Anything will work if you let it.

I ran into Lowell a couple of days ago down at the HIVE where he was helping out with the BikeMe! open hours. Lowell knows bikes; when he came to Greensboro three years ago he brought with him the bicycle he had bought in Artesia, New Mexico in 1983—he would still be riding that bike today if it hadn’t been demolished when a car ran into him last year. He came to Greensboro in the spring of 2005 with the bike, some clothes, and a guy who skipped town shortly after he dropped Lowell off in a patch of woods near the Coliseum. That’s where Lowell lived for the first summer and winter, in a makeshift shelter of plywood and shingles. After the police started coming around too often, he moved further out—“further out” is the only address I have for him, and the only address I want to have—and that’s where he’s been ever since.

I was glad to see Lowell. Homelessness almost by definition makes people hard to track down, and Lowell is more difficult than some because he refuses to use email. “How do you communicate with people then?” I asked him once. He answered the question with patience. “I talk to them.”

I had asked Lowell a couple of months ago if I could interview him for this blog, and he had told me to go ahead and tell him when I was ready. With all that’s happening at the HIVE and Food Not Bombs—Lowell is deeply involved in both—and with all the talk in Greensboro about the need for a day center, this seemed like a good time to write some more about homelessness. I told Lowell I wanted to share some of his ingenious survival tactics.

“Not survival,” he corrected me. “I do a lot more than survive.”

“How about thrival tactics,” I said.

“That’s better,” Lowell said. “I thrive.”

We made an arrangement to meet early at Food Not Bombs to talk. The weather on Tuesday was lovely. There must be a term in poetics or in physics for the feeling it gave me, for the strange way certain kinds of light can rearrange chronology. The clear, warm afternoon sunlight that filled the high-ceilinged room at St. Mary’s House belonged to a sequence of early summer afternoons that stretch all the way back to those first breathless days of summer vacation. It could have been 1958 or 1978 or last year; it could have been New Hampshire or Massachusetts or North Carolina. It had a floating, expansive quality that disengaged the day from Monday and Wednesday and strung it on a longer and more tender string.

“I’m not really homeless, you know,” Lowell said as we settled into the little nest of sofas by the front door, “I’m just houseless. I like the spot where I am.”

I asked him what he did about the necessities—drinking water, for instance. “You always boil the water—that’s not hard,” he said. You can’t burn wood or they’ll find you. You use a candle.”

“A candle? That’s hot enough?”

“Sure—all you need is a candle and a pot from Goodwill or the dumpster. You can use any kind of candle, anything but natural beeswax; paraffin burns the hottest. Then you make a grid out of green sticks to hold the pan and you shelter the candle from the wind. Long butane lighters, the kind people use on gas grills, are best. Matches are hard to keep dry—even if you seal them in a plastic bag, the bag has a tendency to sweat on the inside. The only exception is waxed matches designed for camping.”

“Then what?” I said.

“Oh, once you have boiling water there’s a lot you can make—ramen noodles, instant oatmeal, soup. Or you can heat food right in a can.”

Danny came over with a plastic bag full of peppers and tomatoes from the kitchen—we encourage people to come into the kitchen and take whatever food isn’t going into that night’s meal. “You know what that means,” he said, hoisting the bag. “A pot of beans.” Danny is one of the people participating in the new Housing First program—he’s living in his own apartment again for the first time in a couple of years. He sat down on the other sofa.

“Where does the canned food come from?” I asked Lowell.

“Sometimes the dumpster, sometimes a food pantry,” he said.

Urban Ministry is hard,” Danny said. “They won’t give you a bag of food unless you arrive in a car.”

“A car?” I said.

Mike sat down next to Danny. “They’re afraid you’ll sell it,” he said.

“If you’re homeless Urban Ministry will give you an overnight bag, something like a packet of crackers, a can of tuna—a dinky little can, not even one of the regular ones,” Danny said. “I had a couple of overnight bags, and then when I got my own place I got a ride over there and tried to sign up but they said I couldn’t because I’d already had four overnight bags this year.”

“There’s not a limit on overnight bags,” Mike said.

“Apparently there was for me. They wanted my ID and my social. When they looked me up they told me I couldn’t get a full bag because I’d been there before. They told me and they told my caseworker.”

Mike shook his head. “They do what they want to do.”

“That,” said Danny “about sums it up,”

Lowell doesn’t have an ID or a social security card, and he doesn’t have the paperwork to get them. He lost them back in New Mexico. “You did better than I did,” he said. “All I got from them is ‘I don’t know what to tell you’ and ‘I don’t care’.”

“How do you open the can?” I said.

“P38,” Lowell and Danny said at the same time.

“What’s a P38?”

Danny reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flat piece of metal about the size of a razor blade. “Army can opener,” he said.

“That and a plastic spoon out of the dumpster and you’re set,” Lowell said. “The first thing I did after I’d made that shelter in the woods was start collecting stuff out of the dumpster—candles, food, LED lights from behind the drugstore. I slept on couch cushions. I found a tarp and put it over the opening of the shelter. I spent one winter in that little shelter—with the tarp down I could light a candle inside and not even see my breath.”

“So what are the basics that somebody needs?”

Lowell stood up and reached into his pockets: bike key, small Swiss Army knife, a neat packet of folded papers—Lowell calls them his “memory papers”, folded notes and flyers that are the equivalent of a daytimer—an LED flashlight from the dollar store. “I prefer the LED,” Lowell said. ”Much brighter than a regular flashlight and it runs on AAA batteries, which are cheaper.”

“It’s best to keep only the bare necessities,” Danny said. “When I was homeless I carried a military backpack. If it didn’t fit into the backpack I didn’t keep it.”

“Is there something you wish you had but didn’t? Something like, I don’t know, like an axe or something?”

Lowell shrugged. “A woodsman’s machete would be nice,” he l said. “It would make it easier to clean raccoons.” Mike made a face and shifted on the sofa. He’s from Brooklyn. “It’s hard to clean a raccoon with something this size,” Lowell went on, holding the diminutive Swiss Army knife on the flat of his palm.

“Why do you carry such a small knife?” I asked.

“You can’t bring anything bigger into Urban Ministry.”

“But how do you sneak up on a raccoon?”

“You don’t need to—they come to you,” Lowell said, and Danny nodded. “You hit them right behind the head with a big stick and break their neck.”

“You use your light,” Danny said. “Everything freezes when you shine your light on them.”

“That’s usually just long enough,” Lowell said.

“Then what?”

“The first thing after that is to cut both ends off and throw them out as far as you can. That’s to keep the other raccoons away. They’ll eat the head and the tail and leave you alone. Then you just skin it and clean it and cook it.”

“Do you do anything with the skin?” I had a brief internal picture of Lowell sitting cross-legged in the woods stitching himself a raccoon-skin comforter.

“Throw it out same as the tail and the head.”

“You don’t make anything out of it?”

“Not if I don’t want the fleas. And I’m careful about the raccoons I eat—I don’t eat the raccoons that eat out of people’s garbage cans, or the ones that come out of the sewer.”

“I eat out of people’s garbage cans,” I said.

“Not the kind of garbage cans I’m talking about,” Lowell said.

When the raccoon is cleaned and skinned Lowell fries the meat over a candle, or adds it to a can of stew. “It’s the same with snakes, squirrels, rabbits–even the occasional chicken will wander in down there.”

“Possum,” Danny said.

“The only thing I’ve had any problem catching is the frogs.”

Mike said “You eat snakes?’

