So I'm staying in an ecovillage right now. What does that actually mean? Well, it's a community of people dedicated to finding more sustainable ways to live, which they practice in their own lives, and try to teach to others like Emma.
In some ways it probably is what you think: "hippieville" complete with people who wear blankets as clothing, build houses out of recycled whisky barrels, talk to vegetables, sprinkle toasted nuts on all of their food, and do interpretive dances of the five elements. However, it is also an incredibly warm, generous, and caring community of people who are working in all of our interests without nearly as much praise as they deserve. Emma loves it here, and it's not hard to see why, although even she sometimes has to take a step back and laugh at Findhorn's more cliched attributes.
I came to the right place for some R&R, and have slept soundly for the first time in months. I've spent my time walking around, meeting Emma's other program members, eating delicious vegetarian food, and writing. Today I realized just how loose all my muscles were, and how clean the air felt in my chest. On a walk this morning with Emma I stood at the edge of the ocean on a sand dune, hair wildly whipping around my face and thought how hard it is going to be to leave tomorrow.
Even though, for the most part, I haven't done anything extraordinary I will relate the events of my Friday night to you. Every Friday night there is a jam session called at a place called studio 9. Anyone is welcome to come and play, sing, or dance - no matter the level of talent. Six of us got a lift from a guy named Nicky in his monstrous bio-diesel van. Emma and I had to sit at the back amidst buckets of compost. We drove along heavily forested back roads until we arrived at what looked like an old manor in the middle a clearing in the trees. It was a house right out of Daphne du Maurier novel, very atmospheric. At the door we were escorted in by a man taking a "smoke" break outside, and we stepped into my imaginary high school boyfriend's band practice. The studio 9 space is all plywood, recycled couches, old blankets, and rickety chairs amidst thousands of dollars worth of sound equipment and instruments. There were a couple of guys with some real talent, including one who called himself a "failed pop star" who used to jam with Aerosmith. Anyway, never had the outside of a house so clashed with its inside, and I had to laugh again at my current surroundings. Who would have ever thought that my travels would bring me here?
In some ways it probably is what you think: "hippieville" complete with people who wear blankets as clothing, build houses out of recycled whisky barrels, talk to vegetables, sprinkle toasted nuts on all of their food, and do interpretive dances of the five elements. However, it is also an incredibly warm, generous, and caring community of people who are working in all of our interests without nearly as much praise as they deserve. Emma loves it here, and it's not hard to see why, although even she sometimes has to take a step back and laugh at Findhorn's more cliched attributes.
I came to the right place for some R&R, and have slept soundly for the first time in months. I've spent my time walking around, meeting Emma's other program members, eating delicious vegetarian food, and writing. Today I realized just how loose all my muscles were, and how clean the air felt in my chest. On a walk this morning with Emma I stood at the edge of the ocean on a sand dune, hair wildly whipping around my face and thought how hard it is going to be to leave tomorrow.
Even though, for the most part, I haven't done anything extraordinary I will relate the events of my Friday night to you. Every Friday night there is a jam session called at a place called studio 9. Anyone is welcome to come and play, sing, or dance - no matter the level of talent. Six of us got a lift from a guy named Nicky in his monstrous bio-diesel van. Emma and I had to sit at the back amidst buckets of compost. We drove along heavily forested back roads until we arrived at what looked like an old manor in the middle a clearing in the trees. It was a house right out of Daphne du Maurier novel, very atmospheric. At the door we were escorted in by a man taking a "smoke" break outside, and we stepped into my imaginary high school boyfriend's band practice. The studio 9 space is all plywood, recycled couches, old blankets, and rickety chairs amidst thousands of dollars worth of sound equipment and instruments. There were a couple of guys with some real talent, including one who called himself a "failed pop star" who used to jam with Aerosmith. Anyway, never had the outside of a house so clashed with its inside, and I had to laugh again at my current surroundings. Who would have ever thought that my travels would bring me here?
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