For some reason, the blueberry farmers next door have removed the infernal machine that blasted away every hour or so, with gun shot sounds to scare the birds. The farm is up for sale ... could that be the reason?
Imagine ... For Sale ... One blueberry farm with large gun.
It simply wouldn’t sell!
(All six acres and big house can be yours for only $800,000.00 and you can convert to organic practice and be happy beside our ecovillage ... hint, hint!)
So there are birds galore, now that it’s quiet next door.
The Cedar Waxwings give me thrills. They’re long lost friends back again and it does my heart good to see them. They used to come to my old neighbourhood in the city when I was first there, thirty-five years ago. And then as trees were cut, they stopped coming and became extinct in my mind.
And now, I have them, once more. I love their crested heads, gentle chirping and soft colours.
Why am I telling you this? Because I could feel the having of the birds. Ownership. Not lost, my birds back again.
We’re talking about ownership here in the ecovillage with some sort of a fierce intensity. Ownership of houses. There’s nothing like investing one’s life savings in an experimental venture like an ecovillage, to sharpen one’s focus and encounter fears of the most basic kind. Open the doors of the money closet of one’s mind and the smelly sneakers stored on shelves come tumbling out to boink one on the head.
As I make each payment of mega-thousands of dollars on my new house, I can feel the responsibility grow heavier on my shoulders. I have worked and saved for a long time ... my money isn’t just wealth, it’s my sweat and tears accumulated to help me as I grow older. If something should go wrong, will I be crushed under a burden of debt, not mine?
The experienced among us have come up with some intelligent solutions. Among them, something grounded, called Air Space titles. In a nutshell, you own the contents of a surveyed block of air, but not the ground on which it sits... all of us in the co-op own that. You don’t really have to understand completely what it is, except to know that the people who own the houses will have needed protection from disaster, by being able to govern the land on which the houses sit. You own, you get to decide. Simple.
And with this single breath of Air, those who don’t own, are caught in an updraft of wind and blown to the other side of the fence.
Ah! ... the money!
A few of us are sitting in the park, with take-out cups of coffee, leaning our elbows on the table, talking. Some are owners, some not. I can see my own house from where I sit ...roof, trim, cordwood that looks like stone from this distance. My own house.
“I can’t afford to buy a house”, says one, “and I’ve been a member a long time ...I love to garden here. Will I lose all that I’ve worked for ... (because in the making, is the owning) ... will I no longer belong to what I own?”
The sadness of those eyes.
“What if”, says another, “What if, you could buy and own the Air in which you garden?”
“And you could make the decisions that have meaning for you, along with all the other Air-soil gardeners and farmers?”
There’s a sweet, insistent call of a bird. It has an exotic sound, like the call of an escaped cagebird trilling with new-found freedom. Another of the same kind answers from the tree across the street. Not an escapee, after all, then. What is it? I have an imperative to know.
A flash of yellow. A stripe or two. A lilting flight.
Scarlet Tanager. I haven’t seen one of those in years ... in decades.
I love them.
Naming birds, is owning them, too.
What if we all owned everything, would we love everyone?
On His Blindness
John Milton
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.
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