“If they’re two inches in diameter I do. Black bull snakes. Then there’s the wild fruit. In town there’s people’s fruit trees all over the place hanging out over the sidewalk. And in the woods strawberries, blackberries, mulberries. All you have to do is watch what the animals eat. If they don’t eat it I don’t eat it, if they don’t drink it I don’t drink it. The only difference is I boil the water.”

The smells coming out of the kitchen were growing richer and deeper, filling the space with sonorous tones of garlic and onion. We had been given a couple of bags of potatoes and Morris was deep frying them—big meaty wedges dusted with chili powder and sea salt. He brought out some of the first batch and passed them around; crisp and hot to the touch on the outside, cool and yielding on the inside.

“To me it’s like being in the army on bivouac,” Danny said, brushing the salt off his hands. “The only difference is that in the army you don’t know who the enemy is. When you’re homeless you know who the enemy is. It’s the guy next to you.”

Lowell nodded. “I have more peace now than I did when I had a home. I know where my enemies are, and they’re not where I am.”

“What do you mean by enemies?” I said. Like all homeless people Lowell gets stopped a lot by the police when he’s walking or riding his bike or even just sitting; it infuriates him. “Do you mean the government? The police?

“Oh no, they’re everyone’s enemies,” Lowell said. “I mean the people who have decided they are my enemy, the ones who would rather hurt me than help me. It could be the agencies, the churches, it could be other homeless. I didn’t choose to be their enemy, they chose to be mine. What I’ve learned is that you should always do the opposite of what they tell you. Whatever they tell you to do, you go in the opposite direction instantly or you’re going to wind up in that pit with them.”

I still wasn’t sure I entirely understood, but Danny was speaking. “There are people who make the rest of the homeless look bad.”

Mike nodded. “One person can ruin it for everyone else. Because of those selected few things happen to all of us.”

Stan had been standing a little outside the circle. He came in and sat down. “They’ll use any reason to stop you. Any reason.”

“You know, though, when you’re homeless there are a lot of headaches you don’t have,” Danny said. “How you’re going to pay the electric bill, how you’re going to hold onto your job, all that. With homelessness, once you get used to it, it’s actually better.”

“It’s like Will Rogers said: anything will work if you’ll let it,” Lowell said. “But a lot of people just don’t know. They don’t know that you’re set up to fail. They don’t know that there’s no way you can succeed under this system.”

“You want to know something?” Danny said “All those people in the middle class, upper middle class, all the people that look down on us, if we don’t get somebody worthwhile up there–I don’t care if it’s Hillary or Obama, anybody that’s not what we’ve got right now–there are going to be a lot more of them out here with us. And when that happens I think you’re going to start seeing the suicide rate go up. They’re not going to be able to take it.”

Stan shook his head. “It’s too late. It doesn’t matter any more who’s up there. Four years isn’t enough, forty years isn’t enough, to undo what’s been done. Basically the way it is now, we either live together or we’re going to die together.”

But it was six o’clock. There was a rustling at the other end of the room as people lined up next to the tables that had been set up with stir-fried vegetables and fruit and bread and Morris’s deep-fried potatoes. The sun was level now through the windows, glinting off the water pitcher and the forks and the stack of china plates. I wasn’t staying that night to eat, but I did take another one of Morris’s potatoes. People were eating, sitting and talking and eating, as I closed the door behind me.


Filed under homelessness, Uncategorized

One Grain of Sand

We’re holding our first formal meeting next week about the next version of our collective—the first meeting, at least, that isn’t a chance conversation in the kitchen or an open-ended daydreaming session after the weekly house meeting. We’ll be sitting down with Ed, Marnie and Muktha, all of them connected through the Fund for Democratic Communities and through Cakalak Thunder, and all of whom have expressed an interest in helping whatever it is that we have started here grow and change into whatever it is that it is next meant to be.

In the middle of the back-and-forth emails scheduling that meeting, Muktha sent this lovely piece of writing to Mark, who passed it on to me. It’s a reflection on her childhood on the southeast coast of India that she wrote for Mother’s Day—“many of those memories,” she explained to Mark “were triggered by our conversations recently about conservation and community.” Many thanks to Muktha for letting me reprint it here.

I can’t think of childhood, and therefore who I am today, without Amma at every turn. She is like those gifted actors who play 15 different roles in one play, and the difficulty is in separating those identities of Amma. For this year, maybe I should focus on the ‘green’ Amma – the person who gardened with a passion, who conserved beyond measure, who was creative in every move of conservation, and played a fierce role in animal husbandry that would put any environmentalist to shame today.

The beauty of it all is that every role, every task, every initiative was so integrated into her role of mother and she carried them all out without a book, magazine, website, organization, cooperative, forum, collective, or trust. It was the way she thought and lived as she raised a family, including an extended one. And of course, she didn’t do this alone. Family, relatives, gardeners, neighbors, and children all pitched in.

Although I didn’t know it at the time, I was learning about reclaiming water as soon as I woke up. As I got a tumbler of water from the kitchen faucet and in the typical playfulness of a child let it flow over and all over my hands, the excess water drained through the pipe below and out into the garden. Carefully laid out pipes sucked every drop of waste water from the home that was organic and biodegradable into the garden, and the garden itself was no blank plot of cultivated land. The entire garden was made of numerous clusters of small plots that were home to a bunch of banana trees, green beans, eggplants, jasmine flowers, roses, lime trees, papaya trees, coconut trees, peppers, tomatoes, and all kinds of greens, ginger and garlic.

And here I should pause to specify the most valid argument for Amma’s green gifts. In 1970, when we moved to our new home along the beach, the brand new 3-bedroom home sat on loose beautiful sand. If we dug a foot, we saw water seep in at the bottom. In 1977, when my father died suddenly and the family was uprooted from there, we left the home surrounded by a modest lawn with lilies, zarbeerahs, and evergreens on one side, dwarf coconut trees in one corner, a rose and jasmine garden on another side, a full fledged edible green vegetable garden on another, and numerous fruit trees in the backyard.

Amma was the alchemist who turned the sand into food.

My own favorite was the banana garden. Perhaps it was that the wastewater flowed into that patch first, or perhaps it was because of the ‘holy’ aura around the banana world in Hindu homes, but that patch was the most vibrant, dynamic, colorful, and sweet patch of yard that I remember. Like Amma’s love, it was tender, 100% accepting, forgiving, and always welcoming.

The most creative role of the banana in a Hindu household is that of
incense holder. Come to think of it, I don’t remember but one stainless steel lotus-shaped incense holder at home in the Pooja(prayer) room, but incense-lighting was a common and everyday task. Since the windows and doors were wide open during the day, the smoke from the incense never really collected in the home. We kids often heard an adult yell for a banana after a bunch of sandalwood or rose incense was lit, and they were easy to find on the initialed rectangular stainless steel plate that sat on the dining table. You grabbed one and scurried to the adult, who gently stuck the bottom of the incense sticks through the yielding banana skin.

As I said, when I washed my hands in the kitchen sink, the water didn’t drain down into a black hole and disappear. Well, it did just for a second before it splashed out on the other side of the kitchen wall and into the beginning of a complicated maze of trenches that reached every fruit tree and vegetable patch in the backyard. Sometime after the home was built and the plumbing was in place, Amma decided that the plumbing must be altered in order to serve the garden in the backyard. Water is precious in tropical contexts, and it must not have made sense to her to let all that water drain into a black hole.

The first stop for any water from the kitchen was the little banana grove about 6 feet from the kitchen. You see, banana trees are like families. There are several shapes and sizes all the way from the tall and tired grandpa banana tree to the lush little baby at grandpa’s feet, and they all huddle together to claim a crowded green outline against the blue sky.

