A Utopian Clearing

How good looking and good being are two different things

This long post is part of what is turning into a memoir of sorts. It can be read separately, but if you love other people’s struggles you best begin with That Time I Built A City and work your way back here.

Leaving home

With our house repossessed and sold, we had to be out in two months. Now what? Be devastated? We had seen these things coming for a long time and had dreaded them. When it finally came to be it was different than expected. Not at all easy. A major event that still impacts our lives big time. But also a high amount of real appeared.

The implicit promise things would work out in the end had been broken. It was very clear to us we no longer wanted to live and work in our hometown. We not only lost the physical bricks and mortar, but we also no longer had a place to call home.

Our adult daughter had already moved out to study. My middle girl was about to go to university next semester. They too lost their go-to place. Their anchor point.

My son was seven back then. Going to a Steiner school and struggling with the traditional methods. A bit of unschooling wouldn’t be bad. He had the curiosity to match. The three of us had to find a new way to live. And we simply decided this was a starting point. A chance to do something very different.

The other option of accepting defeat, of giving up, of seeing ourselves as failures was simply rejected. Many things needed to be reinvented but let’s see what or where it would bring us. That was the energy we held on to. Being open and receptive. Or at least try to.

Setting the intention

I remember how we, on a Monday morning, made a list. What do we want? Wish for? What can we do? Short term, long term. Two things came out. We had lots of stuff to get rid off, that we no longer needed and that would generate some cash for whatever leap we’d choose to take. We asked questions. If we no longer live here, where do we long to be? This town? This region? This country? Or even this continent? What people did we want surrounding us? How would we be able to do what we love? Creative stuff, gardening, making and repairing, reading, writing, have good conversations with people who also try to think for themselves.

I typed the resulting list of keywords into the Google search bar. In Dutch, which is sort of funny looking back now. The results came up and after skimming I clicked on one. Read the about page, and said, listen to this. What I read out loud was exactly what we had tried to put into words as the place we wished for.

France, a Dutch eco community that looked and sounded too good to be true. I wrote a carefully worded mail. Introducing our family of three, a bit of background, hopes and believes and the straightforward question if they would have us live there.

The response was enthusiastic. Yes, we should come by, to meet up. They’d just had a spot opened up.

We took our tent and the three of us travelled there to spent a few very cold spring days at the place.

We got the big tour, by ‘the boss’ himself. Proudly and enthusiastically showing us what they had build over thirty years. They owned a magical part of a forested valley. Ran a camping site and two successful summer festivals. They had a big goat farm and produced cheese, yoghurt and ice cream for the region. A huge vegetable garden, a chicken run. A restaurant, a shop, professional kitchens. Art workshops, great tools and machinery. They made their own teas, natural cosmetics, apple juice. They were preserving their produce on a scale any prepper would drool over. A massive spiritual library, beehives, a lake to swim in, a forest with waterfalls and druid legends attached. Everything an eco dreamer could ever wish for.

They also had a pretty appartment for us. If we wanted we could move in. We had to help keep the place running of course but there was so much good stuff to choose from and we were used to working 60 hour weeks. Anything would be an improvement. Was this perfect or what? We’d met so many wonderful people during those spring days it wasn’t hard to decide this was the next step on the journey.

Travel lightly

Four weeks later we’d hired a truck, sold what we could, ready for emigration to France.

We still had a lot of stuff. And we had made sure the truck was big enough to hold all of it, and organised extra storage at the community. Lots of things would come in handy and could maybe be donated to the place.

A ladder, my workshop materials, my puppet theatre (yes remind me to tell you about that one), a hardwood picknick bench from our garden, my ancient drumset, the floor monitors and amp I hadn’t been able to sell yet. Tons of leftover oil-paints, a stack of my paintings, a Babylonian pile of artists quality papers, my wive’s mountainous collection of textiles, wool and embroidery yarn. And while we had sold or given away three quarter of our books, there were a few leftovers. Like twenty five banana boxes, give or take.

