September 2, 2018
Perhaps a little space for an outdoor kitchen might be good? A place to hang my lantern so I can read. Shelves that make a little more sense. Some clearer idea of protocol, i.e., dishes, garbage, drinking water, coffee and how/when to prepare for dark.
A good friend these past forty years comes from afar to reconnect, and applies his reliable insight to this off-grid situation of mine.
“Would you come here to seek relief from bureaucracy and the vicissitudes of life in these enervating post-truth times?”, I prompt.
He offers welcome, pragmatic suggestion. As always when in the presence of my friend’s formidable mind, I begin to look at the mental, emotional, physical and psychological puzzles presented by this off-grid situation through a different lens. Hmmm.
Yes, indeed.
Possibilities for learning what we know so far: why moths, when, and where from? Why and when peepers, and how different from tree frogs; how many of each and where?
Mushrooms: which ones and where, in what conditions; and mycorrhizae: connecting which tree to which plant; where is the information, the nutrient, the pulse of this (I’ve just read it’s one pulse per second, but need to know more).
What happens when I walk through all of this, when I breathe here, work here. How would I describe my own footprint in this powerful, complex but oh-so delicate place?
How do I describe all of this to guests, who come to stay in my guest-house?
This is where I go with my artist body-mind. My brilliant, pragmatic friend nods, witnesses, agrees. Then he suggests, “Perhaps a tarp that pulls out from here, so we can stay outside should a flash thunderstorm occur?” Since one did.
Thanks for the visit, my friend. All good inspirations, for a time somewhere in my future. For now, though, they are the tangent too far. There’s much to attend to.
I focus my efforts in grant application writing and research design – into people – and continue to explore the quantum possibilities of where I will migrate to, after the snow flies.