Maybe because the cycle of life was so lucidly transparent in our own backyard, or maybe because I still begin my day with a banana, I am quite fond of those memories. The banana stem is like a smooth pale green pillar, tall and upright, and can grow up to 10 or 12 feet. From the top of each of those green pillars, numerous long leaves would grow up and out and hang all around the stem. From somewhere in the middle of those leaves, a chalky fat maroon casing would grow out and hold numerous little bright yellow banana flowers within each fold. The closest it comes to is an artichoke, but in different colors. Each maroon casing would curl up to reveal a soft and deep-maroon underside that had just protected the tiny flowers. Thus would start a magical cycle of the life of the huge and hanging cluster of bananas.

There wasn’t a part of the banana tree that went unused. The outer casing of the stem would dry out like an onion skin, but lent itself to being torn into long and slender threads that would be wetted to string beautiful jasmine garlands for the pooja room. The fruit was everyday food. The juice from the corm of the banana was used as medicine; so were the bitter flowers.

My favorite part of the plant was the leaf. It was about 5 feet long with a sturdy spine in the middle and a smooth but ribbed leaf about 10-12 inches on either side of the spine. I can’t possibly describe all the ways in which I’ve seen this leaf used. During the relentless monsoons, I saw two leaves double up as an umbrella for the poor. During unannounced visits from rather large families, they served as plates. Cut in threes, the leaf served as a beautiful plate on which the various foods were served in an elegant style. And this was no accidental plate. There were prescriptions about how the waterproof leaf was to be placed on the table, how it should be opened, which end faced which direction, and how it was to be closed as a sign that the person was indeed done with the meal.

The best part, again, came at the end. Of course, there were no dishes to wash, just leaves to be thrown away, and yes, eaten again. This time, the milk cow from the neighborhood would be led to the bin for organic waste that held the after-party plates, and would make a meal out of the banana leaves.

I can go on and on about integrated, deeply meaningful, funny, loving, even tragic experiences from my childhood, but the point is that they all taught me something about life that was sustaining, beautiful, joyful, and completely with value. Much of everything I know now, I learned from those spaces that were fashioned by Amma’s creativity, frugality, love for nature, especially water, and love for all of us around her.

I know now that I first encountered the idea of ‘craft technology,’ one of many of Gandhi-concepts, at home through Amma’s (mother) handwork. I didn’t hear the words until I became an adult or discuss the concept until I was transported to an American classroom, but I was well educated about how it worked.

According to Gandhi, technology must always serve the human, and humanity’s right to freedom and democracy. It must be engaged in the protection of livelihoods, and to conserve the environment. It is only in a decentralized democracy where life, livelihood, and environment are protected that craft technologies can thrive. Craft technologies use resources wisely and there’s a sort of multiplied and multiple use of everything.

Every time I hear about cell phones and their tie to traffic deaths, the dangers to human health as a result of sophisticated food technologies, TV watching and obesity, Net-addictions, impersonal and inaccurate medical technologies, and the numerous other signs that our technologies have failed to serve our needs, I make that mind-trip back home to Chennai in the 60s and the 70s to the home and life where Amma designed our technologies to serve us.

This kind of greenness, this wisdom, this interconnectedness, affected everything we did. A side effect of this kind of lifestyle is thecomplete lack of competition, I now realize. She raised my brother and sister and I (and even the cousins) to co-exist, to cooperate, and to live in love and laughter. She made the simple things matter to us.

Pete Seeger’s ‘One Grain of Sand’ is a favorite lullaby of mine, but I can tell it has quite a different meaning, thanks to Amma.

You can go here to listen to a snippet of Pete Seeger singing that lovely song.

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Filed under collective living


Down the road not taken there exists a weekly HBO ensemble drama called Anarchy! It’s set in some Midwestern city—Minneapolis perhaps, or maybe St. Louis. It’s about an odd household of people living together in an old house in a respectable middle-class neighborhood: a divorced woman in her 50s, a couple of punk kids, a mother and her young son, a musician/inventor, a bike fanatic. They spend their days doing things that any family does—talking, laughing, arguing, eating dinner, hanging the laundry out to dry—but they are not a family in the conventional nuclear sense. They are a collective house of avowed anarchists.

Every episode begins at the weekly meeting where the house members gather in the living room to discuss what’s going on in their lives and to make decisions about what happens next in the house. Over the course of the season viewers watch the anarchists scavenge local grocery store dumpsters for food; follow one of the members as she is arrested and tried for anti-war activities; observe a punk band unravel and finally disband; enjoy the appearance of various odd visitors—played by guest stars like Kelly Osbourne and Jake Busey–who hitchhike or hop freight trains into town. The show is a mix of comedy (the ongoing struggle between the rats and the animal rights activist) and drama (episodes deal with real-life issues such as childhood abuse and racism). The show has never been a blockbuster, but it has gained a devoted following that gives it almost cult status.

It could have been.

Two years ago I published an article about our collective house in The New York Times. In the days after the article came out we had all kinds of calls and emails from old friends, from literary agents, from random strangers and—most thrillingly—from a couple of TV producers who pressed us hard to let them option the story for a Six Feet Under-style HBO drama they called Anarchy! They promised us that it would no longer be our house by the time it made it to the screen—they would change the details of where we lived, would merge characters, would invent situations, but they would assign a couple of writers to live with us for awhile so they could get the overall flavor right. It never got that far: we only had to discuss it once at house meeting to discover that several of the housemates, most especially Stef, were so opposed to the idea that they could not imagine budging. That’s the way consensus works—unless everyone can agree to a course of action the decision is blocked. In this case, no one was deeply enough in favor of the TV show to argue the other side. After a brief discussion I was deputized to email the producers back and tell them “no”.

It’s too bad in a way. In the last couple of weeks I’ve found myself thinking that if this were Anarchy! our ratings would be going through the roof right now.

Here’s a quick recap of what’s been going on:

To start with, Jodi’s pregnant—she and Mark are expecting a baby in November. After living as housemates for three years, and then collaborating in the band Invisible, they developed deeper feelings and began a quiet relationship. Lucky baby! They set out to have a child together, but they didn’t expect it to happen quite as fast as it did….

…especially with the finances of the house in flux. Four years ago when my former husband and I divorced and I bought out his half of the house two women put some money into the pot. At that time we were talking about selling the house and moving in a fairly short period of time, but plans changed and time passed and the money sat trapped in the equity. Understandably, the investors would like their money back, but it’s been difficult to figure out how to untangle the finances without taking on so much more debt—without myself taking on more debt, since I’m still legally the owner of the house–that rents rise beyond viable collective house rates. All of which….

…provided a moment of clarity for me. I’ve been feeling restless for a couple of months now without having any idea where the restlessness began or what its end point would be. Out of the fog of uncertainty that permeated the house I came to recognize that I am ready to step out of the small community of our house and into a larger community of Food Not Bombs, the HIVE, and my own solitary company. Mark and Jodi are having a baby, Will is leaving in August to go back to college to study music, and I’m going to find a place of my own. Before the summer is over 406 North Mendenhall Street will be on the market. This six-year experiment is coming to an end.

It was an emotional meeting the Monday morning that we sat in the living room and acknowledged that one by one we had crossed off all the other options and had reduced the list to one. That one. There were some tears, some long silences, a lot of looking at the floor.

And at that moment—here’s where I would have liked to have had the team of writers from Anarchy! taking notes on their legal pads, though I’m not sure they could have improved on the reality—Clement came in. He had dropped by to use the computer, but he stayed to tell us what was on his mind. He spends a good part of each day walking around writing poetry in his head and thinking; what he had been thinking about that day was reincarnation.

