just below thesurface,eveninthoseheadytimes.Severaldaysaweek,Ivolunteeredtodrivetheschoolbus.Afteraparticularly

exhaustingFriday,Iwasdrivingthebusdownthedead-endroadwherethelastkidonthebus—we’llcallhimEddie—wasabouttogetoff.Earlierthatday,Eddiehadrefusedtostopbugginganotherstudent,andIsent

himtotheprincipal.Hecamebacktoclassangryandsullen.NowIstudiedhimintherearviewmirror.Heglaredatmefromhisseat.Istoppedathishomeandopenedthedoor.“Seeyounextweek,”Isaid.He

pausedforonlyaninstant.Hemuttered“joto”loudenoughformetohearandthensteppedoffthebus.Hedisappearedintohishouse.I turnedtheschoolbusaroundinthenarrowroadandstartedtodriveaway.

JustafterIpassedbyhishouse,Ilookedinmyrearviewmirrortoseehimstepontotheroad,carryingarifle.Iflooredit.JustbeforeIducked,Isawhimlowertherifleandaim.Idon’tthinkhefiredanyshots.I spent the weekend thinking about what happened. How could an eleven-

year-oldfeelsuchragethathewouldthreatentokillme?Whatflawinmyownhubris about being a “teacher” had preventedme from helping him ease thatanger?WouldEddieandthetensofthousandslikehimeverlearnthesanctityofahumanlife?OnMondaymorningEddiegreetedmeasifnothinghadeverhappened.And

nothingmoreeverdid.Althoughhecontinuedtogetintroublenowandthenfortherestoftheyear,hewasneveragainasangryatmeashehadbeenthatday.Yet the incident haunts me still, for it demonstrated the inherent danger inbelieving that a collectivemovement, by its commongoals and righteousness,gainsimmunitytothedarkestaspectsofhumaninteraction.Take, for example, the community revival ofMadrid, NewMexico. Today

thathistoryistoldwithpridebytheboostersoftheareaandjustlyso.However,notallthepeoplewhooriginallyreoccupiedthevillagelivedthehippieidealsofpeace, love, and understanding. Because I was so isolated, I never had anytroublefrommyfellowhumanbeingswhenIlivedattheyurt;butbythetimeImoved away from there,Madrid’s big boom was beginning, bringing a wideassortmentofhumanitytothearea.AboutayearafterImovedout,Ivisitedtheyurttodiscoverthatsomeonehadstolenmywoodstove.Thestovewasoneof thebest,anAshley.Despite the thin insulationon the

yurt(thewallswereprobablylessthanR-5),acoupleofjuniperbranchestossedintothebellyoftheAshleywouldkeepmewarmanentirewinter’snight.Theworsepartabout itwas that thestovewasnotminebutonloanfromBob, thefriendfromCornucopiawhohadgivenmetheplansfortheyurt.Inanyevent,itwasgone.Packratshadfoundtheirwayinthroughthestovepipe,andtheplacenowhadthesickly,chlorine-flavoredsmellofrodenturine.SweptalongonatideaboutwhichIwasthenentirelyignorant,Ifirstmoved

toNewMexico,andultimatelytotheyurt,followingadream—fueledbybooksand ideas of self-determination and personal freedom. It was not just “everyhippie’s dream” but the waning of the great American dream—a dream ofwealthandpossibilitysetinalandofendlesshorizons.IwasbornonthegreatopenplainsofNebraskaatthestartofthepostwarprosperityofthe1950s.WhenIwasachild, therewerestilloldmenandwomen inmy townwhohadcomewestincoveredwagons,followingthatolddream.Bythentheirveryliveswerebeing transformed intomyth inbooks likeShane andMonteWalsh and in theubiquitouswesterncinema.WhenIlefthome,IwantedtofindthatOldEmptyWest,aninfiniteopenwildernesstoconstantlyhumble,frighten,andinspireme.WhatIdidn’tknow,orblithelyignored,wasthatthelandscapeoftheyurtwasbut a tiny, quickly evaporating remnant of a world where limitless horizonsseemedpossible.Even that remnantwas about tovanish: thenew residentsofMadrid had found the yurt, and the entire American Southwest was about totremble under the stampede ofmillions of additional new immigrants—whichhasnotyetabated.Attheyurt,Iwitnessedalastfragmentofwhathumankindhad always taken for granted: a limitless earth, while even my own solitaryintrusionwasitselfheraldingitsdemise.Flash forward to2007 andourwinter of discontent.ThedayAndy,Daniel,

andIwereembeddingourdog’sashesintothesecondcoatofplasteratthestrawbale,Ameriquest,oneofthelargestsubprimelendersintheUnitedStates,wentoutofbusiness.Inthefollowingweekshomemortgagecompaniesbegantofallapart faster than the big bad wolf could blow down a house made of sticks.Beforethefirstsnowsfell,wetooktheVictorianhouseoffthemarket.Eveninthe best of times, few houses sold in winter; now with the Federal Reservescrambling to prevent a crisis in the banking system, the housing marketcollapsed.OnlyLinda,blessherever-hopefulheart,heldontothepaleideathatwemightstillbeabletosellthehouseourselves.Asthedaysshortenedandthenightsturnedcolder,Iburrowedmyselfdeeper

intothedetachedandsoullessmanIhadbecome.Mymarriagedwindleddownto days of stress and tensions, and nights of monosyllabic conversationssprinkledwith tearsandanger.The tenderestmoments, if theycouldbecalledthat, were the times I apologized to Linda for my incompetence, trying toexplain that thisbigmesswasallmyfault, that shehadmarriedamanwhoseego had always outreached his skills, only this time itmightwell destroy ourfuturetogether.Classes had started in September, giving me far less time to work on the

house.Whilethestrawbalehousewasnowenclosedwithdoorsandwindows,the insidewasnothingbut a large, empty space.Therewereno interiorwalls,givingthevacuousroomaforlornandlonelyfeel.Afterteaching,Iwouldracetothebuildingsitetoworkforhoursuntildarkandexhaustionovercameme.Astheweekstrudgedon,Icutandmeasuredandsworeandhammeredandcried.Littlebylittletheskeletalinsidesofthehousebegantotakethevagueshapeofwallsandrooms.In lateOctober theAmoeba helpedme install ourwoodstove.One night in

earlyNovemberwhen the temperature reached nineteen degrees, I abandonedtheLoveShackforgoodandmovedmybeddingtothehouse.Duringtheday,Ipiledmyblanketsinacorner.AtnightIsleptonthemonthefloorinfrontofthefire,surroundedbytools,paperstobegraded,bagsoflime,wiring,lecturenotesformyclasses,plumbing,cabinetswaitingtobeinstalled,andstacksofthinpineboardsforthewalls.The walls of the rooms inside the straw bale are pine tongue-and-groove

boards rather than standardwalls of Sheetrock.Building a green housemeantlooking at more-sustainable alternatives for everything. The pine walls didn’tneedtobepainted,andwefoundthebrightbutrusticlookofthenaturalwoodattractive.Theuseofwoodforourwallsalsomeantwecouldbuyaproductthatwas manufactured close by (the wood came from Quebec, just north ofVermont)andthattookfewerresourcestomanufactureandtransport.Thestacksofboardscompetedforspacewithonelargecrateaboutthesizeof

apianobench.Thecrateheldaheat-recoveryventilator(anHRV),thedevicethatwouldcirculatefreshairinmyairtighthouse.TheHRVwasgoingtobeputinahiddencompartmentaboveasmallcoatcloset.Onadarkwinter’sday,Istoodonasmallladder,preparingtoinstalltheHRV.

