Michelle’s chickens greeted me in the driveway, and did not scatter when I stepped out of the truck. They gathered around me in a little semi-circle, and then followed me up to the front porch steps of her home. The warm little wood structure stood at the start of a clearing in the aspen trees, with a big lawn flowing up the hill behind it. I passed a sleeping sled dog, and my knock was greeted by more dogs barking from inside the house. I saw her wave me in, and stepped through the door into a generous arctic entry where I removed my shoes, then into the little livingroom with it’s heavy wood beams and woodstove in the center, wide windows opening out on the lawn at the back and, I could see now, a huge circle of a fenced garden taking up the rear of the yard.
We toured the house, sauna, workshop and garden, including a greenhouse overflowing with tomato plants that were Godzilla to my healthy crop back in the Midwest. Her basil leaves were nearly the size of my palm and the rhubarb harvest was two full arm’s worth, waiting to be brought inside. The chickens, which she had hand-raised, followed us everywhere, unperturbed by the dogs who had calmed down and were now sniffing around the garden. The garden itself was enclosed by a neat fence, reinforced by old cross country skis, cross-braces of which also made the two gates into the circular labyrinth of green. Dinner was salmon, cauliflower and spaghetti squash, a bountiful harvest.
It was like walking into a waking dream of the life I want, the life I feel like I had to give up to follow Peter to Iowa. It is a vision of what I want for our land, our space, when we return. It was a pleasure to be able to sit inside my hope for the future for a few hours tonight, as the late arctic sun set over the trees, and let my feet sink into her soil, my hands run over the backs of her chickens, my teeth sink into the flesh of the salmon that my own life will hold someday. At least, that is the hope I am holding on to tonight.
entelechyproject 