Here’s a thought. . .
One of the things I like about my house and therefore my life in general is the reduced barriers between me and the outside world. Living with my house, I feel more connected to my environment than I think I would with a less rustic model.
Let me explain.
The boots come off at the door, sometimes. Mostly if I’m at home, around the house, doing stuff though, I’m trudging though the world inside, outside, leaving the door open, dripping with rain on the floor, dirt sometimes accumulating, occasionally mud or even traces of goat poop. I just can’t be taking off my boots everytime I need something from the house. So my floor adjusts to the reality of not being quite such an indoor floor to being more of a hybrid floor. Like the floor you might have in an old shop.. you don’t take your boots at the door to the shop: You need them in there!
I have running water from a tap over a sink that drains outside. But it comes from a long hose of dubious quality. In the summer you can taste the toxins. I ainn’t drinkin’ that. But I’m fine rinsing things in it or washing up. In fact I quite appreciate it. But I also apprecite walking across the property to a hand pump to get water. There’s a ritual in a walk to the fountain. And pumping it by hand makes you connected to the source. You can feel with every pump that the water is way down in the ground right beneath your feet. You imagine as you wait for the rush to hit that the water has trickled through granite for ages before it got to you. It’s still a long steel tube that does this magical thing of gushing with fresh, delicious, pure, clean water when you move a handle at the top, so there is a bit of disconnection. And everytime I need fresh jug I get to see the weather and the goats, the birds and the bees and the garden.
At a whopping 96 sq. ft. , there isn’t room for a toilet. So every day, several times a day, I get to git out for a piss, or pop out for a poo. When I piss I don’t go far, just around the yard usually. But pooping happens just like it did in the good ol’ days when men wore loin cloths and women did too. Pooping takes me out into the forest. It takes me to a special little spot, different each time. It takes me to a new little pocket, or a new bush or tree, or so some little rise, a patch of soil on a bluff. And there I make my gift. I deposit a little bit of leftovers to share with the world. I have an exquisite diet and I believe that the world around me deserves to have some of my shit, just as I deserve some of its. And this activity gets me out to see the world around me, and even to expose myself to it, get a little vulnerable with it. In fact.. :
One time I was out pooping, and I heard a little bark. Just a little woof. But I turned around to take a look and there was a wolf about fifty feet away looking right at me. And heshe had barked at me. I felt vulnerable indeed. I turned around so I could face him at least while I finished my business. She stared at me. I stared at her. Then I got up and walked away.
That was exciting. I also hear ravens, see eagles in the forest, saw a little vole once, I find mushrooms for breakfast on morning poo walks.
And I know that if I accomplish nothing else that day, I will at least have put a little back. You know… if you take it, put it back. I take from this land everyday. Everyday I put a little back. Put it back®.
My windows are single pane. This has some advantages that people may not realize. Yes you lose a bunch of heat to them. But you can hear a lot better through them too. Insulating against heat loss also insulates against sound transmission. It’s nice to hear what’s going on. I would like to use my hearing more.
The single pane also shows me the amount to moisture that the world is settling on all my stuff. When the window is steaming and dripping, I know that all the cold parts of my house are also getting wet. Every so often you find another mouldy treasure. It’s the harmless green, not the black mould though. I would like to keep the world’s soggyness off my shit. That’s one way my house could serve me better, less moisture. I don’t know what to do about that though. It’s a wet climate.
My woodstove heats my meals. It’s got the removable rings. You git a few sticks burning and throw a wok down in ‘em and you’re cookin’ in no time. It heats the house up in just a few moments too. A few moments later and you’re sitting in your underwear, keeping low and drinking lots of water. But it’s good. Keeps the damp off. Keeps the damp off the stuff kept up high. You wouldn’t believe in such a small place how it can be smokin’ in my little sleeping loft and cool as a cucumber down on the floor.
My wood stove puts a very real and daily link between me, the cold, my firewood pile, the trees that live and die on this island, what my work does for me and what my work will be like in the coming months when it’s time to cut firewood again for next winter.
And it gets cold by morning. I guess that’s the windows… I think the walls and ceiling are quite well insulated. Used rigid foam. Higher –r value than the pink stuff. And I didn’t use that crap they sell you at the store. I used old oyster foams. Been sitting in the ocean for ten years, detoxifying. Sat in the sun on some beach for a few more years, getting blasted by the UV. Then I got ‘em at the dump, sliced ‘em like bread to the thickness of my walls and packed ‘em in. By the way, the easiest way to do that is with a chainsaw. Do it inside, the little bits go flying everwhere. You can sweep up and pour the debris into your walls. Oh and you can only cut it short bursts because the little balls get stuck to the muffler and melt, creating a supremely foul odour that is sure to kill if you breath in too much of it.
Back to my increased connection/hybrid life… The cold in the morning, the briskness some evenings when it’s too late to light a fire, that crisp crack of the icey whip of winter really makes you feel alive... makes you feel like sleeping in too. I’m sharing the sharp bite of the season with all the creatures that live around me. We’re in this together… somewhat.
My house helps me to keep my consumption in check. There are many reasons that I don’t buy very much, and one of lesser ones is that I don’t have enough room. I’ve got very few shelves and no cupboards in the kitchen, so I can’t get any products. There’s no room for a jar of pickles or a bottle of ketchup. And I can only have toys that serve an important survival(ish) function.. like they must also be weapons, or be used to make things (tools or materials), they must also clothe me or make music or teach me things or be highly edible. So… this is good for the wider earth connection, maybe.
My fridge is a sliding glass window with shelves behind it, outside. The dutch call it a ‘cold closet’. It works quite well, it’s passively cooled, no power needed. It’s better in the late fall early spring. Things are hard to work when they freeze and tend to get mushy if they thaw a bunch of times. But by golly I know how cold it is outside by the viscosity of my chicken fat. I know when the last cold weather was… mustabeen a few weeks ago now. Very mild lately.
Thin tin roof: I know when it rains at night or early in the morning. It’s loud.
I can hear the cars go by. I don’t love traffic, and it isn’t the most romantic way to connect with world, but I can sense the rythym of the community when I hear the cars. I know how many big trucks are how busy, I know when there’s a maniac dirt biker tuning up his ride. And it doesn’t bother me to hear it. It’s far from constant which makes it more interesting and the noise more tolerable. It’s also filtered and dulled by the forest.
I live near one of the busiest roads on the island. It means people can stop by anytime. When they do it really makes me feel connected to the community. My phone is... different.. so people often find dropping by is a good way to find me.
I like the idea of living in a shop. It's a rough environment full of potential, constant creativity, blank slates abound. The tools are all there. You don't have to tip toe around. I can scrape the meat off an animal hide on the floor of my house without fear. I can clamp a vise to my kitchen counter. A workshop often has a more intimate and freeflowing relationship with the land it inhabits: tools and the humans that operate them often go back and forth from the shop and the land around.
I find the average house to be quite different. The drywall and the nice floors and perfect and expensive countertops make it much more important to keep clean and prevent damage. Shoes come off at the door, so if you're in, you're in. You can't just screw something down to the ground if you need to keep it from wobbling around.
That’s all I can think of right now, but I’ll keep you posted as more things come to me.
Sometimes the best way down a slippery slope is to slide.
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