Only Connect: A Dancing Rabbit Update

Althea holding Wallace. His spiffy new collar should make him more visible to birds, less likely to hunt them successfully. Photo by Katherine.

Althea holding Wallace. His spiffy new collar should make him more visible to birds, less likely to hunt them successfully. Photo by Katherine.

The morning after my return home from a month away, I was greeted by the sights and sounds of springtime (robins, peepers, budding trees) and hugs from community mates, all saying “welcome home”. So lovely! I felt ready to jump back in to DR life. Aaaand the next day fell ill and missed two-plus weeks of community action. So it goes.

Tereza here with news of the past week at Dancing Rabbit. There was potluck at Sandhill, and Friday community dinner, and follow up from Land Clean endeavors, and carrot cake at the Mercantile on Thursday night, and a concert by Anna Laube, all of which I missed. (If you know me you can probably guess that I was most sad about missing the cake.)

I was very glad to make it to a support circle, requested by Kassandra, held in Casa on Thursday evening. Fifteen of us met with her to offer support on some challenging issues she’s facing. There was discussion, sharing, and a powerful “human sculpture” exercise.

As helpful as it was for her, it was also good for the supporters; at least it was for me. I felt connected with the group, and happy and proud to live in a place where asking for and offering this kind of support is valued.

The next day I felt lousy again, and worried that I might not be able to attend the long-awaited training planned for the weekend. Luckily, by Saturday morning I felt well enough to go.

Every few months the Process Team offers short trainings, usually done by Rabbits or neighbors, on topics such as notetaking, consensus, and DR’s decision-making process. But every two years or so they organize a more major offering, usually bringing in outside trainers. This year three people came from the Matrix Leadership Institute for a two day full-community learning event, and I thought it was a great experience.

A majority of Rabbits attended, at least part of the time. Still unwell, I was horizontal and confused for most of the first day, but even through my hazy brain fog I could tell that the tools we were learning and practicing were helping people feel closer and more connected.

Nathan seemed to get the theory more than I did, so I asked him for a summary. He said that the “matrix” in the name refers to the collection of connections (or “pipes”) between all the individuals and subgroups within a group. Each pipe represents the flow of information between different entities within the group.

The more that information can flow freely between all the pipes within the matrix, while in front of the whole group, the more intelligent, flexible and resilient the group becomes, and the more leadership emerges spontaneously from different places within the matrix to address the needs and issues facing the group.

Nathan also said: “At first I was skeptical that we were going to get anything new from the training; by the end I thought the results were amazing and profound. While we still have real differences and tough decisions to make, I feel a much greater connection and sense of hope that we can value our differences and move forward in a way that honors all the different intelligences and gifts within our community.”

I heard a number of Rabbits say they gained new understanding about feedback, especially around separating intent and impact when communicating about our actions. We learned about giving appreciative feedback (“when you said or did x, the impact on me was y”) and differentiating feedback (same construction, adding “and I would prefer z”).

The idea seems to be that if a group can get used to offering feedback (of both kinds) regularly and easily, it can become something people like and want, rather than something to dread.

All in all it was an interesting and powerful two days. The feeling in the air reminded me of some of our annual retreats “back in the old days”: lots of emotion, lots of excitement, and feeling close with everyone, even those I had staunch disagreements with.

At the end of the weekend Dee said something along the lines of: “This could revolutionize sustainable relationships the same way the solar oven revolutionized sustainable cooking.” I heartily agree.

I’m so glad to be living in a place where so many of us are willing to show up, be vulnerable, share what’s true for us, and connect. Here’s wishing you connection in your community, too!

•                  •                 •

Dancing Rabbit Ecovillage is an intentional community and nonprofit outside Rutledge, in northeast Missouri, focused on demonstrating sustainable living possibilities. Find out more about us by visiting our website, reading our blog, or emailing us.



Firsts Of Spring: A Dancing Rabbit Update

Folks in Dancing Rabbit's first public tour of the spring view solar panels, natural building, and bicycle transportation. Photo by Dennis.

Folks in Dancing Rabbit’s first public tour of the spring view solar panels, natural building, and bicycle transportation. Photo by Dennis.

Whew! Time for a breather. I’ve been planting bare-root tree and shrub whips for a week straight, feeling as though my shovel is a permanent attachment to my arm. A handy one, don’t get me wrong- but a little unwieldy. Ted here with this week’s news from Dancing Rabbit.

As I’ve walked about the village this week, most often from home to orchard and back, there’s been a steady tick of first-of-the-season moments registering in my brain. First garter snake sliding off the path as I approach. First cricket tuning its call. First night above 60 degrees. First fruit trees and tulips blooming. First flush of shiitakes on the logs. Today I spotted my first violet flower in the woods and got my first prick by a stinging nettle.