“It’s Jesus,” he said, taking long strides into the room. Clement makes big gestures when he’s excited—that morning he occupied an even wide column of air than usual. “Why did he come back if he didn’t want us to know about reincarnation? I mean come on, if death is the end of everything then of course you’re afraid. Your enemies can control you, death can control you, fear can control you. But if there’s reincarnation fear can’t control you because you know—you know—that there’s another life, and if there’s another life there’s no death. No death!”

No one said much. “Sorry,” Clement said, winding down at last “were y’all having a meeting?”

“Sort of,” Mark said.

“Sorry,” Clement said again. “Oops, I’ll come back tomorrow. Mind if I take a couple of bananas before I go?”

“Help yourself,” I said.

The back door closed. More silence, but it was a different silence.

“You know…” someone finally said.

“What if…” someone else said.

And that’s when the idea began to take shape. This time not just a collective house, but a kind of collective urban farmstead, a demonstration project of sustainability, a public/private place where people could learn and teach all the practices of sustainability from rainwater catchment and permaculture to consensus decision-making and conflict resolution. Set it up as a true non-profit from the beginning, maybe work towards creating an urban land trust, do things with kids, learn from the community. We could find land in a neighborhood—Glenwood, not too far from the HIVE, would be ideal. Fruit trees, gardens, chickens, communal kitchen, artificial wetlands. Something like the Rhizome Collective in Austin, or The Food Project in Boston.

So that’s where we are right now: all over the map. Scared, hopeful, exhausted, exhilarated, full of plans and a sense of urgency, but under it all feeling as though a lock that we didn’t know was there, on a door we never noticed before, is opening up and swinging wide.

It could happen.


Filed under collective living, my life

How to turn a bagel into a tomato

It started, fittingly enough, with a walk for hunger—one of those community walk-a-thons that raises money for local food banks and overseas charities. It was a nice autumn day, clear and bright, the red and green leaves of the dogwood tree glowing 2bagels5.jpglike stained glass and the sloping bank out front foaming with autumn clematis. Skye and I sat on the steps and waved to the hundreds of people in their matching t-shirts as they walked past the house, laughing and talking and waving back to us.

Someone must have arranged for bagels to feed the walkers as they assembled for the opening speeches in the ballpark. In any case when it was all done there were a lot of2bagels14.jpg bagels—a lot of bagels—left over, and somehow the bagels ended up in our kitchen as a donation to Food Not Bombs.

Bagels. I don’t know if modern childhoods are still haunted by “The Dog of Pompeii”, but my 1950s childhood certainly was. It’s the story of a blind orphan boy living with his dog Bimbo on the streets of 2bagels10.jpgPompeii. On the day Vesuvius erupts the two are separated; in the terror and confusion of the moment the boy is swept into a boat, but the dog runs back to the market to get his young master a raisin bun, is trapped in the falling ash, and loyal to the end and struggling to return, dies. Centuries later archeologists make a plaster cast of the dog, preserved forever with a plaster bun in its mouth. For a nine- or ten-year-old reader it’s a first powerful introduction to heartbreak.

The boy and the dog and the plaster bun come back to me every time I see a big of bagels. Bagels inevitably and rapidly go from less-than-fresh to stale to hard as plaster; when they’ve gotten to the plaster stage there’s nothing to be done with them but throw them away. That’s exactly what we thought we were going to have to do with the walk-a-thon bagels, until Mark came up with a different idea.

“Look, we’ve been talking about taking the half the driveway and turning it into a garden anyway,” he said. The two-car driveway was concrete on one side but just gravel and dirt on the other; the gravel side sat2bagels6.jpg next to a garden that supported nothing much more than some elderly rose bushes and a few dispirited tomato plants. “Why couldn’t we put down a layer of bagels and build up the soil from there?”

Carrot, who was living in the house at the time, made some phone calls. Yes, her gardening friends said, bagels should make fine mulch. I was surprised to hear that—in my limited composting research I had read that baked goods shouldn’t go into the compost pile. 2bagels8.jpg“That’s just because they can attract rats and mice,” Carrot said. “But if you make bread soggy and mix it with other things it’s not a problem.” Bread, it turns out, is actually good for the soil—it’s high in nitrogen (so are some other unexpectedly compostable things like tea bags, coffee grounds, egg shells, human hair, and vacuum cleaner dust). Nitrogen is one of the three essential “macronutrients” that make up commercial fertilizers (the other two are potassium and phosphorus). Plants need nitrogen to make amino acids, protein and DNA; they can’t grow without it. Cool.2bagels15.jpg

The first step was to clear the gravel out of the driveway and pick-axe out the half-dead rose bushes. The next step was to put down cardboard—cardboard not only discourages weeds, but as it breaks down it actually attracts earthworms who like its biodegradable glues and sugar. Lapped over each other, the variously sized pieces of corrugated cardboard  looked like a giant abstract painting.2bagels18.jpg

The bagel-mulching day was rainy. Every trash can and plastic bucket in the yard brimmed with bagels and water that dripped down from the gutters; the bagels looked like giant Cheerios sogging in a bowl. When they had begun to soften and fall apart Mark, Carrot and Naman sloshed them out onto the cardboard and spread them around. Next came a layer of green stuff—weeds and leaves pulled up from around the property—followed by a layer of composted soil, forked up from the old compost pile behind the garage. We had all but abandoned the compost pile a couple of years before because of a sudden invasion of rats—but that’s another story. The pile’s remnants supplied us with good rich dirt.12truck.jpg

After that came a second layer of cardboard. A friend had told us about a landscaping company that had moved, leaving behind giant piles of wood mulch. Mark filled his truck up several times with the well-composted mulch and spread it over the garden, which now rose a good foot above the original layer of bagels and cardboard. The final layer was leaves, salvaged from the bags our neighbors had left out by the curb for pick up.

fnb.jpgAll winter we continued to add leaves; every time the compost bucket in the kitchen filled up we took the scraps out, scatter them in the garden and cover them with more leaves.

And it worked. The tomatoes we planted the next summer could not have been more different from the droopy, anemic plants of my previous gardening experience. Suddenly the garden was filled with big muscular plants that looked like forerunners of a new backyard Paleozoic age. On late summer afternoons we would stand around in the garden eating beans and tomatoes straight off the vine.

We never went back to traditional composting. I don’t think we ever will. The fall after the bagel mulching experiment Mark put in two more garden beds in the back yard, piled and repiled with leaves. 2mark.jpg“Sometimes I’ll turn over a piece of soil writhing with so many worms it takes my breath away,” Mark says.

We’ve extended the technique to include the far back yard; the buckets of scraps I bring home from Food Not Bombs go under the leaves and disappear within days into the dark rich soil. Last fall I began on the front yard: cardboard and newspapers, scraps, leaves, more scraps, more leaves. I’m not even sure what’s going to get planted there. I just like mulching.

2yard.jpgMark says it’s the same for him. He and I sat at the kitchen table the other morning reminiscing about the bagel day and talking mulch in general. “It’s fairly magic,” he said “The way we roll here I can put ten or fifteen gallons of food scraps in the garden every week. I spread it, put a foot of leaves over it, and two weeks later that foot thick is six inches thick, and except for some orange peels and a sweet potato or two it’s gone.”

Now that the nice spring weather is bringing people out in their yards to rake and trim, Mark pulls into the driveway a couple of times a week with the bed of his little red pickup truck filled with more bags of leaves. “I can’t stop,” he said. “I see these bags of leaves and I have to pick them up. You know, it feels sometimes as though our whole world is stuck in this import/export economy: people’s trees and plants are fixing a huge amount of sunlight, but as soon as the leaves fall they’re treated at trash, then people export the leaves and import fertilizers and topsoil. It’s the same with lawns: you’re farming a crop, but you throw the harvest away—or it goes to my house.”

