Well, here we are into the winter! Our family has lived on the ground through a cycle of one full season of the changing of the leaves and many changes have taken hold of us as well. I have found that I am quite attached to my bow saw, taking her on walks with me daily through the hills in search of dead standing oak, ash, madrone, the low-lying manzanita and the occasional ponderosa or fur. I could use a chainsaw, but I believe I will leave that to the wheelie bow shooters, and stick to my hands and feet! Thinking of the word 'power' a lot lately, and how misused it really is in civilized life. We used to pay our bill to the "power company" to have heat, much as most of the world now does being that over half the world's population is now urbanized. I would much prefer to call these institutions as they are, the DIS-empower company! There is nothing short of human when I walk out, up to two miles each day, find the right tree that lived for 100 years, giving acorns and shelter, that has since stopped growing and is seasoned to perfection for our hearth, take the bow saw and with much reverence, bring the tree to the ground, stoop to lift her over my shoulder and carry back to our tipi! Instead of the passivity of flipping a dial to stay warmed from a hole in the wall, on the outside of my body, I am warming myself internally, building up enough heat to steam from my back in the snow covered woods in just prepping this daily ritual. I then use the bow saw to make rounds of the tree, again creating more warmth and take my trusty hand axe to split the wood for my family to have light on the dark winter nights, warmth and food! Now that is power! The power that moves through me, not to be harnessed and dominated, or held over any being, the way a cop or a boss or landlord may wield "power". No, this is everlasting, all flowing power.
We have many neighbors crossing our footpaths each day as well. Turkey by the gaggle, deer, coyote, cat, bear, hawk and bald eagle all run through our village. At night, when my family settles into our bedrolls, we are lulled to sleep by the coyote lull-a-bye, yipping in chorus with the hoot owls above our heads. There is a strong flowing stream just downhill from us, that we cannot use for drinking as the cattle that have infiltrated this land for some time use it as a toilet, but it is clean enough to slip into for a cooling dip during the moon cycle sweat lodges we hold each new and full moon. The sound of the water moving is also ever present, shushing out the flow of the mechanical highway that can be heard though we are 11 miles from it's intrusion. Living through the fall rains, on the ground, brought me to some understanding of our ability to be human as well. We navigate the mudded slopes and step carefully over the rocks in the stream, learning balance. Our children have been gathering wood and water, and even doing their own dishes (sometimes), not bad for 7 and 8! They too are really coming alive out here.
I see them crouched over mossy oak bottoms, watching the ice melt slowly in the sun, waiting for the sphagnum to re-open in the sun. They are participating in a timeless engagement of learning by living. There are days that I do not see them from morning until evening as well, when they flop into the lodge, red cheeked and wet gloved, ready for a cup of hot tea and steaming bowl of dinner, fresh from the hearth. They are learning to course the river rocks as well, or not (splash!). I have told them for years that dry is alive in the winter woods, but it takes really feeling the stinging cold on your wet toes to know why. Now they do! They are all the better for it.
Staying dry is a challenge, when you live in the elements, and I am learning that dry is somewhat relative. We have learned to avoid the drips and push them down the poles of the tipi in heavy rains, building makeshift ozans from rain coats to hang over our beds, suspended from the poles all around us. It works! We sleep soundly and awake to dry blankets and pillows. There is something almost sad about being too dry out here, after some time, but you won't hear me complaining about it.
Our tipi is a 19 foot lodge, giving enough space for a family of four to spread our legs, stretching ourselves away from the fire, head to the hearth, as well as having a library, a tree stump table, wood cutting area and a size-able kitchen, all abutting the canvas cover and the poles around us. We have not made a liner as of yet, which blocks a bit of the draft, but are managing just fine so far. You really learn what a luxury is and what essential is when you get down to it.
We do live in a community of folk here, all in tipis, and having that common unity really levels the field of neighboring. We seem to work together well, holding talking circles frequently in what is called the big lodge. The big lodge is a 27 foot lodge that is the center of the community. It is an always open space for folk to come and visit, and for new arrivals to settle into while they prepare their own tipi. Our family shared this space with the whole community of 15 people for a while during the move from our summer spot to the winter spot. It was snug, but worked out well. The big lodge is our gathering place as well, for birthdays, celebrations, potlucks, arguments, what have you. It really is inspiring to see work. I would encourage any of you that would like to come and stay with us for a bit. There is a fully functioning sewing shop in the village, under a bedouin style tent, using foot powered treddle machines to make tipis and what ever else you can sew. You can purchase a tipi from Rogue Dwellings or come and learn to make your own!
Currently we are in search of new land, with a river and plenty of woods, away from cities, for our next spot. If you know of or have land in Oregon that you would like to offer for use to a fully functioning nomadic tipi village, let me know! Be Well and Shoot Straight!
Wylden