One thing I haven’t registered a first of yet is a decent rain. In our clay soil, the moisture of the past year, frozen in the earth over the winter, lingers long in the soil in spring. But today as I dug holes for saplings, the soil was not noticeably wet. Despite high percentage chances of precipitation several times in recent weeks, and plenty of tentative spitting, we haven’t had one good soaking rain since everything thawed. With garden beds taking on new seedlings every day now, and our barrels for irrigation water not yet filled, I will very soon have to figure out pumping some water from the cattail pond if we don’t receive an inch or two.

…Wow! The power of words… overnight last night we did indeed get our first good soaking rain. I slept with more and more satisfaction the longer it lasted, knowing the real wealth of water that we daily rely on was rapidly accumulating. Then, upon waking, we discovered two water disasters: one, the new 275 gallon tank I had installed recently to catch the water off our house’s north roof had a counter-intuitive main valve that was open when it appeared closed, and had thus accumulated no water; and two, when the pump began to run in the kitchen at breakfast, it soon ran dry— turned out a coupling in the piping from gutter to kitchen’s cistern had come undone sometime in the past few days, so all the hundreds of gallons that might have gone in spilled instead on the ground.

Elation turned to dark despair. Our house’s cistern had certainly filled, as had all our other rain barrels, so we’d gained probably 1000 gallons overnight, but we’d probably missed catching nearly as much, and our kitchen is where we use the most and need it most reliably.

We’ll get by, but it was a hard blow to receive at such a full time of year when I’m barely holding it together with the to-do list. The chickens that have been getting out of the yard despite their wings being clipped got unceremoniously shut up in the chicken tractor on short notice at breakfast time. I could not deal with stray chickens raking away at my fresh transplants on top of this frustration with water.

There is of course county water I could draw from in a pinch, with many lengths of hose, but with only two exceptions of a couple hundred gallons when we first installed each of our cisterns, we have never in 11 years of relying on rainwater had to do that, and I prefer to keep it that way. Will water always flow out of the magic spigots? I hope so, but self-reliance is one of the major reasons I live here and do what I do.

Saturday we had our annual spring Land Clean, a cooperative, all-hands-on-deck day to get together and attend to cleaning and tidying around the village on a large scale. With an official Queen of Clean moderating a list of tasks, multiple snacks provided, and beautiful weather, the event is almost always an enjoyable one for me.

Among many highlights, the most notable accomplishments to my mind were the thinning and transplanting of innumerable flower bulbs from overcrowded beds, multiplying our local flowering potential many-fold; and the most thorough emptying of the machine shed I have witnessed in my 12 years here, led by some advance work over several days prior to the clean.

Our machine shed has long served as a catch-all for theoretically useful items that might be valuable in future to somebody else. I have certainly visited it hundreds of times in the past decade-plus seeking something I did not have, and come back with the treasure I sought. But there was undoubtedly a lot of surplus that took up a lot of space, and large-scale weather-protected space in the village is a rare commodity. Last year we had a collection of really nice shop tools donated, but they have been waiting in storage for such a space to accommodate them.

Now some of the freed-up space will go to setting up a shop that is available to all and can aid villagers’ capacity to manufacture our own building solutions. Boosting our internal economy has been one of the hottest topics in the past several years, and numerous ideas have accumulated for the possibilities that cooperative shop space would open.

Despite tending to be the one saying “Hey, you can’t get rid of that! It might be useful!”, I did my best on Saturday to stay away as the trailer was loaded for a dump run by more hard-nosed cleaners, believing in the greater good of the intended outcome. I did score a screen door for our kitchen that was headed to the landfill, however, and saw many others making off with useful items whose time had come. Here’s to the future!

I also backed up Bob on the first public tour day Saturday afternoon, taking half of the crowd and a couple of folks from Missouri Life magazine on walkabout in the village, jabbering away for two hours about all the bits and pieces that make up this village. The infusion of fresh faces after winter give me a real boost, and I’m ready for more.

If you walk about the village these days, you’ll notice an unmistakable sense of mission in the populace. Everybody is planting, tending, building, thinking, preparing for one thing or another, including our first visitor session beginning next Monday.

I have personally planted 85 or so seedlings, between conservation nursery and fruit and nut trees and other plants from Fedco in Maine. Sara and Aurelia dibbled in another 75 one morning (with a dibble bar, a heavy metal wedge used to open a basic hole for a tree and reclose it upon the roots once it is stuck in). Now I’ve got 125 to go, including 50 strawberry plants, but the rest of the trees just get dibbled in and don’t require babying. Conservation nursery trees are inexpensive and significant attrition is expected, though it is hard for me to actually treat them that way.