Who knows if we’ll ever have to depend more heavily on our yard for food; who knows where the world is headed. But whether we do or not, there’s a primitive satisfaction in knowing that little by little, bagel by bagel, we are making deposits in an account that will pay dividends for a very long time.




Filed under collective living

Winter Soldier

A couple of years ago I was interviewed on the radio about our house, and about the changes I had made in my life. A week or so after the program aired I had an email from someone who wondered if he could come for a visit—he was stationed at Fort Bragg but was about to get out of the army and was wondering what shape his life would take next. He was curious about collective living.

His name was Ian. He was quiet and polite, interested in the details of how the house worked, contented to sit in the living room reading zines or talking to whoever came through. Mostly he wanted to talk. He wanted to talk about Iraq, about the army, about the guys he’d known, about the way he’d watched them change, and watched himself change too. As he sat in the living room in the clear December sunlight looking out at the branches of the bare dogwood tree, his hands clasped together between his knees, it felt as though there were something else he wanted to talk about, something that can only be approached slantwise: what does it mean to be human when your humanity can be bent into a shape that you no longer recognize?

“I don’t know why I joined,” he said. “It seemed like the right thing at the time. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life. I didn’t believe in the war, but I had some idea that it would be better to have some good people on the inside.” It didn’t turn out that way for Ian. He described being in basic training and hearing stories from the people coming back from Iraq. “I couldn’t believe they were saying the things they were saying. One guy talked about riding around in a jeep breaking bottles over the heads of Iraqis just for the fun of it, and I wondered what kind of a person could do that and laugh about it. But then you get over there….then you get over there and you begin to change. You’re angry all the time. It’s different from what you expected. You change, and the things you never thought you would do is who you start to become.”

I asked Ian if he had heard of the Iraq Veterans Against the War. I had met some of its members in 2005 when I was doing media stuff for an anti-war event near Fort Bragg. The IVAW was still very new, its members not much older than Isabell and Margaret and Justin. It struck me then that when the Vietnam War was going on I didn’t think about how very young the men were who were being drafted and sent to war. I was that age myself. This time I couldn’t stop thinking about how tender and unformed we are in our late teens and early twenties, how the imprint of every experience bites deep. I could see its bite in the faces of the members of Veterans for Peace and Vietnam Veterans Against the War who had come to take part in the event and, I think, maybe find some personal peace as well. I thought about the many veterans who show up at Food Not Bombs, the men who joined up or were drafted right after high school and have never left the war behind.

Ian had already heard about the IVAW, had thought about getting in touch. “The thing is,” he said. “I was in Iraq, but I was never in combat. I never fired my gun in combat. Those guys…I don’t know. I don’t feel like I would really belong there. It’s hard to explain.”

It was hard to explain. It was hard to hear. It was hard to understand. Ian, weeks away from discharge, getting ready to go back to Boston, trying to figure out what he was going to do next, didn’t belong anywhere. He was no longer part of the world he left when he went to Iraq, he was no longer part of the world he inhabited while he was in Iraq. He didn’t belong at our house. He didn’t belong in his own skin. He was a collection of molecules blown apart and trying to find a new shape.

It’s easy to forget about the war. The life at our house—the chickens, the house meetings, the dinners together in the living room, the music flowing out of Will’s room, Skye coming in from the school bus, the bicycles hanging in the shed—is a life very far removed from war. But this week I’m traveling; Margaret’s boyfriend is in the hospital in Austin, and on Monday I got on a plane to spend the week with her. As I waited to board my plane in Raleigh I watched soldiers in desert fatigues walk by in groups of three and four, chattering and laughing and hitching their big bags up higher on their shoulders. When I boarded my connecting plane in Atlanta I was seated next to a young woman flying, like me, to Austin. She was curled up with her iPod when I sat down, but we began to talk when the snacks came. I told her this would be my first time in Austin and explained why I was going there. She was on her way back to Austin after visiting her mother in New Jersey.

“I miss my mom already,” she said, resettling herself in the cramped seat. She was wearing lace-edged leggings, a tiny denim skirt, and little silvery flats. ”I’m kind of a mama’s girl.”

“Do you go to school?” I asked.

“No,” she said. ”Well, I sort of do I guess. I’m in the army.”

I never would have guessed. I asked her how she had come to sign up, and she told me that she had been trouble when she was in high school, making bad decisions and running with a bad crowd. Her mother finally told her she had to straighten up or move out. “So I was, like seventeen, and I didn’t want to be a bum, so it seemed like my best choice was to join the service.” She had only been in for five months, but she’d started school—she wants to be a criminal psychologist—and was learning how to jump out of airplanes. Her first deployment was going to be in Italy to join an airborne brigade. “I’m glad it’s not Iraq,” she said. “That’s all anybody talks about, is whether they’re going to be sent to Iraq.”

“What do people who’ve been there say about it?” I asked.

“It’s not so much what they say, it’s just that they’re different. It’s like Iraq messed with their mind somehow. They’ve seen things and they’ve done things you shouldn’t have to see and do. Who wouldn’t be different?” She chewed on the corner of her thumb and fiddled with the window shade. “It’s like, I was driving with an old friend who had just come back and some woman cut us off. He turned to me and said ‘See, if we were in Iraq right now I’d shoot her,’ and I’m thinking ‘What happened to you? This is not OK.’ A lot of people still want to go, though. I wanted to go when I first signed up, it’s like you haven’t really experienced anything unless you’ve been there, but now….I know people over there who are, like ‘Shoot me in the shoulder, shoot me in the foot, anything to get me out of here.’ I’m signed up for five years,” she added. “I suppose I’ll get deployed there sooner or later.”

“Maybe it’ll be over before that happens,” I said.

She shrugged and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“What do people feel about us being over there at all?” I asked.

“Oh, they’re glad we’re there,” she said quickly. “I mean we’ve got to stay. If we pulled out now it would be like there was no point in us being there in the first place.”

The flight attendant came by and took our cups and crumpled peanut packets. We put up our seat trays. My seatmate drew up her knees and pulled her iPod back out of her pocket; I opened my book.

I had an email from Ian last week. He did connect with Iraq Veterans Against the War and has become active with the Boston chapter He was sending out an announcement about Winter Soldier—veterans testifying this week about what they’ve seen and done in Iraq and Afghanistan. The name comes from the 1776 quote from Thomas Paine: “These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.” The inspiration comes from the first Winter Soldier Investigation, held in 1971; Vietnam veterans brought testimony and evidence that war crimes like the My Lai massacre were not isolated incidents. I wrote back to Ian and told him that I would be putting a link up here; I asked him if it would be all right to write about him. He wrote back almost immediately.

Thanks for putting the link up there!! Feel free to write about the visit and if you have anymore questions send them my way. Thanks for helping me have a safe place in your home, it meant a lot to me.


To watch the live Winter Soldier broadcast, Thursday, March 13 through Sunday, March 16, go to

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This is not easy watching


Filed under Uncategorized

The Blues

Remember that scene in Annie Hall where the young Alvy Singer is sitting in a doctor’s office with his mother? The doctor asks him why he’s depressed, why he won’t do his homework and he says “The universe is expanding.”