Thecratewasjustbelowme.Ileanedintothecompartment,andthen...Ifell.I landedon thesharpcornerof thecrate.The full forceof ithitmyribcage

liketheblowofanax.IthadbeenalongwhilesinceIweptoutofshearpain.Foraverylongwhile,

I didnotmove. I tried to assess thepain, to coolly calculate the extent ofmyinjury.ConvincedthatIhadbrokenseveralribsandperhapspuncturedalung,Itriedtocalmmyself.Iwasaloneinthehouse;itwasaweekday.Therewasn’taphone of any kind. Finally, Imoved, testing each inch against the amount ofagony.Imademywayovertoalawnchair,myonlyfurniture,andsatdown.Iconvincedmyself thatIhadnotbrokenanyribs,butIcouldnotmovewithoutintensepain.Isatinthechairfortherestoftheafternoon,beforeIdrovebackto

theoldhousetospendthenightwithLinda.Ididn’ttellherabouttheincidentuntilseveraldayslater.

Fig.13.Theauthorplasteringtheinterior

III.TheFinalCoat

Linda kept a log of our adventure. She starts her brief account of the daywebegantoapplythefinalcoatofplasteringwithtwowords:ANDREW’SEYES!Thefinalcoatthatcoversourstrawbalewallsisamixtureoflimeandwater.

Lime,whichcomesinlargeeighty-poundbags,ismadebyburninglimestoneinkilns.Itiscausticandcanburntheskinandeyes.

Tomake a limewash, as this final coat is called, youmix lime in a largebucketwithjustenoughwatersothatithastheconsistencyofwholemilk.Youcanaddcolortoit,aswedidtoouroutsidewalls,orleaveitwhite,aswedidontheinterior.Thegoodthingaboutalimewashisthatitgoesonquickly.Youcanslopitonwithawidebrushinlongstrokes.Itlookshorriblystreakyatfirst,butitdriestoabeautifulpastelhue.Thedaywestartedlimewashingtheinsidewalls,oursonAndrewwashome

onavisit fromcollege.Lindaandheworked togetherputting thewashon thebathrooms,andthentheyjoinedmewhereIwasworkinginthelargecommonroom.Idippedmybrushinthebigbucketandwipeditonthewallnearawindow.

Andrewworkednext tome.Hewas standing tomy leftwhenhedroppedhisbrush.“Igotsomeinmyeyes,”hesaid.Then:“Ithurts.Itreallyhurts.”Inthatinstant,everythingturnedtoinsanity—insanity,myplantobuildsuch

ahouse; insanity,not insistinghewear safetygoggles; and insanity,myeverysingledream.Later Linda would comment about how calm and cool I was. She said I

calmedAndrewdownbynotpanicking. I immediatelybegan to flushhiseyeswithwater.Itoldhertocallthehospitalandtellthemwhathappened.Oncewewereintheemergencyroom,theyputsmallcontact lens—likedevicesineachofAndrew’seyes.Thesewereattachedtobagsofsalinesolution,oneforeacheye.Theytoldhimthelimewaseatingtheproteininhiseyes.Hesatthereforhours,untilslowlythepHlevelofhiseyesapproachednormal.Thenextday,aneyedoctorsaidthathiseyesweregoingtobeokayandthatifIhadn’tactedsoquickly,hewouldbeblind.Thatnight,Ilayinfrontofthewoodstove.Surroundedbyallthedebrisofan

unfinishedhouse,IcriedandIcriedandIcried.

18.

Spring

Nowandagain,itisnecessarytosecludeyourselfamongdeepmountainsandhiddenvalleystorestoreyourlinktothesourceoflife.MoriheiUeshiba,TheArtofPeace

Thesnowfallthatwinterwasheavy—liketheolddays,theold-timeVermonterssaid—but as the drifts grew deeper around our door, the inside of our houselooked more and more like a home. We finished the interior walls, installeddoors,putinkitchencabinetsandbathroomsinks;wehookedupthetelephone,attachedthewaterheater,andhunglightfixtures.Outside,theworldwasawhitemistofsnow;nearbytrees,darkskeletonsamidthehaze.Snowslidoffthemetalroofingreatthunderingrumbles,whileinside,atoastyfireandthethickblanketofstrawkeptmewarm.Withoutfail,aftereachnor’easter,ourneighborarrivedinhisbigtrucktoplowoutthedrive.ThetemperaturedroppedlowerandloweruntilonenightinlateFebruary,whenitreachedtwenty-sixbelowzero.Thenextday, itnevergotabovezero.But thesunshone inacrystalline,cloudless sky,andthedriftsofsnowglistenedtranslucentandluminous.Onthatsunny,bitterlycoldday,thesunlightfilledthegreatroomwithitswarmthandgold.Slowly,inthenearlyimperceptiblewayoftheseasonsofayearoralife,the

dark and oppressivewinterwas becoming spring.Onemorning just after firstlight,Iawokefrommycocoononthefloorinfrontofthewoodstove,vaguelyaware of another presence. I stood up; and there, immediately outside the bigglasswindows,standingsoclose thatIcouldcount itseyelashes,wasawhite-taileddeer.Ithelditsheadasiflisteningandlooking,nowalsoawareitwasnotalone.Thedarknessoftheinsideofthehousehidme.Afterananxiousmoment,itlowereditsheadonceagain,allowingmetostepevenclosertothewindow.Theheatofthesunalongthesouthernsideofthehousehadmeltedthesnow

enoughtoexposeathinstripofground.There,withwinterapparentlystillinfullpower, the first sign of spring had appeared: a thin, gorgeous green thread ofnewlysproutedclover.Thedeerwaspressedagainstthehouse,munchingonthenew forage.The longwinter hadbeenhardon thepoor thing; its shaggy coatcouldnotconcealthesharpoutlineofribsandbackbone.Theheadjerkedup,itseyeslevelwithmine,darkandmoistandalive.Justaninstant’sglance,thenitwasgone.Boundingoveradrift,overasmallhill,itdisappearedintothewoods.