Planted thickly, the proportion of hickories, redbuds, black cherry, witch hazel and various other species that survive will add significant diversity and future beauty and utility to our draws and wooded edges. For the pawpaw, serviceberry and chokeberry, though, I could not withhold careful digging and a bit of added fertility, hoping for as many as possible to survive and bring more tasty fruit to our lives.

Only when I get through these seedlings (and finish my taxes and prepare for two hives of bees to arrive next week…) can I then return to helping Sara get our normal bounty of annuals planted and transplanted in the garden. No rest for the weary and hopeful.

May all the good work you’re engaged in bloom successfully as the season grows to fullness… here’s hoping you’ll come for a tour or visit this year to tell us all about it. Tours are every 2nd and 4th Saturday of the month starting at 1 pm, through October. See you soon!

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Dancing Rabbit Ecovillage is an intentional community and nonprofit outside Rutledge, in northeast Missouri, focused on demonstrating sustainable living possibilities. Find out more about us by visiting our website, reading our blog, or emailing us.



Life in the Not-So-Slow Lane: A Dancing Rabbit Update

Community members gathered to learn some great meeting facilitation skills from friend and neighbor Alyson. Photo by Illly.

Community members gathered to learn some great meeting facilitation skills from friend and neighbor Alyson. Photo by Illly.

Hello, busy world. This is Stephanie, first-time writer for this column, relatively new resident at Dancing Rabbit Ecovillage, and administrative assistant for the non-profit organization, Dancing Rabbit, Inc.

When I first pondered writing this post, I thought I would write about the thrills of nature and the joy of living in community. While there are thrills and joy aplenty to be had here, I found myself too stressed out this week for most of it. It seems that time is precious wherever we go. So for the sakes of all who live busy lifestyles here at Dancing Rabbit and elsewhere, I’ll try to keep this brief.

Lately I’ve been hearing a curious theme in the questions and comments of friends, family, and professional contacts living in the outside world. A lot of them seem to have the idea that life at Dancing Rabbit is “life in the slow lane”, that there’s not a lot to do here, for fun or for work – that we’re all strolling through life here as easy as the breeze or just sitting around doing nothing at all. Nothing could be further from the truth.

My Easter Sunday was spent in the office, prepping for and attending Dancing Rabbit Inc.’s board meeting, then following up on that and other work items. Much of Saturday was devoted to facilitation training, where a bunch of us turned out to learn some great skills for facilitating meetings.

My work week flew by in its routine of paperwork, emails, research, reports, policies, and all manner of administrative tasks. Morning and evening I try to keep up with the steady stream of emails from our internal mailing list of community-level questions and announcements. In between all of that I take some time to keep in touch with my family and friends, and occasionally even catch up on news from the outside world.

Then there is the regular business of cooking, eating, cleaning, sleeping, emptying the bucket under the sink, emptying the humanure bucket, hauling drinking water into the house, pulling weeds, planting seeds, coordinating rides and grocery pick-ups with other community members, and all the little jobs that crop up endlessly every day.

There’s certainly more work to living here than I could ever handle on my own. Fortunately, the willingness of community members to pick up groceries and run errands for each other saves us a lot of time. And the love of my life helps keep our household running smoothly, in addition to working several part-time jobs.

There’s no shortage of fun and enriching things to do here, either, though I personally couldn’t squeeze more than a couple of them in this week. On Monday night, community member Bagels and touring musician Liam O’Brian treated us to rich performances on vocals, guitar, percussion, and ukelele.

There were three birthdays, a meet-and-greet at the Mercantile to welcome Jodi as innkeeper for the season, a workshop on using salvaged pallets to create awesome furniture, women’s circle, men’s circle, game nights, ultimate frisbee, pizza night, five-rhythms dance, yoga, and much more.

And yes, mixed up with all this were the thrills of nature and the joy of living in community. Brilliant green leaves poking up in my flowerbed, the rising full moon, the setting sun, the wind humming strong through the wind turbine across the way.

Neighbors gifting me with produce and teas when I needed them the most. A friend taking the time to talk me through some of the worst of my stress. “Getting stuck in traffic on my way home from the office,” meaning chatting with three people converging at an intersection of footpaths along my three-minute walk home. These are what make feeling hectic in an ecovillage preferable to feeling hectic anywhere else.

I guess, no matter where we live, it comes down to the choices we make with our time. Choosing to tear myself away from the never-ending work on my computer to go outside and feel some sun for a few precious minutes. Choosing to be late to a meeting or skip it altogether, in order to be available to a friend who would like to connect with me.