That’s the way I’ve been feeling lately. Maybe it’s just February—which is itself expanding this year–or maybe it’s the several hours I spent on the living room sofa last Saturday evening watching The Corporation, or maybe it’s the headlines that land on our front steps every morning (yesterday morning it was health care costs headed into the trillions, gas going up to $3.40 a gallon, and what’s being called a “Doomsday” seed vault in Norway), or maybe it’s just that everything seems to be falling apart a lot faster than anyone expected or can respond to.

Usually I feel pretty hopeful about the world. Maybe not about the way the world is going right now, but about the resilience of the human spirit, about our innate capacity to make pleasure and happiness out of whatever materials we find at hand. But this week…I don’t know, I keep thinking about Chang and Eng, the conjoined twins exhibited by P.T. Barnum back in the 1830s. After they retired they moved to North Carolina, married a pair of sisters, bought farms and raised families. But Chang was a heavy drinker; in January of 1874 he contracted pneumonia and on the night of January 17 he died. His brother Eng, healthy up until then, died two and a half hours later. On days like this I feel like Eng, sharing vital organs and a circulatory system with a profligate twin whose habits are going to bring us both down in the end.

So let’s just go with it. Be forewarned: this is the jeremiad edition of my blog, a round up of some of the things that are making me feel bleak and hopeless and scared this week. Enjoy.

Here in the Southeastern U.S. we’re in the middle of a drought; by late last summer the lawns were parched, the fountains in the park downtown were silent, and the farmers at the farmer’s market were closing their tables early because they didn’t have enough to sell. The middle part of the drought map—the part where I live—is marked in dark red indicating “exceptional and widespread crop/pasture losses; shortages of water in reservoirs, streams, and wells creating water emergencies.”

“We didn’t expect climate change, we didn’t pay attention,” Atlanta Mayor Shirley Franklin said in October as that city looked at two to four se-drought-12908.jpgmonths of water left in its reservoirs. On the other side of the country Lake Mead is drying up—mighty Lake Mead, whose waters are essential to Phoenix, Las Vegas and Southern California. “We were stunned at the magnitude of the problem and how fast it was coming at us,” said Tim Barnett, one of the scientists studying the lake’s future. “Make no mistake, this water problem is not a scientific abstraction, but rather one that will impact each and every one of us that live in the Southwest.” On the other side of the world the glaciers in the Himalayas are melting because of climate change; the UN predicts that by 2030—2030!–they’ll be mostly gone. The glaciers act as a giant reservoir for the Ganges, the Yangtze, the Mekong and many of the other great rivers of India and Southeast Asia. When the glaciers go so does the water that sustains the two billion people who live along those rivers.

It’s everywhere. The U.N. estimates that by 2025 fresh drinking water will be a scarcity for two-thirds of the world’s population. Is there anything in our recent history to suggest that the remaining one third of the world—a lot of which is us–will gladly share? My guess is that not only will we not share, but that we’ll see the scarcity as another opportunity to leverage our own power. In 2000 the people of Bolivia rose up when the government sold water rights in the city of Cochabamba to a subsidiary of Bechtel and water prices increased by 35 percent. After massive protests during which several people were killed, the contract was canceled and the water operation became public again, but the problem isn’t solved: people in the poor sections of Cochabamba still pay ten times as much for their water as households in wealthy neighborhoods.

People are killing each other in Ethiopia over access to water and pastureland; in Kenya Kikuyu and Maasai are fighting over a river diversion project, and throughout northern Africa the desert is creeping southward. The bloodletting in the Darfur region of Sudan was set off by drought and water scarcity caused by climate change. Closer to home Tennessee and Georgia are squaring off over water, and feelings are running high in the upper Midwest as other parts of the country begin drought-driven legal maneuverings to get hold of the Great Lakes water.

It’s like some horrible metaphor: 72 percent of the planet is covered in water, over half of our own bodies is made up of water. Hunger is bad, but thirst is a thousand times worse. The French philosopher of gastronomy Brillat-Savarin wrote in 1825: “The sensation of thirst is so intense, that in all tongues it is synonymous with excessive desire, and irrepressible longing: thus we thirst for gold, wealth, power, science, &c., expressions which never would have become common had men not have been athirst and aware of their vengeance. Appetite is pleasant when it does not reach the point of hunger. Thirst is not so, and as soon as we feel it we are uncomfortable and anxious. When there is no possibility of appeasing it, the state of mind is terrible.”

This isn’t oil we’re talking about. This isn’t the raw materials to make cell phones or Krugerrands or shampoo bottles. This is the essential ingredient of all life on this planet. When we use access to water to coerce or punish or harm other people, when we use access to water to enrich ourselves or to increase our own power without any regard to the effect of our actions, when we foul and disregard and dishonor water, we commit a crime against our own humanness. That’s where we’re headed. And we did it to ourselves.


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Validation Day

A few years ago Jane came to stay for a couple of months–she built herself a loft on the side porch, piled the bed with warm quilts and moved in. It was early February, the unloveliest month around here, when the novelty of winter has long since worn off and spring has not yet begun. Outside is alternately muddy and dusty, and inside becomes the same as people track in whatever weather has pooled beyond the window2.jpgback porch. The sky is low and gray. Or high and cold and streaked with remote, windy clouds. Or warm enough to promise endless shirtsleeves for a day before lashing everyone back into sweaters. When the sun does shine the light is hard and charmless, showing up the dirty streaks on the windows and the worn spots on the stairs. Neither the house nor the household is at its best in February.

So I’m not sure that we were entirely gracious when the eight homemade construction paper Validation Day cards showed up on the mantel. Jane had decorated each one with a different cut-out design and written ourfebruary2.jpg names on the covers. The way it works, she explained, is that over the course of a couple of days we all write something about each other in the cards, but we don’t look at our own until February 14th, a.k.a. Validation Day. Fine then. We did it, taking a secret pleasure in eavesdropping on what our housemates had to say about each other. I know that I learned some things—nice things—about the crisscrossing relationships in the house.

Then came the day. We assembled a little awkwardly in the living room; someone took down the sheaf of cards and passed them out. The silence deepened in the room as we sat and read the heartfelt, affectionate, appreciative things that we seldom remember to say to each other in person. You could almost feel the skepticism and validation-day.jpgself-consciousness dissipate as we began looking up from the folded cards and thanking each other; I felt a tenderness for my housemates a little different from anything that I had felt before. I don’t know what other people did with theirs, but I saved my Validation Day card. And I saved the next one. And the one after that. The autumn after she stayed with us Jane went off to college, but every year a big manila envelope still arrived in the mail basket with a fresh set of Validation Day cards.

Everything has been a little out of sorts around the house the last couple of weeks. Stef and Crystal are moving out—Crystal, who is now teaching music at two different schools, wants the quiet and privacy of her own apartment, and Stef, who has been in the house since its inception as a collective more than five years ago, is moving in with two friends who share her interests in vegan cooking and straight-edge hardcore punk. mantelother2.jpgIt’s going to feel strange to have them gone. Skye will be taking over Crystal’s small room; she and Jodi will have their own rooms at last. In addition we’ll be getting new housemates, which is always exciting but also a little unsettling. And everyone is working hard on projects of their own, in and out a lot, passing in the kitchen or on the stairs, but not connecting for very long. It’s just February and there’s nothing we can do about it.

Jane came to visit for a week in late January before she went overseas for seven months, first to study in South Africa and then to travel and work in Europe. I’ve known Jane now for over five years; we met when I was very new at collective living, and Jane, recently graduated from high school, had just returned from stilt-walking and breathing fire as part of a CrimethInc Circus Tour. It was good, as always, to see Jane again last month, to observe how she continues to grow in depth as well as reach. A lot of people wanted to spend time with Jane; we all got a little piece of her, and then she was off.