Forperhapsthefirsttimesincewestartedbuilding,Ididnotdoanyworkthatmorning. Instead, I bundled up, strapped on a pair of snowshoes, and, tellingmyself Iwas simplycurious to seewhere thedeerhadgoneandwould returnshortly,setoffintothewoods.IspenthoursjustwalkingthehillsofVermont,stoppingtolookupthroughthebarebranchesoftreesortostudythewayaleafhadbeencaught,midtumble,inadriftofsnow.Ihadnoplan,noambition,andnootherplacetobethanrighthere.I realized thatmorning howmuch ofmyself had been lost. For nearly two

years,IhadbeensofixatedontheneedtogetthehousebuiltthatIhadsilencedthatspectatorwithin;Iwasnolongermindfulofmyownconsciousness,tosaynothingofmyconscience. Ihadabandonedanycontemplationof thehereandnowinexchangeforwhatwasnext:next tobedone,nexton the list, thenextobstacle;andif theheart, thebody,or themindgot intheway,Isimplymadesomeheedlessand temporarymaneuver inorder to relieveor ignoreorescapethestrain,beforeturningmyattentionbackonthehouse.Forthelengthofthatmorninginthosesolitary,coldwoods,Iregainedalittle

bitofmysanity.Perhapsthefogofcallousindifferencehadfinallystartedtolift.WhatIhadbeenpayingtotalattentiontohaddefinedme;itwastimeIsoughtaredefinition.While Iwas the primary builder, Lindawas the primary accountant. It had

largelybeenherresponsibilitytokeepthebooksfortheprojectandtotrytoselltheVictorianhouse.Her anxietyover theprospect of our financial ruin easilymatched my anxiety over building. But suddenly with spring came hope. Anewly hired professor and his wife had heard we had been trying to sell ourhouse,andtheywonderedifitwerestillavailable.Thatweekend, the couple came over to ourVictorian housewith their two

childrentolookitover.Wegreetedthemandthenleftthemaloneinthehouse.“Feelfreetosnoopanywhereyouwant,”wetoldthem.“Opendoors,climbintotheattic,whateveryouwish.”For the next ninety minutes, Linda and I drove around, nervously talking

about this unexpected showing of our house. Since we had taken it off themarket,we had usedword ofmouth (always effective in a small town) to letpeopleknowitwasstillavailable.Althoughmostof the townknewitwas forsale,thesewerethefirstpeopletotakeaninterest.Whenwewalkedbackintothehouse,thetwoofthemweretalkingabouthow

theymightuseaspareroom.“Shewantsitforakid’splayroom,”hesaid.

Thewomanthrewupherarms.“AndhewantstouseittostoreallhisrecordsandCDs!”Theywerearguingoverhowtousetheroom.Agoodsign,Ithought.Ishot

Lindaaquicklook,andshenodded,smiling.Aweeklater,aftertheyreturnedforanotherlook,theytoldustheywantedto

buythehouse.Thefourofusstoodinouroldkitchentalking.Wenegotiated.Inturn, each couple crowded into the bathroom in order to discuss offers andcounteroffersinprivate.Twentyminuteslaterwehadadeal.Weshookhandsallaroundandthensatatthekitchentableandfilledoutthepaperwork.That night, we celebrated with friends. No matter what happened with the

strawbale,wewerenolongergoingtobepayingfortwohouses.Aweekafterwe sold the house, the fifth-largest bank in the United States, Bear Stearns,foldedbecauseofitsinvolvementintherealestatemarket.Investorsnolongerbelievedthebankcouldrepayitsloans.Selling thehousemeant thatLindawouldbe temporarilyhomeless.While I

was comfortable sleeping on my mat on the floor in a dusty, still-under-construction house, it wouldn’t do for her. The plumbing wasn’t finished, sotherewas no runningwater.And therewas no real living space for her. Soonenough, however, our problem was solved. Linda was to move into a sparebedroomthanksto—whatelse?—theAmoeba.

IlefttheyurtforasgoodareasonasIwentthere.Therestofmylifecalledtome; my life there was not productive; I needed to make somemoney; I wasbored; and I grew tired of checking for blackwidow spiders every time I satdownonthatschool-desktoilet.What do I have to show for that time? Late in hismasterpieceAHundred

YearsofSolitude,GabrielGarciaMarquezwrites thatawomanspentherfinalyears “in the solitude of nostalgia.” Is that allmy experience comes down to:dreamlikewalksdownasun-brightdesertpathinamemoryofspring?The artifacts ofmy time on the desert, the few scattered remnants that still

endure at the site,will soondisappearback into the earth.Had that timebeennothingmore than an attempt to leavemymark on the earth?Why else do Iwrite about it now? Isn’t almost everything Ihavedone in this life littlemorethanwantingsomethingofmyself toendure: teaching,children,writingbooks,theyurt,thisstrawhouse?Perhapsourdesiretoleavesomethingbehindafterwearegonewillbehumanity’sultimatedownfall,formanyofourhumanartifactshavespoiledtheearthandwillpoisonitlongafterwedisappear.

AndyetIlookbackonthatyearattheyurtnotwithnostalgiaordespairbutwithhopethatweshallwithstandthechangesthatcome,forIknowthatevenaninnocent,young,andignorantmancanlivesimplyontheearthandfindinthatlifedeepself-reflectionandhumancompassion.The ancient pueblo-dwelling people of the Southwest, the Anasazi, often

simply abandoned their cities. No one knows why they did so, but somearcheologistsbelieve itwasbecause theywere inconstantsearchofaspiritualcenter—aplacewheretheearthandheavenwereconnected.Theruinsof theirquestliescatteredeverywhereacrossthedesertSouthwest.Perhapstheshardsofbrokenglass,rottingwood,andtwelvestonepillarsofthefoundationforalong-vanishedyurtarenothingmoreorlessthanmyownsearchforthatcenter.

The day we moved into the straw bale house was also the largest singlegathering of theAmoeba during the entire project: trucks and cars, boxes andmovingvans,donutsandpotsofblackcoffee,laughterandhardwork.Menandwomenwereallinmotion.Idroveoutwiththefirstconvoyofitemsbeingmovedfromtheoldhouseto

thenew.Thestrawbalehousewasnotfinished.Themasterbedroomwasbarelymore

thanashell,andIwasusingthespaceasaworkshop.Ihadmovedthetablesaw,workbenches,unusedlumberandhardware,aswellasallmytoolsintotheplacewhereLinda and Iwere supposed to sleep.As load after loadof a lifetimeofpossessionsbegan toarrive, Idirectedmyfriends tostack things inoneof thesmallbedrooms.Whenitwasfull,theypiledthingsintheothersmallbedroom,untilfinallytheoldhousewasemptyandthenewwasaclutteredchaosofourlife.Sincewedidn’thavespacetosetupthebed,Isleptonthefloorthatnight,andLindaonthecouch.Thenextday,thetwoofusreturnedalonetoouroldhouse,nowemptysave

forthememories:ourfirstnighttwentyyearsagounpackingboxesandlaughingwhilethechildrenslept.Thenumberlessholidays,thecountlessguests,thetears,andthedeepcomfortallpassedinthetwinklingofaneye.“Livingistheconstantadjustmentofthoughttolifeandlifetothoughtinsuch

away thatweare alwaysgrowing, always experiencingnew things in theoldandoldthingsinthenew,”wroteThomasMertoninThoughtsinSolitude.“Thuslifeisalwaysnew.”

19.

HigherLaws

1.Sustainabilitymeanstosustainthelifeoftheentireplanetforthetimeafterwearegone.

2. Be aware of the environmental and the moral consequences of everypersonalaction.

3.Warandhatredarenotsustainable.4.Commoninterestcomesbeforeself-interest.5.Trytomakepresentcircumstancesbetterbeforebuildingsomethingnew.6. Study patterns that make things accessible, healthy, efficient, andsustainableandthenreplicatethosepatterns.

7.Keepitsimple;simplicitygivesanobjectitsbeauty.8.Golightlyontheearth;useaslittleaspossible.9.Everythingisintheactofbecoming;nothingstaysthesame.