Choosing to walk a little slower and chat a little more with the people I pass as I scurry back and forth between obligations. Choosing to take a deep breath and take a walk even when there are a million things demanding my attention. These are not choices that come easily for me, and I can’t say I’m very good at slowing down. My life at Dancing Rabbit is in a faster lane than it ever was in the big city where I lived before. But thank goodness, I’m not in it alone.

•                  •                 •

Check out this blog post about DR on the Fellowship for Intentional Community’s site!

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Dancing Rabbit Ecovillage is an intentional community and nonprofit outside Rutledge, in northeast Missouri, focused on demonstrating sustainable living possibilities. Find out more about us by visiting our website, reading our blog, or emailing us.



New Folks and Tadpole Eyes: A Dancing Rabbit Update

Red-sided gartersnakes enjoying more than the passive solar heat in the greenhouse. Photo by Stephanie.

Red-sided gartersnakes enjoying more than the passive solar heat in the greenhouse. Photo by Stephanie.

Maybe it’s because I wasn’t looking hard enough, or maybe it’s because I have never seen them in that awkward, alien stage in between being a child and truly becoming an adult, but I have never seen tadpoles as big as my thumb until now!

Nik here, and sitting by Ye Olde Ponde at the end of a long work week, I happily noticed the fish were beginning to tear around the shallows, popping up for bugs, and then hovering as motionlessly as spaceships. I inched closer to see if I could identify what kind of fry were so prolific this season. But something about their movement—a propelled undulation—tipped me off. Then I saw the big, Martian heads, eel-like tails, and, on just a few of them, the budding idea of legs hanging about their tails.

These were bullfrog tadpoles, not the tiny, black, rubbery-looking swimmers that I caught in mason jars as a kid. I realized how fleeting these odd creatures were, in transition, so everyday is literally seen with new eyes.

Pollywogs and tinkle pinks? What kind of blog is this becoming anyway?!

But I sat on the shore and watched in serenity…for almost as hour! I began to think I finally understood why all those Hollywood stars won’t stop yakking on about their koi ponds. There were murmurings from the village children about days and days of tadpole catch-and-release missions (and a short debate of whether eating one would be a worthwhile experience…) but I was glad I saw them for myself.

The flock of kids here is accumulating new ranks as we come into Spring and the first work exhangers of the season arrive. Jody and Sandy are the newest wexers at the Milkweed Mercantile bed and breakfast, and Jody’s son, Cantrell, has been acclimating to the woods, ponds, prairies, and the local denizens.

Being the new kid in town was never a picnic for me; kids can be cruel one day and your best friend the next. Each day is truly a new one, seen through new eyes (that Beginner’s Mind jazz those Zen-folk are always yakking on about). It takes bravery, tadpole or bullfrog, to make the leap to living out here.

More workers, interns, and visitors are about to descend on our little hamlet, bringing tents and ideas and kids and expectations which will all be put through the wringer. So with those tadpole eyes that I’m trying to manifest, the summer is looking exciting and new for this community in constant transition.

Natural building workshops, an extensive permaculture design course, goat & chicken raising boot camps are all on the horizon, so stretch those little legs and take the first leap!

•                  •                 •

Dancing Rabbit Ecovillage is an intentional community and nonprofit outside Rutledge, in northeast Missouri, focused on demonstrating sustainable living possibilities. Find out more about us by visiting our website, reading our blog, or emailing us.



Sharing the Abundance: Permaculture Design Course at Dancing Rabbit!

Dancing Rabbit is excited to host our very first Permaculture Design Course, August 29-Sept 6, 2015! The very experienced teaching team of Bill and Becky Wilson from Midwest Permaculture will lead the course, and Dancing Rabbit member Sharon Bagatell will apprentice-teach with them. In this blog post, Sharon shares a bit about why she is so passionate about permaculture.

Shupie's abundance includes this big hanging fruit called a "papadilla" — a cross between a papaya and a granadilla! Photo by Sharon.

Shupie’s abundance includes this big hanging fruit called a “papadilla” — a cross between a papaya and a granadilla! Photo by Sharon.

Shupie was standing in her garden. She reached out to me with a bag full of green beans and a big smile. “For you. Take them home!” she said, “We have abundance!”

If you’re a gardener, you might not find this act of generosity surprising – gardeners often share their bounty. But this was Malawi, East Africa, at the beginning of what they call “The Hunger Time,” when subsistence farmers have little to sustain their families, much less to share with others. That day in February though, Shupie and her husband Benes were showing me around their homestead, and it was overflowing with food! Ah, yes, I thought, THIS is what we mean by the permaculture ethic “Share the Abundance.”

Shupie and Benes had taken a Permaculture Design Course just last October. They learned about building soil, water management, diverse food sources, and energy systems, and then went home and turned their small farm upside down.

