Transitions - Summer on a commune

I found myself, once again, homeless last spring, Not entirely sure of where I’d be landing.

I took a ferry to Vancouver, where I reunited with my partner and my dog.
After a short detour to Squamish, we decided to make our way to Salt Spring Island.

I needed some time to think about where I wanted to go next; this seemed like a good place.
Now I'd just have to wait for my gypsy head to produce some kind of magical and adventurous plan.

I’d spent a summer on Salt Spring two years earlier, for an organic farming apprenticeship. 
I was instantly won over by it’s magic, mystery and whimsy.

I've heard people talk about how the entire island is situated on a bed of quartz. 
"It's the quartz!", Is a common expression used to explain away ones eccentric behaviour or unusual events.

I've been told that it's intercepted by some kind of healing meridian that only appears in certain parts of the world, the kind of energy centers they build monasteries on.

To me it has always seemed a place to heal, but not stay.

It wasn’t quite how I remembered it, as I myself had changed, but it still held it’s healing quality. 

This works.

 
I put out a few feelers for places to stay, short term, of course.

Through a mutual connection, we were offered the opportunity to meet with a perspective farm, where we could set up our tent.
It would also involve being a part of a farm-based "community".

I’d lived in shared houses and staff accommodation, but never somewhere with a self-appointed title of “community”
This kind of thing is not at all uncommon on Salt Spring.

“Do you want to be a part of the community?” 

We decided to give it a chance.
We were unsure of what to expect, and wary of potential “culty vibes”.
We were met, helped open up some garden beds, had a tour and we were fed.
It all seemed decently un-cultish and the food was good. They liked my dog.
We decided to try it out. We had nothing to lose and an opportunity to camp for a week or so.
After a month had passed, they asked us to stay on for the growing season. 
Things were going well, so we agreed.

As much as I knew that Salt Spring was only transitionary for me, it made sense to stay for a while.

a while for me, being more than a couple of months..

It couldn't hurt to hoard some savings anyways before deciding how to spend the winter months.

Aaron, my partner, worked full-time on the farm. 
I worked part-time on the farm and full-time as a Server.
I was offered the task of “Event Garden Designer”, And I accepted.
I spent most of my time on the farm planning, weeding, cultivating, and landscaping our future, fully edible and medicinal, permaculture display garden.
I also spent a lot of time cooking for the group, as I hate doing dishes (we had one of those the cook doesn't do the dishes deals)

I really enjoyed my time working with the earth again. 

My old farming and gardening knowledge came in real handy. 

Also, my job at the restaurant was pretty great. 

Working with the earth provided me with grounding, physical work, meditation and a creative outlet. Serving provided me with a fast-paced and social environment and the challenge of developing a skill I’ve only just picked up in the last couple of years

I won’t lie, it was hard for me, most of the time, resisting the urge to move on.

Sticking around wasn’t only to benefit my bank account, it was also a challenge that I knew I could grow from personally. 

Pushing through the uncomfortable feelings I so often experience. denying my urge to run, while I could still get out; no strings.
Attatchments still unformed, expectations still unpenetrating and relationships still superficial and light-hearted. 

Being a part of the community was equal parts challenging and rewarding.

Every “community” is different. I’ve lived in “unintentional” community, which comes much more naturally to me, especially as far as expectations go. 

I’m hyper sensitive to what I sense others expect of me; I project their needs and expectations onto myself. I neglect self-care out of fear of disappointing those around me.
So I run, before I can drop the ball, before they see that I'm imperfect.

Something as small as “Thanks for dinner! Could you make dinner tomorrow night, as well?” Is enough pressure to make sure that I not only don't cook dinner for a week, but that I don't come around for at least a day or two.

Living in “intentional” community for the first time was, sometimes, uncomfortable. It taught me a little bit more about what, and how much to give. 

It helped me to learn a little bit better, how to gracefully set limitations before having a total physical or mental break-down.

I had both physical and mental breakdowns this summer.

When I feel that people expect certain things from me, I tend to just leave. Removing myself altogether is easier than living with the fear of dissapointing another.

This is why it was important for me to stay.

There were entire weeks that I felt like I was trapped under a blanket, suffocating, needing change, movement, freedom. 

I fought through this feeling and stayed where I was.

Despite all of this, there were also moments when community felt right.
This is how I was able to stay.
It could feel like family and together-ness, a feeling that I haven’t had much of in my life.

Every full moon, we celebrated.
We would go for a hike and speak our gratitude and intentions, or bake pizza in a portable wood stove and drink local beer on top of mount Maxwell. 

We had days that we all worked together. We could laugh and run around barefoot in the garden, pulling weeds, light-hearted - our faces, feet and hands covered in dirt. 

 We had WOOFers stay with us for weeks at a time, and I made some really special friendships.

We lived in a cluster of forest we called “tree-island”. We were without wifi. We shared an outdoor kitchen. Our only hot water source was the bath house, complete with an outdoor shower. 

I woke up one morning to newly hatched baby birds, in a nest I’d had my eye on, squawking right bedside my tent. I watched them grow up.

I was able to wander into the forest, with a knife and a backpack, and come back with fresh wild mushrooms for our dinner. 

When I wanted a salad, all I had to do was walk to the garden and take it.

When it finally came time to move on, I felt both relief and a sense of freedom.

This feeling made the goodbyes sweeter, and leaving the beautiful land a little easier. 

What had started as a potential place to crash for a week or so, became a place for future visits, a piece of family and of home. 

My final words to Salt Spring are those of gratitude.

Thank you.

Thank you for being exactly what I needed, when I didn’t even know what that was.

Thank you for all of the beautiful people that you hold and attract.

Thank you for challenging and growing me.

Thank you for being my teacher and healer.

Thank you for being my rock, my resting place,

my refuge in the storm, both outside and within.