I.Sustainability

Youcan’tescapetheideaofsustainability—itiseverywhereinmodernculture.Theproblemisthatthepopularandcommercialuseofthewordseemstomeannothingmorethananewwaytosellandconsumegoods.Everythingis“green”:fromtoiletpapertoautomobiles,fromshampootokiddietoys,fromjunkfoodtoappliances.Bigbusinesscontinuestoprosperandconsumeresourcesundertheillusionthatitissustainingtheearth’sresources;instead,itiscreatingasocietyevenmoredependenton“improved”consumerproducts.The popular concept of sustainability does not address how resources are

protected,muchlessdistributed;anditpromotestheveryvaluesthatgotusintotrouble in the first place. Sustainability isn’t simply about using the rightlightbulb,buying“green”products, recycling,orevenbuildinganecologicallysensitive house. The real issue facing humankind is sustaining complicated,interwoven biotic communities, not sustaining a comfortable lifestyle for theprivilegedclasses.Sustainability ismostcommonly thoughtof ineconomic terms:makingand

consuminggoodswhilebeingsensitivetothecapacityoftheearth’sresources.The goal seems to be to keep modernization alive and well. Manyenvironmentalists abhor such attitudes. For many, the common concept ofsustainability fails to acknowledge the need for drastic changes in how we

humanslive.Justbeforewetooktheplungeandbeganconstruction,LindaandIhadalong

andfranktalkaboutwhatsuchahousemightmeantothewaywelivedourlife.Therewouldhave tobechanges inourhabits:we’dhave tobecomemisers inouruseofelectricity,we’dhavetoberesponsibleforgatheringfirewoodtoheatthehouseinwinter,wewouldhavetotakeonregularandongoingmaintenanceissues, and so on. By no means would we call our changes drastic, or evenuncomfortable;yetmanyofourcontemporarieswouldseesuchalifestyleasanimpossiblesacrifice.In1968geneticistGarrettHardinwroteanarticleentitled“TheTragedyofthe

Commons,” in which he argued that unmanaged access to common resourcesresulted in a lawless and unethical future. He illustrated this human tendencytoward greed by giving an example of a herdsman who is faced with thetemptations of a common pasture. The herdsmanwill instinctively overload itwith his livestock. Likewise, as each greed-driven human tries to maximizeresourcesforpersonalgain, thecommonresourcescollapse to thedetrimentofall.Suchableakportraitofthedeclineoftheearth’s“pastures”certainlyseemsto

behappeninginmanyplacestoday.“Good-tastingwaterisgoingtodisappear,”mymothersaidsolongago.“Onedaypeoplewillhavetopayalotofmoneyforadrink.”Nowwater, life’smostpreciouscommonresource, isbeingsold likesodapop; it fillsanentire isleofmylocalchaingrocerystore.Privatizationofresourcesgivescorporationssoleaccess towhatwasonceheld incommonbyhumans,whileitlaystheillhealthandenvironmentalcostsonsociety.But Hardin’s tragic parable of a lawless, unethical future was only if the

commons were unmanaged. A managed commons, though it may have otherproblems, will not automatically suffer the tragic fate of the unmanagedcommons.Taxes,regulations,strictlaws,andotherrestraintsmustbeplacedtopreventcorporationsfromdepletingourresources.If a handful of private corporations continue to monopolize the earth’s

resources,whilecommonpeoplebeartheever-increasingcosts,moreandmoresocialprotestswillariseintoviolentprotestofthatimbalance.“Thethreattoourfuture is not from greedy individuals,” Hardin wrote, “but from unregulatedvoracious emissaries who have no respect for limits, and no sustainable,inclusivevisionofwhatitmeans,longterm,tobelong.”If sustainability is defined simply as maintaining the status quo, we are

dreaming.Weshouldmakepoliticalandpersonalchoices toreducethehuman

ecological footprint—not in order to regain some pastoral vision of an openhorizon of endless possibilities but in self-defense against a chaotic andconstantly changing environment. We don’t need to sustain what we have;rather, we need to provide ourselves with as many options for the future aspossible:choices forkeepingwarm,choices forpoweringourdevices,choicesforensuringtheinterdependenceofallbeings.

II.AuntOra

OraOrmewasborninArizonaaround1885andwasraisedonalargeranchofcacti and tumbleweeds.Shenevermarried.She lived invariousplaces aroundthe Southwest with her childhood friend Marie and eventually settled inTesuque, NewMexico. She was the great-aunt of the people who put me upwhileIwasteachingthere,andshelivedintheirhousewiththem.Shewas in her ninetieswhen I lived there, andhadgreat difficultymoving

around.Butshewassharpasatackandtoughasnails.AuntOrahadoncebeenateacherandtookgreatinterestintheTesuqueschool.Sheknewallabouttheschool:thepoliticalsituationthatcreatedit,theunusualcurriculum,theoutdoorclassrooms,and—simplybythefactthatalong-hairedbabyoftwenty-twowaslivinginherhouse—thepeoplewhowereteachingthere.Oneafternoon,ateacher’smeetingwastobeheldatthehouse.AuntOrawas

sittinginthelivingroomwhileIwaswaitingfortheotherteacherstoarrive.Ihadnothadmuchconversationwithher,andIstumbledwiththeawkwardnessofyouth.“Iunderstandyouwereaschoolteacheronce.”“Yes,”shesaid,“yes,Iwas.”“Wheredidyouteach?”“ItaughtinArizona,”shesaid,fingeringanafghanthatcoveredthechairin

which she sat. “My friend Marie and I both taught there. It was in 1921 orthereabouts...”“Whatwasitlike?”“The schoolwas twentymiles fromMammoth,Arizona.Out on the desert.

Thechildrenhadtocomefrommany,manymiles.Itwasdifferentbackthenforateacher,differentthantoday’sschools.MaybemoreliketheschoolyouhavehereinTesuque.”I didn’t say anything. She looked off into some distant place and then

continued.“It was just Marie and me and about fifty children. We each taught

everything,butMariealsotaughtmusic.Thatwasherspecialty.Oh,andshewasgoodatit.Thosekidslovedtosing;weevenhadasmallbrassband.“We didn’t have grade levels.We just had two classrooms and no grades.

Marie tookhalf thechildren,andI took theotherhalf.We taught themall theregularthings—theirreadingandwritingandhowtodotheirfigures...butwealsotaughtthem...”“WhatAuntOra?”“Well, we also taught them how to live. Imean . . . when they left, those

children knew something about the world, and they knew something aboutthemselves.Allofthemwereborninthearea,andmostofthemwouldprobablydiethere.Sowetaughtthemabouttheworldbyteachingthemaboutthedesert.Theylearnedabouttherocksandplantsandsoon.Theylearnedallofthat,buttheyalso learned . . .ohdear, they learnedrespect.Respect for thedesertandrespect for the world and respect for each other. They grew up some at ourschool, not by what Marie and I taught them—we could only teach them somuch—butbecauseofwhat they learned fromeachother.Wemade sure theylearnedabouteachotherandaboutrespect.”Thensheturnedtome.“Tellmeaboutyou,”shesaid.Istarted talkingaboutmyself,andbefore longIgrewfullofyouthfulpride.

