54
Miles spent that first night by the Sacred Fire, it tended to him as he watched over the chemistry of change, his feet joined the Earth as they traded gifts of sage, cedar, and cigarettes. The unmentioned camp was dedicated to intention, there were many paths to find it, but they all found their way to the same hub of illumination.
To the north, there was a labyrinth for walking in prayer, on the east side stood a yoga platform with a thatched reciprocal roof, a southbound meditation garden, and a westward inipi. This was a quiet camp, reserved for calming the mind and listening to the heart, and the fire spoke to his soul as it welcomed him home.
He’d known deep down that this place had to exist, every leg of his journey bringing him one step closer to understanding what truly mattered, and only once he was ready, did the napkin unfold him to the gates of the garden. He had to shed his grief with the world before he could defend her. He had to build his own inspiration before he could spread it to others. He had to learn to love himself, before he could pour his heart into the fire.
They sweat with the moon, and sweat by the sun, the dirthouse kitchen was so much fun. He’d wondered how many would come out to earn their tamp stamp, the first day of orientation brought over fifty eager volunteers, and the ensuing wheelbarrow loads of work didn’t shy them away, it only recruited more hands to pass the time.
The flow worked just as smoothly with four, seventeen, or fifty-plus, though people had plenty of other living to occupy their life. There would maybe be a constant crew of twenty or so, but the straight forward momentum allowed anyone passing by to easily jump in for a bag or two. It was no hinderance of production to catch a newbie up to speed, and no limitation of age, as the youngest bagout checker was only four. Just ten minutes of tamping adds up when every diner wants their own brick in the wall.
Miles worked with the projectionist to retrofit a bicycle geared mixer, and as the summer worked its way to harvest, he’d grown close to so many other people living their change, as several more Earthbag structures blossomed to life. They used old untreated burlap sacks instead of polypropylene, they’d eventually decompose, leaving the sand and clay to hold its own. But even if a few years down the road brought crumbs to the kitchen, it would be okay, this was an unstructured community of established impermanence. They’d be happy to give the Earth back to herself, and by then, they’d be able to throw another up faster than a tipi.
Miles found plenty of free time for other work. Only here, work wasn’t some chore you put off until tomorrow, it was the exciting exclamation of “What do we get to to today?” He made a bowl out of oak and flour out of acorns, forged foraged tin cans into arrowheads, sinew stitched a pair of moccasins, cooked his own watercolor ink from black walnuts and recycled scrap paper into his story.
When you make paper, you simply break down the particles of its prior form in a slurry of water, then you spread it thin to solidify, as you apply enough pressure to create an untearable bond. It’s the same exact particles from the earlier creation, the exact same elements in a new configuration, and before all of this, they were trees, and the Earth, and the stars.
All of the particles that exist now, have always existed, they’re simply unfolding their own paths as they work together to create the universe. They can all be poked and prodded and analyzed under a scientifiscope, labeled and named by whichever microscopic species discovers the stuff that’s been here all along, every component catalogued as your body of work is broken down into scientific proof that science is all that exists, but how could the parts breakdown possibly explain all that there is to life?
Is the value of a car simply that of its scrap metal? Is a piece of art only worth its weight in walnuts? Can a book’s contribution to the world be measured by the density of the subject’s matter? You can count up all the parts and think that means you know everything, but how could a science of counting parts possibly interpret a language beyond the grasp of material composition?
The answer is, it can’t, and it’s ridiculous to think that an accounting of the material world will ever reveal the true intentions of the author. You can go on believing that belief in anything other than science is a fantasy, but you don’t have to stop believing in science to turn the pages of your own understanding, and believe me, there’s far more to you than a few boxes of the periodic table.
The individual instruments of the ensemble created incalculable music to the ears, the intricate choreography of the dance floor spun a tale that only a free spirit could fully appreciate, Miles gave himself to the moment as his left feet became one with the rhythms of life. He’d figured out a lot of himself, and of the world he was a part of, he’d unlocked secrets of the universe as he opened doorways to something bigger, and just when he thought he was nearing the ultimate understanding of what life was all about, he was quickly reminded that this was just a taste of the greatest mystery of all.
“Hey stranger, mind if I cut in?” interrupted Annie, with a smile beyond any friendship Miles had ever known.
Her yellow dress twirled and swirled as she admitted to having no idea that he was this much fun. She was thrilled by the dirtwork on her walk to the pavilion, even if it had been a rip-off of her own design. They caught each other’s hands as they got caught up on each other, the magic was still there, but somehow stronger than before, they’d each built their own fire and together it burned into the night.
Miles eventually retired to his tipi, a more tangible fire kept him in denial of the fading summer, a deer hide rugged the floor as he nestled into the final chapters of his notation. A muffled knock shook the canvas door, the yellow dress crept into the refuge, the firelight flickered across her face and lit the temptation of desire. She stood silent as her eyes spoke volumes, his invited her to stay, the seduction of the flame between them beckoned as she slipped from the dress into the night.