As we approach our move from Vashon Island and our forest-and-farm life to a San Francisco Bay Area suburb, I am aware of less of what I'm leaving (which is immense -- an amazing dynamic community that accepts my family and me just as we are, for one thing!) and more of what we might discover "this time around". My husband and I grew up a half mile apart from each other in the heart of what came to be known as Silicon Valley (yes, we knew each other as kids. In fact, our parents knew each other before we were born, having all met their respective spouses and each other in a "Catholics Graduate Club" ... ). And the house we'll be moving to is actually a house we used to live in before -- a "Monterey-style" house on the Peninsula built in 1936 for my grandparents, and in which they lived for most of the rest of their lives.
Sketch of the house by my grandfather, Jose Flores
So we know what we're "going back to". Or do we? We've lived on Vashon Island for nearly ten years. All our cells have replaced themselves -- as has everyone else's in the world -- so each one of us is completely different from who we were before. Hm! So if we raise chickens and veggies in our backyard, and choose to take trains, buses, or our own feet to farmer's markets, family, and friends, maybe our neighbors won't totally think we're off our rockers. Or maybe they will. "You don't know what it's like down there," one friend, who has a 60-mile commute, tells us. "The traffic is worse than ever." We do know that. Every visit to family in the past decade has demonstrated that, outwardly, the Bay Area is just as it was, and more so. More cars, more "starter castles', more housing developments crammed in any possible place, more upscale shopping malls and throw-away strip malls. Affluence dependent on those with little means, but few liveable places open to those with much less. Surface stuff. Stressful lifestyle, hectic pace.
And at the same time, Farmers Markets abound, many cities up and down our train line offering them twice a week. The Bay Area is the home place of the Locavore Challenge -- a group of individuals who are making an effort to eat only foods grown or harvested within a 100 mile radius of San Francisco and who are encouraging others to eat locally as well. I imagine we'll discover a whole new Bay Area in this circuit -- one where folks are engaged in all kinds of experiments -- from nature awareness to blacksmithing, organic gardening to buying locally-made and grown products, from numerous grass-roots engagements with community to the zen and artistry of chicken-raising. I imagine that I'll discover that my neighbors, who I never really got to know last time around, have some intriguing facets to themselves that can teach me a thing or two.
Who knows what awaits us, but I intend to experience the nature of this place along a different trail. I expect to be pleasantly surprised.
And I also expect to continue discovering what seem like absurdities to me but which are considered by and large "the way it is" and "necessity" to others, and ponder why folks choose to engage in those things. Here's one: in our upcoming neighborhood, parents, family members, and college students other parents had hired, began lining up two days in advance of the official enrollment day at the public school in order to sign up their children for kindergarten. In such a place of "affluence" why does this seem to me to be a huge expression of poverty? Lack of enough "good schools" or other education and learning options for their children. Lack of enough spaces in this school to fully serve its neighborhood children. And if folks from other neighborhoods are battling to place their children in this particular school, what's the matter with their own schools? For all these people. why does this one public school contain their entire idea of "opportunity"? Or am I missing some essential point here?! In any case, the vision to me of these people prepared to wait two days and nights in line to ensure that their children attend this school smacks of those images of Soviet Union food lines.
It never occurred to me to rally my Bay Area family members or to fly south to stand in line so that my six-year-old daughter can attend that school. Our decision to homeschool frees us entirely from participating in this scrabbling for space, and because of this, I realize that I'm not able to fully comprehend why folks choose to do this. My hope is that their consideration of this action as "necessity" stands on a foundation of values that they have carefully sorted out for their family and stand by, and not just because of a desperate sense of "at all costs, our child must get into this school!".
Yurt LivingA month ago we moved from our 2,500 sq. foot house to our 24' diameter (440 sq. ft)) yurt. I love living in the yurt! Cleaning it is a breeze, and it's easy to involve everyone in the task. We have our essentials here -- for cooking and enjoyment. For us this includes the computer, ham radio, fabric and art supplies, books, toys, herbs, notebooks and pens -- quite a lot really. We cook and heat with our wood cookstove. The yurt heats quickly and the fire burns with very little fuel (compared to what we had to use in our house!). Oh, we fight sometimes, and get on each others' nerves, but the small space also motivates us to sort it out, and figure out what will work for all of us.
Anyway, here's a glimpse of various spaces in our yurt:
I love the order, symmetry, and essence-of-being that I experience living in the round!