The truck arrived. The driver had asked if he could bring stuff, to share the cost of fuel. He brought a foresting machine that filled most of the available space. Imagine a big tractor and double that.

We had to make do. Luckily we had no fridges, washing machine or big furniture. But still we couldn’t take everything with, that one trip. This kind of reducing our worldly belongings was the theme of that year. Being forced to let go of more and more. A private descent that was bitter and a tough teacher. It didn’t go all at once. And im glad it didn’t, but the stretched lesson didn’t make it easier.

Utopia

What a place to land after those difficult months. The beginning of June and the start of the insanely busy summer season.

My wife would learn the crafts of the in-house bakery, and lead part of the kitchen teams that produced three meals a day. I was assigned to the goats. Milking seven days a week. I rose with the sun and biked to the nearby farm. Learning a new trade that didn’t come naturally. Way out of my comfort zone. A hundred and fifty goats. A big white, smelly, fly infested, brutal bunch of girls. To be milked by machine twice a day. I learned to do the morning round. What a contrast with teaching, managing, and selling paints and brushes. God, those ladies were mischievous.

The rest of the day I got whatever job needed doing. And there were lots. Rental tents to clean. Meals to be prepared for the more than hundred volunteers and the inner circle of inhabitants. The upcoming festivals had to be build. The weekly Friday talent show needed setting up and breaking down. Trimming hedges, mowing grass, emptying the compost toilets, driving the golf carts to bring luggage and guests to their spot on the car free terrain.

The collective meals were invigorating. A mix of guests, long term volunteers and visitors from all over Europe that was different each day. I had the conversations I’d always longed for. Here I could be the social creature I wanted to be. All was well. And we enjoyed it thoroughly. My son played outside with the other kids for as long as it was light and still we had to go find him after sundown. The compounds were safe and equipped with a hundred parents. It was intense, we slept like babies and lost weight due to the crazy healthy vegetarian diet and those long hours.

Sounds perfect doesn’t it?

Too perfect maybe? You’re damn right. I don’t think we were naive. We didn’t expect perfection. We can handle the more difficult bits of the daily stuff. And we had our eyes wide open. We could not help but see the little things. To have some questions about how it all functioned.

The volunteers varied from helping out a few days to semi-residents staying for years. There was a small core of full members. A slightly bigger number of candidates. We also were treated as candidates. Of course a certain trial period is wise. We then heard it took a minimum of five years to get into the inner circle of inhabitants. A bit long to my taste, but okay.

Then the rules. There was a sort of curfew. From ten at night you weren’t supposed to be out and about. Eleven was lights out and silence. Even the camping guest had to agree to that. The whole place was phone and internet free. No radiation tolerated. Very good for social interaction, crap to stay connected to the world outside the confines and family. Only at the entrance gate was an open air wifi spot with very limited bandwidth. Our daughters couldn’t simply call or message when they needed us.

Work was taken very seriously. Elaborate instruction protocols in every department. And a long list of behavioural rules, like washing your own dishes after a meal. Some good, some outright weird. Overall a bit much. It brought the rebel out in some. Like me for instance. And then there was the deadly sin of murmuration. Taken from old monastery rules. No gossip or complaining openly. If you had something on your chest, you were expected to report this straight to the one in charge. The top dog. Not your teamleader. The captain ran a tight ship. And a complex operation like that probably needs it. The man in charge was dominant. Not at all afraid to loudly address ‘bad’ behaviour in public. Most people learned very quickly to be careful and tread lightly. He was a wise man after all.

We had wholeheartedly decided to move there, to be there, give it our best shot. No reservations. The strange thing I noticed when we arrived and moved in was the difference between the very warm welcome of some, with relaxed hugs and friendly words and the much cooler reception of some others. I sensed that very strongly that first day but put it aside as different kind of people having different ways.