“AndIamaconscientiousobjector,”Isaid.“I’magainstthewarinVietnam.”“You’reawhat?”AuntOraasked.“I’maconscientiousobjector.Ijustdon’tthinkkillingotherpeopleistheway

tosolveproblems,”Isaid.“Youmean you aren’twilling to defend this country?” She rolled her head

towardmeandsquinted.“Tellmethat.Whataboutthiscountry?”“It’sjustthatI thinkIcoulddomoregoodforthecountrybystayingoutof

thewarandworkingwiththekidshere,teachingatTesuque.”“Ah,”shesaid,andthenleanedback.“Whyyes.Yes.Yes.”

III.AnotherArtifact

WilliamCadewas an eighteen-year-old resident ofBarnet,Vermont,when heenlistedintheUnionarmyinJuly1862.Recently,whenadonorgavethetown’shistoricalsocietyhisdiary,Ivolunteeredtohelptranscribeit.Twomonthsafterheenlisted,hewrotehisfirstdiaryentry,reportingthathis

regimentmarchedfromWashingtonDCtoArlingtonHeights,Virginia.Intheseearliestentrieshiscommentsareshort,asherecordsonlythemostfundamentalelementsofhisday:hislocation,travel,andawordortwoabouthisactivities.

Initiallyhealsokeptcareful trackofmoneyhe loaned tofriends,meticulouslycrossingoutthedebt,presumablywhenithadbeenpaid.These financial records soon all but disappear in place of more a personal

tone.Astimepasses,hisentriesbecomelongerandmoredetailed,withnamesoffellow soldiers, specifics of his duties, and taut comments about battles. Herecords letters he wrote to his parents, relatives, and friends back home inBarnet,aswellasthedozensanddozenshewrote“toEmma.”Thegreatbulkofthediaryreportsthetedioushardworkofcamplifeorthe

simpledetailsofgruelingmarches:“Wedrewthreedaysration,wastoldithadtolastfor5.”“Marchedabout25miles,andcampedafterdark.”“We lay in camp all day and it rained so hard therewas no fighting at all

todaysowelayincampallnight.”Withoutcomment,herecordsthedetailsoftheday-to-daytensionsthatarose

intheheatofbattle,orofbeingdrawnupinthelineofbattle,onlytoreturntocamp:“WefoundthattheRebsarenotgoingtoattackushere,sotheyhavefallen

backtotrythethingover.ButIemmafraidtheyarenotdoneyet.”“Wecampedinthebattlefieldwheretherewasafewwiththeirlegsshotoff,

buttheywasalldead.”Helikelyfeltcompelledtokeephiscommentsshortenoughthattheywould

fit in the space provided for the date in the printed diary. He almost neverexceedsthatlimit;andwhenhedoes,hesqueezesonlyafewfinalwordsintothemargin.Evenwithout theharrowing five finalmonthsof his entries, theCadediary

still would provide an evocative sketch of the life of a young New Englandsoldier.Butwhatmakeshis recordsocompelling is thatwearewitness to thepainfulfinalmonthsofayoungman’slife.OnJune1,1863,lessthantwoyearsafterheenlisted,WilliamCadewasshot

throughthehipsatthebattleofColdHarbor,Virginia.Forthenextfivemonths,ashelaydying,hestoicallyrecordedhispainandsuffering.Hiswoundsoozedpuss;andseveraltimesadayandinthemiddleofthenight,bloodpouredfromhisrectum.Still,hewriteswithoutcommentexcepttoreportthosesimplefactsandthenaddsareportoftheweatherforthatday.Forthreemonths,hewaskeptataWashingtonDChospital,untilSeptember,

whenhewasfinallytakentoahospitalinMontpelier,Vermont,fiftymilesfromhishometown.Forabriefdayortwohisspiritsseemtobrightenasheclaimshe

feelsalittlebetter,butsoontheentriesbecomemoreandmoresparse.“Mywoundsrunhard...”“Cramps.Ican’thelpmyselfenny...”“Nobetter

today.Woundsrunbad.Sunnyandpleasant...”His parents visit him, as does a friend’s father and a fellow soldier “quite

smartlydressed.”Butthelitanyneverceases:“Bowelsareheldoutside,notinside.”“InGratepain,mylegscan’tmoveenny.”“CrampedupandIcan’thelpmyself.”“Mylegscantmove.”Finally,attheendofOctober,thehandwritinginthediarychanges—someone

else iswriting hiswords.Only then arewe allowed to hear his suffering, andthenonly insnippets:“OhGod is thereno rest forme.”And then, finally, thedaybeforethelastentry:“OmayGodfreemefrommypain!”Twodayslater,onNovember2,1863,WilliamCadewasdead.Hewastwentyyearsold.

IV.TheRockingChair

On one side of our vegetable garden sits an old, wooden rocking chair. Theancientchairisintoopoorashapetositin.Therockersaremissing,andoneofthearmrestshangsfromtheframe,brokenandbent.Insummerwesimplyputapotofgeraniumsontheseatanduseitasaslowlydeterioratinglawnornament.TherockingchairwasalreadyancientwhenIboughtitinhighschool.Ifound

itatayardsaleandimmediatelyfellinlovewithit.Idecideditwouldfitinmysmallbedroomandmakeagreatalternativetosittingonmybedoronthehard,woodenchairwhereIsattodomyhomework.IdebatedforonlyashortwhilebeforeIforkedovertheheftysumof$10andhauleditaway.When I bought the rocking chair, its padded seat was made of leather, a

horsehair-filledcushionthatsatonasetofboxsprings.ShortlyafterIboughtitandasasurprisegifttome,myparentsrefurbishedthechair.Dadremovedtheoldseatandreplaceditwithasturdyplatform,whilemymotherusedhersewingskillstoreplacetheoldcushionwithacomfortablepillow.Myfathermadesomerepairstotheframe,andMomstainedthewoodtoadeep,luxuriousbrown.WhenImovedintotheyurt,Ifoundthatitwouldnotfitthroughthenarrow

door, so I set the rocking chair down just outside, where it served as acomfortablespottositandread,shadedfromtheafternoonsunlightbytheyurtitself.ThoseraretimeswhenIhadvisitors,Idraggedittothefirepitsothatmyguestcouldsitandenjoytheevening.

After I left theyurt, therockingchairbecamedomesticagain, followingmefromonedwellingtoanother;butitstimeoutsideinthedeserthadweatheredtheoldwoodandweakenedit.Overtheyears,Ihaverepaireditsjoints,gluedandfastened and fixed its frame, and replacedmymother’s sewn seat cover. I’vereada library’sworthofbooks in thatoldchairand rockedeachofmy infantsons tosleepwith itsmotion,but finallynotevenmypatchwork repairscouldsaveit.Still,Icouldn’tbeartothrowitaway.Whenwemovedintothestrawbalehouse,Ileftitoutsidenexttothefirepit

weuseforsummerbarbeques.Foralittlewhilelongeryoucouldstillsitinthethingandevenfeelthegentleswayoftheoldrockers,butsooneventhatbecameimpossible.Now, as I said, it sits out its final days beyond the garden, still useful as a

planterandasaperchforthephoebesastheywait,watching,foranotherinsectmeal.IboughtthatrockerforwhatIbelievedwasanextravagantprice:thetenbucks I spent on it was nearly a full day’s earnings. I never imagined that itwouldremainusefultomeforalifetime.Like that chair,myexperiences at trying to live in closerharmonywith the

people and places aroundme have servedme inways I never expected. I amoftenaskedifIthinkImadetherightdecisiontobuildthestrawbaleorifmytime on the desertwas simplywasted.How can I answer, for to do sowouldmean I could have foreseen the future and all the complicated, unpredictableconsequencesofitsunfolding.WhatIcantellyouisthatbothexperiencestaughtme that no one has to spend life’s precious resources of time andmoney, ofhealthyairandcleanwater,inordertoliveafullandrichlife.BuildingthestrawbaleandtheyurtshowedmethatIcansimplifymylife.Icanreducemyneedsto the most basic—food and shelter—and, in doing so, increase onethousandfoldtheintricaterewardsoflivinganexaminedlife.