Given that she was preparing to go all the way to Africa and be gone for more than half a year I was very surprised when a manila envelope, addressed in Jane’s handwriting, once again arrived in our mail basket. But maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. Of all the qualities that delighted and moved me the most as I traveled deeper into the anarchist world—the quality that in some ways required the most adjustment on my part–was the willingness to be unironically, unashamedly and openly loving. Loving to other people, loving to the world, loving to the mystery of being alive in a way that is alternately ridiculed and commercialized in the larger culture. I read once in a history of punk music: “What it comes down to is this—life matters, so don’t fuck it up.” That’s it: life matters. Your life matters, the lives of the people around you matters, the lives of the people you pass on the street, the lives of the people sleeping or playing solitaire or shaving their legs or kissing their children in the houses you pass on the highway matter. Life itself matters; and once your mental eyes adjust to that premise it’s hard not to see validation for it everywhere.

At least that’s the way I’ve come to see it, thanks to Jane and to all the other passionate, urgent, hopeful, resolute people I live among. So happy Validation Day everyone and everywhere, and many many happy returns.


Filed under anarchism, collective living, my life

Straying Home

flyinghouse1.jpgI make my living writing snappy blurbs and photo captions for glossy magazines, so how hard can it be to come up with a book title?

How about The Visible Woman? That’s the title of a zine I wrote years ago and I still like it. I proposed the title to an agent I was working with at the time, one of several who got in touch with me after I published an article about our house a couple of years ago. She thought what I had written had the potential to be expanded a successful memoir published by a mainstream publisher. “You know,” she said “the biggest book-buying demographic is middle-aged women.” But no, she said, not The Visible Woman.

I pulled together the various things I’d written over the years, things I’d written mostly to try to make sense to myself of the choices and changes I’d made. The agent looked at them and suggested Standards of Living, but that didn’t feel quite right. How about Qualities of Life? I thought. Actually, no. Um, let’s see… Border Crossings. A Change of Address. Jumping the Fence. No. No. No.

The New York Times had titled my article Inviting Anarchy Into My Home. How about that? No, nobody liked that one. Then I remembered something I had read once in a history of punk rock: “Life matters, so don’t fuck it up.” How about that: Life Matters. I walked around for a couple of days sure that I’d found it. No one else could see it.

This went on for well over a year.

One late afternoon last November I asked Mark if he would help me decide among The Visible Woman, Standards of Living and Life Matters. Or maybe The Visible Woman: A Memoir of Life Matters. Or Standards: On Living. I had just come back from a week at a writer’s retreat where I had done yet another revision of the book proposal I’d been working on for a year and a half. I was ready to send the latest version off to New York, but I still needed a title.

“Just those ones?” Mark said.

“It’s the best I can come up with,” I said. I felt a little defensive. “It’s not that easy you know.”

Mark stopped whatever it was he was doing and stood up. “Look,” he said kindly. “You’re going about it all wrong. You have to have a lot of bad ideas before you can have a good one.” He went into his room and came out with a big roll of adding machine paper. He taped one end of the roll to the coffee table and put a pen down beside it. “Let’s say we won’t leave here until we’ve come up with a hundred titles. Bad ones. No, let’s say a hundred and one.” At the top of the paper he wrote 100 TITLES FOR LIZ’S BOOK.


1. Mark picked up the pen and wrote FREE FURNITURE!
2. I wrote A Dangerous Question
3. It Started With A Question
4. Renovation
5. Home Renovation
6. Home Repair

Crystal and Jodi came in. “What are you guys doing?”

“Coming up with a title for Liz’s book.”

They sat down on the sofa.

7. Less is More, Jodi said.

8. More for Less, Crystal said.

9. The Same Light, Mark wrote.

10. “I’ve always kind of liked Traveler’s Rest,” I said. Mark wrote: Traveler’s Rest.

It went on like that…Grounds for DivorceNew EyesIn Case of Police RaidComing to My Senses….

27. “How about just Home?” I said, and wrote it down.

“But that doesn’t tell anyone what it’s about,” Jodi said.

Mark made a noise that sounded like “Bzzzt.” “No editing,” he said. “Just bad ideas.”

The bad ideas flew.

58. Riot Mom

59. Freedame

60. Notes on the Sink

61. Graffiti and Kitchen Notes

62. Resisting Arrest

63. Resisting A Rest

“How far are we?” Mark asked.

“Only sixty-three,” I said. “Steve across the street suggested Off The Rails And On The Run,” I added.

“Write it down!” Mark said.

Momentum returned. 66: Diet For A New Home. 67: Chicken. 68: Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road? 69: The Other Side

“I’ve got to go,” Crystal said.

88. Picking Sides

89. “Or maybe Choosing Sides,” I said.

90. Picking A Fight

Picking My Nose,” Jodi said, and Mark grabbed the pen.

“Don’t write that down!” I said.

We hit 100 (Hunger) and kept right on going.

146. Happily Ever After

147. Ever After

148. After Ever After

149. After Disaster

…and finally we were done. Mark unstuck the paper, rolled it back up and handed it to me. I took the paper upstairs and sat down on the bed to look at it, and there between Staying Home and Biscuits and Gravy (where did that one come from?)was Straying Home. Straying Home. I liked it. I couldn’t even be sure who had said it, but it expressed better than anything I’d thought of so far the paradox I felt in having traveled so far in my own life without leaving the house.

So Straying Home it is.

But it turns out that Mark was right in more ways than one. I was going about things the wrong way–not just the title of the book, but the whole process of trying to get a book published. The wrong way, at least, for me. I sent off the proposal and didn’t hear anything. Not the first week, not the second week, not the third. Over the year and half or so that the agent and I had been working together the intervals between my submissions and her reactions had grown longer and longer, but this was unprecedented. I gave it a little more time; by early December I admitted to myself that chances were pretty good that I was never going to hear for her. It seemed as though the time had come to admit the truth. I quit. So as the year ended I had a title, a book proposal, some sample chapters, no agent, a good deal of confusion, and a surprising amount of relief.

Then a friend introduced me to the intriguing concept of print-on-demand–a new form of self-publishing that circumvents the whole agent/author/publisher nexus. Somehow that feels right for who I am and what I have to say. After all, my new life owes a lot to the DIY–do-it-yourself–ethic. Why not do this one myself?

So that’s what I’m going to do, but first I’m going to take it even one step further and serialize the book on line, on a separate blog. I recognize that in publishing the book myself I’m sacrificing the help of an editor, so please, if you have an interest in reading what I write, feel free to offer your editorial comments and suggestions. I’ll pay attention, I promise.

Here it is! Straying Home: A Memoir of Changing in Place


Filed under my life

We Are Everywhere

Last Saturday morning I went to an Al-Anon meeting. It was one of those moist gray mornings, chilly but not cold, and it was nice to go into the Methodist church not far from my house and sit in the quiet little anteroom the congregation makes available to us for our meetings. The Saturday meeting is a step study group, which means that we discuss whichever one of the twelve steps coincides with number of the month. On the last Saturday of every month we discuss one of the traditions by which Al-Anon is guided; since this was the last Saturday in January, we were discussing the first tradition, which says Our common welfare should come first; personal progress for the greatest number depends upon unity.

The conversation traveled around the circle as it always does, each person taking a turn to speak. A silent consensus developed as people added to and amplified upon each other’s remarks. Unity is not blind obedience, we agreed; real unity lies in finding common ground, in outgrowing both the need to always get one’s own way, and the willingness to be dominated by someone else’s need to get his or her own way.