Permaculture’s system design approach simply made sense to them, and, Shupie told me, they saw their work as an important investment in their long-term household economy. Five short months later, they were already reaping the abundance.

Permaculture is not always such “presto change-o” magic, but for me permaculture is magical. It is the most solutions-based, hopeful way of looking at the current state of humankind that I have come across in my years of work in environmental education and activism. In the words of Bill Wilson, teacher extraordinaire, of Midwest Permaculture:

Permaculture looks at life squarely in the face and simply asks the questions:
What is? How do things really work? It then lays out multiple paths toward building abundance, security and health into our living systems to benefit humans AND the natural world that sustains all life.

It is honest.

It is realistic.

It is powerful.

Although permaculture is an ever-growing international movement, you don’t have to travel to Africa to experience its honesty, realism, and power! I’m delighted to be part of the team that is putting together Dancing Rabbit’s first Permaculture Design Course.

This PDC Course at DR Consists of our Pre-course Studies plus 9 Very-Full Days on Site.

This PDC Course at DR Consists of our Pre-course Studies plus 9 Very-Full Days on Site.

And talk about abundance!! This course will blend two of the greatest adventures in sustainable living – permaculture and ecovillage living! The combination of systems design thinking and day-to-day examples of an evolving human habitat is sure to abound with meaningful, inspiring, and potentially life-changing experiences.

For course details and registration, click here!

Before I end, I’d like to share a little about the “magical” of permaculture to me.

Permaculture is all about connections. I don’t simply mean connections between plants, water, soil critters, climate and all those great things you’ll learn about in the course.

I mean connections among humans as well. I mean the kind of magically uplifting connection I had with Shupie and Benes on their farm across the world in Malawi.

Though we came from completely different racial, ethnic, language and educational backgrounds, through our passion for permaculture we shared a profound and joyful connection.

“Yes! You get it!” our smiles and hugs seemed to say, “Humans CAN live sustainably on this planet. We CAN share the abundance!”

Bill and Becky Wilson of Midwest Permaculture inspire this very kind of uplifting connection in their masterful teaching. I hope you will consider sharing the abundance, and joining us this summer for the very first Permaculture Design Course at Dancing Rabbit!



Murmur of a Spring Electric: A Dancing Rabbit Update

Also this week, Sharon gave a slideshow presentation of her trip to Africa, followed by music and baobob fruit sampling. Photo by Illly.

Also this week, Sharon gave a slideshow presentation of her trip to Africa, followed by music and baobob fruit sampling. Photo by Illly.

Beneath a thinning coat of dry, golden field thatch creep the emerald antennae of spring grasses. We are not yet to the season of green-up, the one pastoralists and their ruminant cohorts alike anticipate all winter. This is equinox, the great leveling of Earth’s forces, especially for us here in the temperate reaches of America’s Midwest. After a brief age dominated by northerly winds, arctic air, and the pale glow of human made light, I feel the strange familiarity of spring.

Howdy y’all, this is Ben, and I’m sorry if I’m getting all nostalgic about the seasons here, especially if you’re in a place where summer is ending, or on the equator or in the arctic, though I hear it gets to be spring up there too. I guess there’s just something about the way this place smells, once the soil thaws. Sometimes the smell is pretty good. Sometimes one must acquire an appreciation.

Well, nobody must acquire an appreciation for the smell of duck manure, but I think it helps. One of the reasons I prefer ducks to cattle is the size of both their bodies and their droppings. Duck manure dries in only a couple of hours of March sun, and by some function of natural alchemy transmogrifies into fluffy, flaky, magical fertilizer. It’s happening on my porch right now! I will grant that cow manure needn’t smell very rank, and generally emits little more than the airy suggestion of sourness when homogeneously deposited across a healthy, open pasture, and that if anyone were to confine ducks in one place for a while, well, things may become rank there as well. But I digress, and unless you’ve had the opportunity to breathe a whiff of the duck-sweetened prairie pasture land of this corner of Northeast Missouri, you may feel less nostalgic than I when it comes to this olfactory indicator of the seasons’ turning.

There are other ways to sense that we are on the cusp of spring, like peepers singing in the draws and ponds, the arrival of new birds, the gradual yet sudden reemergence of yarrow, comfrey, and wild onions. The empty roads and vacant landscapes of our slumbering village carry travelers again; up and across a low rise I see the mud-streaked visage of children seeking tadpoles.