V.SustainableCompromises

“Everyhippie’sdream,”someoneoncecalledmysojournattheyurt,butitwasnodream:wecouldhavechangedtheworld.ThegreatwriterandpranksterKenKeseysaid thatpeople in the1960sand

’70s understood we had to consider new ways for things to be; peopleunderstoodthatallbeingsareone.“ThedeeperIgotintoit,themoreIrealizedtherewas a different forceworking,” he said. “The only bigmistakewe evermadeasa forcewas thinking forawhile thatweweregoing towin.”Hesaidthatsoonpeopledevelopedvestedinterestsinthevictorytocome,sonow“we

parcel off into little groups, whether it’s feminism, or politics, money, orreligion,whatever it is, everyone is jumping up and down in front of it, untilnobodycanseeitclearanymore.”Wemuststopjumpingupanddownandonceagainseehowlifedependson

the interdependence of all things. The only way to do so is to confront thepollutionofourownconsciousness.As the gypsy who read my palm understood, steadfast allegiance to our

unquestionedidealscannotmakeaviablefuture.Wemustconstantlyreevaluateourbeliefsandadaptourselvestomeettheever-changingconditionsbeforeus.Wemust learn to findcompromise inourselves, inour religions,and inour

wars. We must peel back the possessiveness of our own beliefs, our ownrighteousindignation,andseekpeacewithinourselves.Forthat,therecanbenosustainablecompromise.

VI.Becoming

“Powerceasesintheinstantofrepose,”wroteRalphWaldoEmerson.“Itresidesinthemomentoftransitionfromapasttoanewstate,intheshootingofthegulf,inthedartingtoanaim.Thisonefacttheworldhates,thatthesoulbecomes,forthat forever degrades the past, turns all riches to poverty, all reputations to ashame, confounds the saint with the rogue, shoves Jesus and Judas asideequally.”We may despise how everything changes; but when we cling to an image

created in the past, it limits our future. To sustain life, we must accept thatchange isa fundamental featureofallnatural systems. Imustacceptmy life’smistakesandconstantlyturnmyattentiontotheworkthatneedstobedone.

20.

Postscript

MistakesWereMade

Whileresearchingbeforewebuiltthestrawbalehouse,Icameonanarticleonthe Internet entitled “Build aHouse inTwoDaysUsingStraw.” It gaveme agoodlaugh.ThefirstmistakeImadewasthinkingthatamanapproachingsixtycouldtake

onathree-year-longprojectthatwouldchallengeastrongandable-bodiedmaninhistwenties.Itwastoughonbothbodyandsoul.AsidefromthemanyachesandpainsI’vealreadycomplainedabout,thereare

otherthingsIwoulddodifferentlyifIhadthechance.Becauseof theconcretefloorandthesolidwalls,soundstraveleasily in the

newhouse.It’shardforonepersontobeonthephonewhiletheotherisdoinganything that requires quiet. Throw rugs help; but because the bare floor is acriticalpartoftheefficiencyofthehouse,wedon’twanttocoverittoomuch.Lowerceilings in somepartsof thehousewouldhelp, andonepossiblehomeimprovementprojectalreadyunderconsiderationisloweringtheceilingabitinthemoreintimateareasofthehouse.Likewise, Iwish I had designed away to incorporate shutters on the large,

south-facingwindows.Thewayit isnow,inordertokeepnicewarmairfromradiatingbackoutsideon longwinternights,weusedrapesover thewindows.Wetakethementirelyoffduringthedaysinordertogetthemaximumheatofthewinter sun.Thedrapesareahassleandnotnearlyasefficientascarefullyconstructedanddesignedshutterswouldhavebeen.Also,IwishIhadbeenmorecarefulwithmybody.IsmokedtobaccowhileI

lived at the yurt, for example, puffing the foul stuff through the mandatoryfamous-writer’s pipe. I gave that up a long time ago, but did I learn?Whilebuildingthestrawbale,Iconstantlyfailedtoprotectmylungsormyearsfromthenoiseandthetoxinsinvolved.WhileIunderstoodthat livinginanalternativehousewouldrequireunusual

and consistent maintenance, I did not fully appreciate how doing so mightbecomeincreasinglychallengingasIgrewolder.Shortlybeforeourdecisiontobuild,ahandfuloffellowAmoebanslookedintothepossibilityofbuyingalargehouse,fixingitup,andlivingtherecollectively.Theplanfizzledout,butsuchacollective and intentional community would have eased the solitaryresponsibilitiesthatcomewithahousejustfortwoofus.Whilebeingoffgridmeansthatwesavemoneyandusefewerresources,the

batteries for our solar powerwill wear out andwill need to be replaced. Theproductionofdeep-cellbatteries,tosaynothingoftheecologicalconsequencesofdisposingofusedbatteries,has an impacton theenvironment.Buyingnew

batterieswillalsobeanexpense,andwehavehadtobudgettoputasidemoneyfor when that becomes necessary. This also means we are not absolutelyindependent from using the earth’s limited resources or immune to thefluctuationofworldmarkets.Ultimatelythecostofbuildingastrawbalehouseisnotmuchdifferentthan

thatofaconventionallybuiltwood-framehouse.Inmostareasthebalescanbepurchasedcheaplyfromlocalfarmers,andsinceusingstrawisowner-as-builderfriendly,therearesomesavingspossible.However,thecostofadditionallaborforworkingwiththestraw,andthebasiccoststhatarenecessaryforanyhouseconstruction, means that a straw bale house is probably only slightly lessexpensive thanahousebuiltwith traditionalmaterials.Since Idida lotof theworkbymyself,orwiththeseeminglyinexhaustiblesupplyoffriends,wewereable tobuildourhouse for roughly$109asquare foot.Thatprobablywasnotmuchdifferentthanthecostofasimilarlybuiltstandardhousewithtwo-by-sixframingwithR-19insulatedwalls.Thedifference,ofcourse,isthatourwallsarefarsuperiorintermsofcomfort,efficiency,andaesthetics.

Fig.14.Thefinishedhousefromthesouth

Fig.15.Thefinishedhousefromthenorth

Butwewerejustasstupidasalotofotherpeoplewhenwegambledthatthehousingmarketwouldremainsovibrant.Ournearfinancialdisasterwasbroughtaboutbecauseweexpectedthefuturetobeanextensionoftheimmediatepast.To be better prepared for the unknown, we should have left ourselves moreoptions.