The circle was nearly complete and the hour was nearly at an end when someone said “I actually never experienced unity before I came to Al-Anon.” All around the circle people nodded in recognition. “In the world I live in most of the time ‘personal progress’ depends on crushing someone else before you get crushed—I mean everywhere, at home, at work, everywhere. Then I come here and it’s different.” The speaker stopped and looked down at the floor. “I wish the real world could be like Al-Anon.”

It’s been four years now since I went to my first Al-Anon meeting, four years since my life went totally haywire. At that first meeting I sat on a wooden chair pushed up against the wall of a Sunday school room and felt out of place and resentful. I was creeped out by the way people repeated each other’s names around the circle (“I’m Liz.” “Hi Liz!”). I looked down the long list of twelve steps and found something to quibble with in each one. I felt stiff and uncomfortable with the hugs after the meeting. I ducked out to the parking lot as soon as I could.

But somehow I kept going back. This was in the frantic, exhilarating, terrifying first couple of years of my new life when, looking back on it, I was very much further out on the edge of my own endurance than I realized. I felt sometimes as though I were racing across a series of suspension bridges, pausing only long enough to kneel beside each one and set it on fire. I am not by nature a particularly adventuresome person, but the exoskeleton of comfortable middle-class American life that had held me up for so long had cracked to pieces under a variety of pressures, and in its absence I was making everything up as I went along, obeying some deep instinct because instinct seemed to be the only solid thing I had left. In those days I laughed harder than I had ever laughed before, I danced more often and in more unexpected places than I had ever danced before, I widened the margins of my personal map to include people and places I had never known before. And some mornings the tears began before I had even opened my eyes.

I don’t think I could do it again. The changes in my external life—the collective house, the dumpster diving, the kitchen dance parties–were only the visible landscape over a tectonic shift that was rearranging the deep geology of my heart and mind. All during this time I was reading constantly. I talked and listened and argued, I sat and thought and wrote in my journal, I read some more, I listened and watched more, and slowly, awkwardly, sometimes painfully, the pieces of my shattered life began to coalesce around a new set of ideas. What it came down to was this: I came to see that the world I had lived in all my life, the respectable, order-must-be-maintained, it-may-not-be-perfect-but-it’s-better-than-the-alternative hierarchical world of rigidly defined haves and have-nots—in other words, the dominant culture world—was predicated on the assumption that people are essentially greedy and antagonistic. Every storyline led back to Darwin.

But I was beginning to see the world in a different way. What, I began to ask myself, if people are essentially whole and healthy? What if people long for cooperation more than they long for competition? What if we live best in a web of relationships as complex and mutually supportive as any other ecosystem? What if the world I have lived in all my life is not the world, but just a world, an essentially flimsy and unstable world that is kept in place by violence and fear? I was introduced to the ideas of Peter Kropotkin, a nineteenth century naturalist who countered Darwin’s theories of survival of the fittest with “survival of the most cooperative,” developed through his own observations of the natural world. Peter Kropotkin was a Russian prince and an anarchist. It was Kropotkin who wrote the entry on anarchism in the famous 1911 edition of the Encyclopedia Brittanica; it was Kropotkin who introduced the term “mutual aid” into the language with his book of the same name. Anarchism is probably the most reviled, misunderstood and marginalized of all the left-leaning political philosophies, and I certainly didn’t set out to live in its borderlands, but like most of the anarchists I know I didn’t so much convert to anarchism as recognize a set of beliefs that had always been there. As I moved closer to the deep well of anarchist ideas and into a culture of anarchist actions the world started to make sense again.

And unrelated to all the internal and external changes I was making at that time—or maybe not—I was finally able to acknowledge that someone I loved very deeply was ebbing out of my life into a sea of alcoholism. That’s how I ended up at Al-Anon, looking around at all the respectably dressed, earnest, middle-aged people so much like me and so unlike me, and feeling both alien and at home. Here I was, a newly-minted anarchist living with a group of people half my age, feeling a swing of emotions I should have left behind in adolescence, eating out of dumpsters, living a noisy, messy, seat-of-the pants existence, and I didn’t know what they would think of me.

What I didn’t know at those first meetings was that, first of all, no one cared one way or the other who I was or how I lived, but even more important—and more startling—in joining Al-Anon I had, in fact, joined the largest and most successful anarchist movement in the world. At first I was simply struck by the curious similarities between the way Al-Anon worked and the way the anarchist enterprises I was involved in operated. No leaders, no rules, no experts, no accumulation of wealth. Now I recognize that the similarity between Alcoholics Anonymous (A.A is the basis for all other Twelve Step programs, including Al-Anon) and the Circle A is neither metaphorical nor hyperbolic: “When we come into A.A. we find a greater personal freedom than any other society knows.”—this is Bill Wilson, co-founder of A.A., writing in a 1957 history of the movement—“We cannot be compelled to do anything. In that sense our society is a benign anarchy. The word ‘anarchy’ has a bad meaning to most of us. . . . But I think that the gentle Russian prince who so strongly advocated the idea felt that if men were granted absolute liberty, and were compelled to obey no one in person, they would voluntarily associate themselves in the common interest. A.A. is an association of the benign sort the prince envisioned.” So.

“I wish the real world could be like Al-Anon.”

It is. I see it every Monday night at my house when we sit down in the living room for our weekly house meeting. I see it at Food Not Bombs every time a group of people—some of them homeless, some of them not–take a couple of boxes of miscellaneous fruits and vegetables and turn them into a meal for thirty people. I see it lots of places. It’s not just the private precinct of anarchists, vowed or unavowed, it’s the way people behave when conditions are benign. It’s the real real world.

So why do those of us who have seen another, healthier way of doing things put up with the conditions of the unreal world? What would happen if we recognized our power, personal and collective, to reshape the community around us? What if we took the principles embodied in the Twelve Steps and in the writings of anarchist thinkers and used them not simply to heal ourselves and our families, but to heal our neighborhoods, our towns, our nations, our planet. We can! We don’t have to do it all at once, and no one of us has to do it alone, but I believe it’s the work that’s most worth doing. One day at a time—but starting now.

The Twelve Traditions of Al-Anon

1. Our common welfare should come first; personal progress for the greatest number depends upon unity.

2. For our group purpose there is but one authority—a loving God as He may express Himself in our group conscience. Our leaders are but trusted servants—they do not govern.

3. The relatives of alcoholics, when gathered together for mutual aid, may call themselves an Al-Anon Family group, provided that as a group, they have no other affiliation. The only requirement for membership is that there be a problem of alcoholism in a relative or friend.

4. Each group should be autonomous, except in matters affecting another group or Al-Anon or AA as a whole.

5. Each Al-Anon Family Group has but one purpose: to help families of alcoholics. We do this by practicing the Twelve Steps of AA ourselves, by encouraging and understanding our alcoholic relatives, and by welcoming and giving comfort to families of alcoholics.

6. Our Family Groups ought never endorse, finance or lend our name to any outside enterprise, lest problems of money, property and prestige divert us from our primary spiritual aim. Although a separate entity, we should always co-operate with Alcoholics Anonymous.

7. Every group ought to be fully self-supporting, declining outside contributions.

8. Al-Anon Twelfth Step work should remain forever non-professional, but our service centers may employ special workers.

9. Our groups, as such, ought never be organized; but we may create service boards or committees directly responsible to those they serve.

10. The Al-Anon Family Groups have no opinion on outside issues; hence our name ought never be drawn into public controversy.

11. Our public relations policy is based on attraction rather than promotion; we need always maintain personal anonymity at the level of press, radio, films, and TV. We need guard with special care the anonymity of all AA members.

12. Anonymity is the spiritual foundation of all our Traditions, ever reminding us to place principles above personalities.


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