The elderberry buds are fat and neon green. Everywhere the smell of damp hay and leaf mold rises, along with the chatter of fat robins stalking the sod for worms. Here and there protrudes cress, peppergrass and crocus, every overturned piece of wood conceals a colony of roly polies, or the stretched tendrils of sun-starved grasses. My child has already returned home with a tick on her back. Beneath the breezeblown thatch of these rolling hills, the murmur of a spring electric deepens.

There is, rightly so I believe, a necessary aura of tumult around this time. Atmospherically speaking, air masses are battling each other for dominance, if you’ll bear the personification. I sure do miss a good thunderstorm.  As flora and fauna awaken from their dormancy, or seemingly spring to life from moisture and warmth, the struggle for survival begins anew. Here I am without hardly a notion of what to start on first, and several generations of dayflies have passed from birth to the great beyond already. Our laying flock is highly active at the moment, providing at least two dozen eggs a day. If we can’t get these eggs pickled or sold, we’ll be up to our ears in no time. Abundance always seems to necessitate work.

I’m not a good gardener, but I am a highly excitable one. A good gardener, I think, would have peas and onions in the ground by now. That’s not how I’m going about it. I’m planting lambsquarters. Everywhere. You might know them as goosefoot greens, or pigweed, or huauzontle, depending on your vernacular.

These chenopodiums (same family as quinoa) don’t need much encouragement, and are a bane to tidy gardeners. I am not tidy. These annuals really like to drive their roots deep, a defense against drought. The leaves are tender and tasty early on, and end up getting bitter and tough as they age. Well, there ain’t nary a green that doesn’t do that, cultivated or not. And lambsquarters have been cultivated, as early as 1700 BC by aboriginal Americans.

Why pull these things out when we can eat them? Goats like ‘em fresh or dried like hay, chickens and ducks will take them chopped with clover, nettles, and chickweed, and they really bulk a salad up in those early days when the garden yields little. They also seem not to give a rip where they’re sown, whether in the most fertile, well-structured organic garden soil or atop a fifteen foot mound of clay.

I remember once performing the awful task of pulling a quarter acre of the stuff on someone else’s farm. Awful tasks are always performed on someone else’s farm, whereas they become some sort of Zen practice at home. It has to do with having a boss, I guess. I had blisters from pulling after a few minutes, and the whole time, these people had goats, loafing around dumbly and hungrily in an adjacent pen. Like many first time homesteaders, they went broke due to a lack of creativity.

It’s almost as bad as having so many resources and so much money that you don’t have to be creative in farming, which pretty much only happens with hobby farmers. Then there’s the kind of farming where there’s so much debt and red tape that the farmer isn’t allowed to be creative. Pursuing my agrarian dreams at Dancing Rabbit has been the ideal incubator for my creativity, between my lack of debt and lack of money. We are beholden to no one but the livestock, and we can either innovate new ways of feeding and maintaining them in earth-wise manners, or eat them. Win-win! Well, for some of us anyways.

But of course, I’m not a real farmer. I’m just a guy who spends his time admiring the smell and consistency of duck manure, spreading weed seeds, and arguing with goats and chickens. Sure, I might plant two or two hundred trees a year, spend countless hours and minutes a day moving fence, hauling hay, hauling water, hauling feed, but I don’t operate a tractor, I don’t have a farm loan (yet) at a farm bank, and I’m perplexed about hog bellies and cattle futures. Who isn’t?

If there’s one thing I know about farming that isn’t just cattle dung, it’s the tumult and turmoil of trying to raise a good yield during a narrow window of time in accordance with whatever kind of weather we get, and I think that is something true of farming land as well as building an ecovillage. In myriad ways we are navigating the same storms and droughts, the patterns that bond us a bit more to the land. Even if we aren’t really farmers, we finally got the USDA to come and admire our little poultry project, so at least I’m somebody.

You know somebody who probably would qualify as a farmer? Johnny Appleseed. I got curious about him recently, as he has cropped up in Althea’s school book. The kid’s story was quaint and vague. According to the myth, Johnny Appleseed was some kind of gentle, wilderness-adoring tramp with a pot on his head. He kind of wandered around there for a spell and spread a lot of apple trees, because he liked them. I can relate to some of that. Not the pot part.

A bit of cursory research reveals that he was also a vegetarian, a missionary, and a capitalist, albeit an ascetic one. This guy could probably do alright here.  It turns out he planted orchards of apples from seed on the frontier so that he could sell the plots to incoming homesteaders. But he never used grafted varieties, due to his religious convictions, just seed-grown stock, since most of the apples were intended for cider production, safer than water at the time. (In some places it probably still is.) Appleseed was not only a skilled orchardist, but an accomplished real estate developer, like many modern farmers have to be.