Thoreau’s cabin isn’t just a home; it’s amoral statement that there is a betterwaytolive.Whilehesaidthateveryoneneedstofindherorhisownwayoflife,hedidgetdownrightpreachyabouttheexcesseshesawinconventionalsociety.Likewise, a reader might assume I claim that I built my house “the right

way”—that building an off-grid straw bale house is somehow superior to anyother kind of home. My home is not perfect and, lord knows, neither is thebuilder, but our house is somewhatmore efficient, somewhat cheaper to own,somewhatmoresustainablethanatraditionalhouse.WhenIlivedattheyurt,IburnedwhatlittletrashIgeneratedinalargebarrel.

Iknewitsmelledofchemicalsandpollution,butIburneditanyway,watchingthebluesmokeas if itweresomeweirdceremonial fire. I shouldhaveknownbetter. The mistake was not in the burning but in my disregard of the largerconsequencesofmyactions.Inspiteof theproblems thathavearisen, themistakes Ihavemade,and the

anguish I enduredwhile building them, both the yurt and the straw bale havegivenmeanopportunitytolivewhatSocratescalledan“examinedlife,”inwaysamoretraditionallifewouldhavemadeimpossible.

WhenIwanderedthedesertaroundtheyurt,Ipurposefullyleftonelargesectionunexplored. Iwanted to leave it forever unknown, I toldmyself, to retain thesenseofmystery inmy life.Andso it is thatsomeregionsofourownpsycheshouldremainforeverunexplored,justaspartsofourownsurroundingsshouldalwaysremainunchartedandunknown,tantalizinguswiththemysteryoftheirbeing.

Yesterday I walked my land, looking for an invasive plant called Japaneseknotweed. The World Conservation Union has listed the plant as one of theworld’s worst invasive species, and it is widespread in Vermont. Onceestablished, itbecomessodenselypacked that it createsamonoculture,wherenootherplantlifecangrow.Thehollowstemsof theplant looklikebamboo,anditgrowsinalmostany

soil. It can survive temperatures to forty below and is nearly impossible toeradicate.Cut itdownand it regenerates twiceas thick fromthe roots.Digupthethicknetworkofrootsifyoucan,buttheyformclustersthataretenfeetdeepandtwenty-fivefeetwide.Plus,therootsregeneratesoeasilythatitisdifficulttodisposeofthem.The only way to get rid of the plant is to kill the roots. So far, the most

common way of doing this is to treat the plants with an herbicide, like thecommercialproductRound-Up.Themostsustainablewayofgettingridof theplants,yetnotthemosteasilyaccomplished,isbyinjectingsteamintotherootsinordertokillthem.IhavenotyetfoundanyJapaneseknotweedonmyland,butit’llbeheresoon

enough. Then I will have to decide just what to do with it. Perhaps we arefightingalosingbattleoversuchspecies.Onawell-traveledVermonthighway,someonehasplaceda large,homemadesignagainst abackdropof forest.Thesimpletruthmaybethewordsofthatsign.Itreads,“EvolutionorExtinction.”Maybeour“mistake” is the ideaof sustainability itself, as ifwecansustain

something that is always in flux—a flux made more rapid by our owncontribution.Insteadoftryingtosustainourlittleniche,weneedtodevelopanenvironmental awareness to give us more options against an unknown andrapidlychangingfuture.

Isatintheidlingcar,therelentlessdrizzlingsnowoftheendlesswinterslashingonthehood.Isatinthesilenceofthatpoundingwhiletryingonandthenlettinggo of words: I lingered on words of hope—what Emily Dickinson called thethingwith feathers—toowrapped in themoment todarewhisper them, lestbysimplyspeakingofahopefulfuture,Icondemnedittodreamland.Icontemplatedmyown tenuousplace in theworld,untetheredandabout to

step forward into theunknown. I shuddered then, recognizinghoweasily itallpasses,“like takingscissors toastring,”saysDylan.Firstaspringmorning inthesunofayouthfuldesert,indeepjoy,love,andunderstanding,andthenthatthingwithfeathershasflown.Autumnreturns,andthenthedarknessagain.Buttonight,asIsatinthewarmingcar,noneofthosedarkerwordsformedon

mylips.Tonighttherewasthespeechlessgraspingthatthismoment,stolenandrushed—this moment was real: I must meet the future with kindness andgenerosity.Theothersherebesidemearenothingbutmyownbeing.

Acknowledgments

TheAll-AroundEverythingMasterswithoutWhomThereWouldn’tBeaHouseoraBook:RickStodola,JonFitch,RichardMoye,TomRobinson,AlanFogg,andBobGross.BridgetBarry,SabrinaEhmkeSergeant,andLindaWacholder.Hammers,Brooms,Brushes, Sweat, Tears,ColorConsultation, andMarital

Therapists:SherriFitch,BarbWacholder,JohnAjamie,ElaineRobinson,VickiLitzinger,SusanOhlidal,GregDinkel,BuckBeliles,MeriSimon,KathyBales,Len Gerardi, Cathy Ajamie, Lauren Moye, Lauren Jarvi, Jeff Briggs, PaulaBriggs,RobHoppe,KrisHoppe,JessieTidyman,andDanPrimmer.BerryTurnovers,BeanEnchiladas,SpinachCasseroles,MoreEndlessGreat

Food, Good Cheer, and Encouragement a Thousand Hours Deep: TrishPennypacker.SpecialAngelatCriticalMomentsAward:JeffGutt.HelpedNotJustBecauseIt’sTheirInheritance:AndrewBoye,BenBoye,and

JohnBoye.bestSamaritanAward:NormandLindaDagnaut.StrawMovers:theKozlowskibrothers.Advice,Kindness,StrawStorageandTransport,andSupport:DaveConant,

RodZwick,ChadPennypacker,DaveLenton,HenriLenton,TimMcKay,BetsyMcKay,andGordonGoss.It Takes a Village Participants: David Beliles, Jessica Beliles, Bill Price,

Claire Stodola, Luke Stodola, Nathan Stodola, Amy Stodola, Cathy Russell,Alan Rowe, Dave Plazek, Tina Plazek, “Gangsta” AndrewBilir-Flock, GavinThurston, Jake Styles,Wally Sophrin, Lauren Sophrin, JordanGrove,HeatherKeith,SteveFessmere,DavidBoye,KristinBrooks,DylanFord,BobbyFarlice-Rubio,TylerMcGill,JonahTidyman,JeremyBrown,andRyanMesch.ForAlwaysSavingMeaSeatontheBus:DawnMadore.Construction Materials, Good Advice, Great Help: Allen Lumber, St. Jay

Hardware. Deep Well and Good Water: John Ainsworth Water Systems.Plumbing Materials: F. W. Webb Co.—especially Dick and Donny—and

Appalachian Supply Co.Gas Plumbing: Lloyd Rowell.Concrete Foundation,Floor, and Acid Stain: Lunnie Concrete, especially Harold Lunnie and crew.Concrete Supplies: Hopkins & Sons. Straw Bale Construction: GreenSpaceCollaborative, especially Andy Mueller and crew. Solar Power: IndependentPower, especially Dave Palumbo and crew. Excavation, Advice, and GoodHumor:DanThompsonandcrew.Chimney:GaryNelson.SepticDesign:KeithJohnson.CustomWindows:Mayo’sGlass.RecycledMaterialsandInspiration:AdmacSalvage.BankingandFinancial:PassumpsicSavingsBank, especiallyCathyClark.StainedGlass:LeagueofNHCraftspersons.Inspiration:My students fromLas TresVillas and those from the “Walden

Class”everywhere.FaithandDecadesofSupport:LyndonStateCollege.AResidency of Solitude, Space, and Time for theWriting of this Book: the

RagdaleFoundation.