I’m not much of an apple grower. Not for a few years at least. But I’ve got a lot of hedge apples. As I’ve probably stated before, I’ve been collecting hedge seed for a living fence for the past coupla years now, storing the mushy fruits in barrels of water over winter until the flesh melts and we’re left with a slurry of gooey seeds ready to sprout.

As a part of my taxation for picking these up and using them to my own ends as a human being, I allow other critters to freely munch on them the four or five months they’re stored like this, to the point that a very fat squirrel has moved in nearby. I see this squirrel constantly stuffing its cheeks with hedge seed, and scurrying about stashing the quarry, some of which will doubtless as the spring re-emerge to feed future generations of rodentia.

So, Johnny Appleseed, altruistic as he might seem, was making financial investments for himself, all the while providing a little something for future generations, who, well, did what they did to the vast wilderness of North America, and now here we all are, dealing with it as best as we know how. I think I’d rather model my farming off of the squirrel: erratic, opportune, naïve, hopeful, and beyond the influence of self-declared experts in the field, like casting lambsquarters seeds on a mud-caked road ditch in late March.

•                  •                 •

Dancing Rabbit Ecovillage is an intentional community and nonprofit outside Rutledge, in northeast Missouri, focused on demonstrating sustainable living possibilities. Find out more about us by visiting our website, reading our blog, or emailing us.



Speaking Tour 2015 = Awesome so far!

by Ma’ikwe

Zach Robertson (host extraordinaire and friend of Rabbits Ben and Mae) with his awesome poster! Photo by Ma'ikwe

Zach Robertson (host extraordinaire and friend of Rabbits Ben and Mae) with his awesome poster! Photo by Ma’ikwe

I’m in love. Not that I’m not completely dedicated to Dancing Rabbit, mind you. But if I’m really honest, I seem to be having a bit of an emotional affair with Bellingham, Washington.

I’m two and a half weeks in to the seven week journey that is my spring Speaking Tour, and Bellingham is the first stop that’s a new city to me. I’ve spent a week each in the San Francisco Bay Area and Portland, OR, talking about Dancing Rabbit, cooperative culture, and the practical and ethical implications of climate disruption.

I’ve had receptive audiences everywhere (and have now spoken to or done workshops with over 300 people), but I gotta say, there’s something special going on in Bellingham. And to think, I almost didn’t make it here…

What saved the day was a community connection. When we asked Rabbits if they knew anyone in Bellingham (where tour assistant Mariyam and I had been struggling to find the right connections), Critters Rachael (Mae) Ferber and Ben Brownlow piped up to say that, why, yes, one of their best friends is a mover and shaker in Bellingham.

And so yesterday I finally got to meet Zach Robertson, a bare-footed, multi-lingual papa who is also part of the founding group of a Land Trust community working to get off the ground here. And Zach turned out to be the key guy we needed to get me up here. And for that, I’m very grateful!

Why do I like Bellingham so much? Maybe it’s because it’s human scale: 100,000 people tucked into the northwest corner of Washington state, with a university and five distinct neighborhoods, walking and bike paths galore, and a lovely creek running through it. Maybe it’s because it has a long history as a “boom and bust” town, and knows what it means to weather hardship together… that kind of thing creates community faster than anything else I know of.

Or maybe it’s because they are one of the hundreds of communities around North America with a fossil fuel industry fight on their hands, and these folks are close enough to the natural beauty of the world to have a good idea of what they’d lose if plans for a cool transport hub actually get approved. Apparently 1500 local folks have already signed on to a public commitment to civil disobedience if the thing passes.

Nothing I can say about the economics of climate change much surprises folks around here. But they are hungry to hear about Dancing Rabbit and what we’re doing to directly address the forces that are driving climate change.

Last night, when I said, “Just stop buying crap,” they clapped.

When I said, “Racism is one of the things feeding in to climate change,” they clapped.

And when I communicate in a dozen different ways that we can do this, together, they clapped, too.

Maybe I just like preaching to a non-pretentious choir, but these folks are clearly my peeps: feisty, intelligent, practical, and in love with life, with a terrific community to show for it.

(Sound familiar? Of course, maybe I just miss home. Now that the snow is gone, that is…)

Last night, after the talk was over, Zach unfurled a beautiful handmade poster he made a few years back. It features Dancing Rabbit statistics, comparing our resource consumption to the average American’s.

It’s a low tech version of my TEDx talk, and it floored me: how many people around the country, even the world, know about us, use us as an example, and we don’t even know it?

I feel very, very lucky to finally be able to share some hugs with a handful of these local miracle workers who are our fans. And to be becoming a fan of my own, of places like Bellingham…

As you read this, I am most likely on a long train ride back to the Midwest. Next up: Chicago, Ann Arbor and Philly. Hope to see you there!


maikwebioMa’ikwe Schaub Ludwig is a pioneering sustainability educator, who, in addition to her work as DR, Inc.’s Executive Director, is head of Ecovillage Education US, and a member of the Board of Directors of the Fellowship for Intentional Community. Her work integrates ecological, economic, social, political and personal approaches, leading to a strongly holistic view of what it takes to truly be sustainable.

She is a regular writer for Communities magazine and the author of Passion as Big as a Planet: Evolving Eco-Activism in America. For more information you can visit her website: www.maikwe.net.



Song of the Pinkletinks: A Dancing Rabbit Update

Even at the first impromptu cook-out of the season, Critters are always hard at work! Photo by Katherine.

Even at the first impromptu cook-out of the season, Critters are always hard at work! Photo by Katherine.

Let’s sing it all together now!.. “Oh, what a beautiful mornin’, oh, what a beautiful day. I got a beautiful feelin’ ev’rything’s goin’ my way.” Yes folks, I may be a young gal of 30 but I certainly did start my mornin’ singin’ this song from the classic musical Oklahoma! Thanks, mom & pop, for raisin’ me up with the good ol’ Rodgers & Hammerstein!

Hey all, Katherine here singin’ along to another week in Rabbitville. While I would love to say that Spring has Sprung, I am aware that the last frost date is still over a month out for our area. What that means for us is that seeds are starting in our greenhouses and trees are being pruned around our land.

My friend Aurelia (age 8) was spotted picking up those very whips for what I suppose will become some sort of neat schooling project. Perhaps a basket? Knowing that she is a part of the goat co-op, they may very well have gone straight to the herd. That would be good eatin’ for our very pregnant nanny goats who are due mid-April.

The peepers are peeping, the peepers are peeping! Yes folks, these chorus frogs have emerged once again from their winter slumber to charm our village with their wonderful song. They can be heard night and day in the very early spring after the snow has melted and up to 2.5 miles away! This is quite a voice for a tiny being less than an inch big.

When I write these articles, I love to do a little research into some of my topics. Fun Fact about the spring peeper: other names for them, in Canada and New England, include “pink-winks”, “tinkletoes”, and my personal favorite, “pinkletinks”.

The song of the peeper is just another of our “firsts” for the year. I saw my first ant the other day, bee yesterday, and bat this evening! I was extremely excited each time and greeted every friend respectfully. Our lives in the village and those of the flora and fauna are quite interconnected, as we learn to share our land with all of the beings and live in harmony.

Building houses and digging ponds can be quite a game-changer for ecosystems and Rabbits are quite aware of the impact that we are having. As individuals, we choose to live with nature in our own personal ways; as a village, we have committees such as Land Management that monitor our impact and attempt to lessen the literal footprints that we are creating on our 280 acres.

Within the village proper, the sun has certainly had its effect on our folk as we emerge from our winter cocoons and begin work (outside) again. Kyle has been splitting away shingle after white oak shingle to make a roof for the 80 year old log cabin that he has been rebuilding since last season. Acquired from Larry Mitchell’s farm south of Edina, this awesome structure that was built by Mitchell’s father during the depression will soon be gracing the slopes of DR’s very own King’s Forest.

The King’s Forest is only a few years old, planted by the Critter Collective, and boasts of being a food forest. “What is a food forest?” you may ask. Well, let me tell you! A food forest, also known as forest gardening, is a low-maintenance food production method based on a woodland ecosystem. Making use of companion planting with fruit and nut trees, shrubs, herbs, vines and perennial vegetables, this edible ecosystem builds a woodland habitat that is delicious for all of the senses.

Speaking of delicious sun-kissed activities, this beautiful weather has allowed our meals to move back outside among the birds and bees, and remember what it is like to feel the wind in our rice. I was once again able to bake up some apples and raisins in our solar oven for a contribution to our tri-community potluck, held every Tuesday.

Meal times in the village can be very special when the work day is through and a great spread is waiting in yonder courtyard. Many folks have found that eating dinner at 6:30 still leaves enough sunlight afterwards to squeeze in a bit more work, or at least leisurely pick up our strewn-about tools. Whatever the event, in this weather, it is sure to be enjoyable.

And as we fade out this week, I would like to share gratitude for y’all wanting to hear our collective song (which some Rabbits are known to dance to). I am also encouraging an outdoor foray for yourself to experience the wondrous songs of nature and to tune into the collective harmony. In the words of some particularly famous rolling stones, “…you can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes you just might find you get what you need.”

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Dancing Rabbit Ecovillage is an intentional community and nonprofit outside Rutledge, in northeast Missouri, focused on demonstrating sustainable living possibilities. Find out more about us by visiting our website, reading our blog, or emailing us.