Notes

1.WhatILivedForTheaveragecost fornewhomes in theUnitedStatescanbe foundonlineatU.S.Bureauof theCensus,“MedianandAverageSalesPricesofNewHomesSold inUnitedStates,”U.S.CensusBureau,accessedJuly18,2013,http://www.census.gov/const/uspriceann.pdf.Foryurtresources,seeYurtInfo’swebsiteathttp://www.yurtinfo.org/,accessedJuly18,2013.

2.SustainableCompromisesFortheVermontSepticLaw,seeStateofVermont,“WastewaterSystemandPotableWaterSupplyRules,”chap.1,StateofVermontEnvironmentalProtectionRules(effectiveSeptember29,2007).

4.WaterRegardinghyperobjects,seealsoNixon,SlowViolenceandtheEnvironmentalismofthePoor.For the map of Vermont water wells, see Vermont Department of Environmental Conservation,

“StatewideGroundwaterAnalyses,”accessedJuly24,2013.Forasamplewaterbudget,see“WaterBudget,”SustainableSources:19YearsofOnlineGreenBuilding

Information,accessedJuly24,2013,http://waterbudget.sustainablesources.com.

5.DesignEnergyuseandcarbondioxideemissionsregardingconcretearefrom“CementandConcrete.”Formoreonthehistoryofstrawbaleconstruction,seeWelsch,“BaledHay.”For photographs of the oldest straw bale buildings, see “A Photo Tour of Nebraska’s Straw-Bale

Buildings,” The Last Straw: The International Quarterly Journal of Straw Bale and Natural Building,accessedJuly18,2013,http://thelaststraw.org/sban/tour/tour.html.For an example of theEyedesign, see “1800Sq.Ft. (Eye),”Balewatch.com, accessed July 18, 2013,

http://www.balewatch.com/1800.eye.html.

6.FoundationsSomeofmyinformationaboutEarthPeople’sParkisfrom“EarthPeople’sPark,”Wikipedia,lastmodifiedFebruary12,2013,http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Earth_Peoples_Park.

7.ElSolFor solar radiation statistics, see the National Solar Radiation Data Base, 1961–1990, found online athttp://rredc.nrel.gov/solar/old_data/nsrdb/1961-1990/,accessedJuly24,2013.

8.EconomicsThequotesfromThichNhatHanharefromEssentialWritings,p.69.

10.TheAmoebaFor informationabout theeffectof industrializationon the senseofcommunity, I am indebted toGross,“‘ThatTerribleThoreau.’”

11.TheStrawThatBrokeTheTheetymologyoftheword“straw”isfromtheOxfordEnglishDictionary.ThehistoryofthedrinkingstrawisfromThompson,“InventionoftheBendyStraw.”

12.Finances

Forasummaryoftheoilcrisisof1973,seeRegionalOralHistoryOffice,“1973–74OilCrisis,”accessedJuly24,2013.

13.CollaborationInformation about the closing of the Tesuque school is from newspaper articles in the author’s privatecollection.

17.ThickSkininaWinterofDiscontent

FortheRajneesh/Oshocommentsoneuthanasiaandgeneticselection,see“Vision:TheGreatestChallenge:the Golden Future,” Osho Times Online, accessed July 18, 2013,http://www.osho.com/magazine/oshointro/visiongoldenindexdetails.cfm?Golden=birth.Additional information regarding theRajneeshmovement is fromMcCormack,OregonMagazine, see

especiallyp.114.

18.SpringFormoreontheAnasazisearchforthecenter,see“GlyphTime”inmyTalesfromtheJourneyoftheDead.

19.HigherLawsFor the threatposedbyunregulatedcorporations,seeNixon,“Neoliberalism,Genreand‘TheTragedyoftheCommons.’”Emerson’squoteisfromp.29,Self-RelianceandOtherEssays(Dover,MineolaNY,1993).Kesey’squoteisfromGibneyandEllwood,MagicTrip.

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AbouttheAuthor

AlanBoye is aprofessorofEnglishatLyndonStateCollege inVermont.HismostrecentbookisTalesfromtheJourneyoftheDead:TenThousandYearsonanAmericanDesert(Nebraska,2006).

IntheOurSustainableFutureseriesOgallala:WaterforaDryLand

JohnOpie

BuildingSoilsforBetterCrops:OrganicMatterManagementFredMagdoff

AgriculturalResearchAlternativesWilliamLockeretzandMollyD.AndersonCropImprovementforSustainableAgricultureEditedbyM.BrettCallawayandCharlesA.FrancisFutureHarvest:Pesticide-FreeFarmingJimBender

AConspiracyofOptimism:ManagementoftheNationalForestssinceWorldWarTwoPaulW.Hirt

GreenPlans:GreenprintforSustainabilityHueyD.Johnson

MakingNature,ShapingCulture:PlantBiodiversityinGlobalContextLawrenceBusch,WilliamB.Lacy,JeffreyBurkhardt,DouglasHemken,JubelMoraga-Rojel,TimothyKoponen,andJosédeSouzaSilvaEconomicThresholdsforIntegratedPestManagementEditedbyLeonG.HigleyandLarryP.PedigoEcologyandEconomicsoftheGreatPlainsDanielS.Licht

UphillagainstWater:TheGreatDakotaWaterWarPeterCarrels

ChangingtheWayAmericaFarms:KnowledgeandCommunityintheSustainableAgricultureMovementNevaHassanein

Ogallala:WaterforaDryLand,secondeditionJohnOpie

WillardCochraneandtheAmericanFamilyFarmRichardA.Levins

DownandOutontheFamilyFarm:RuralRehabilitationintheGreatPlains,1929–1945

MichaelJohnstonGrant

RaisingaStink:TheStruggleoverFactoryHogFarmsinNebraskaCarolynJohnsen

TheCurseofAmericanAgriculturalAbundance:ASustainableSolutionWillardW.Cochrane

GoodGrowing:WhyOrganicFarmingWorksLeslieA.Duram

RootsofChange:Nebraska’sNewAgricultureMaryRidder

RemakingAmericanCommunities:AReferenceGuidetoUrbanSprawlEditedbyDavidC.Soule

ForewordbyNealPeirce

RemakingtheNorthAmericanFoodSystem:StrategiesforSustainabilityEditedbyC.ClareHinrichsandThomasA.LysonCrisisandOpportunity:SustainabilityinAmericanAgricultureJohnE.Ikerd

GreenPlans:BlueprintforaSustainableEarth,revisedandupdatedHueyD.Johnson

GreenIllusions:TheDirtySecretsofCleanEnergyandtheFutureofEnvironmentalismOzzieZehner

TravelingthePowerLine:FromtheMojaveDeserttotheBayofFundyJulianneCouch

SustainableCompromises:AYurt,AStrawBaleHouse,andEcologicalLivingAlanBoye

ToorderorobtainmoreinformationontheseorotherUniversityofNebraskaPresstitles,visitnebraskapress.unl.edu.