A few weeks in I suddenly saw the line that ran through the responses. All the cool ones had inhabitant status.

The old man himself was even more averse to physical contact than the rest of the inner circle. Friendly but clearly keeping their distance.

The exploding farmer

I have been self employed with few exceptions and being told to not think but just do as asked was a bit of a relief at first. But the detail of how to do and behave was staggering. From the amount of bread slices you could eat. To how to stack the cardboard for recycling. It was so specific. At the farm, it was mostly me and the farmer. She wasn’t a farmer at all. We could take things a bit more relaxed. The woman taking care of the goats was a passionate animal lover. She knew about the creatures, was great at taking care of them. Her and the upper goat in charge did not get along that well.

A month or so into our stay, things culminated and at lunch, on the central square, with everyone present, she snapped. A tyrade. A very harsh monologue directed at the man. I didn’t know anything about the conflict but something ended there. I was impressed, especially because I had seen her conscientious treatment of the tribe. As someone who reads the energy of an encounter easier than the actual spoken words I was on her side. She was there with her family. Husband and son. They moved out two days later. The way that played out worried me. A growing concern.

The fool pounding the drum on the kids festival.

Summer progressed and we both worked our asses off. I was very active in the kids festival. Wrote the words for that year’s theme song and performed it with a silly band of enthusiasts. I also was the sound guy for the Friday night talent shows. Got involved with the build of the new reception. Offered to do the decorating. As an artist. I got the job, with very tight instructions from, you guessed right, the Man. Of course I got a firm reprimande for taking too much freedom with the chosen method to reach the pre-set goal.

Kitchen duty was an eye-opener too. The menu was dictated. In detail by you-know-who. Up to the level of spices, the amounts of salt and sugar and cutting instructions for each veg. Because we were so involved — having a great time with the many wonderful people available — I sort of ignored the signs slowly gathering like murky clouds.

The month after was the adult festival. Now it got really busy. The amount of volunteers doubled to a generous two hundred. The place filled to the brim with visitors, teachers, puppeteers and healers. A professional chef took over the kitchen. Teams formed and people’s stress levels deepened to a blushing red.

I love busy periods. I thrive on them. This again was a bit much. It also didn’t add up. The very frugal lifestyle, the constant emphasis on not wasting anything, on ultra clean and green materials and processes. But the amount of money made with all that free labour must have been impressive. This combined with the green man proudly sharing he’d been the local Ikea’s biggest client for a decade. I can normally smell an entrepreneur a mile away but this one was shielded heavily. A thick spiritual facade that fooled me for a while. Still he made it possible for the place to exist.

I remember an end of season evening and he was gone to Holland that weekend. The change in atmosphere was staggering. Bonfire night felt completely different than normal. I played djembe all night with some visiting musicians and spirits were lifted. In fact that evening I thought this is my kind of normal and the last months are not.

We did love living there so we wanted to make it work. To do stuff that made people feel good and allow them to express themselves. But creativity was allowed only for the ones hauled in for that purpose. With the credentials. Their specialness recognised by the world out there.

Despite the advertising, creative energy was not present. Only to keep the facade decorated. Guests were invited to be expressive (while spending money). Volunteers needed to work and not interfere with how things were done.

Doing the barefoot dance

I asked if we could do a dance night. A trial. To maybe do once a month. As an outlet for the crew. I got approval. That first time was in season still and I got lucky. A few of the permanents were visiting a community in Switzerland. Damn it was a good dance. I dj’d with my workshop gear. Nothing fancy, just good music. But a party it was.

I got the go ahead for a monthly version. Spiritual style, a 5-rhythms type of evening that I called the barefoot dance. A community activity, free to attend. There was a big yurt with a great floor. This promised to be a beautiful event. I expected some thirty participants including me. A few songs in, people were still arriving, I was called to the side by a permanent and ordered to turn the volume down. It wasn’t very loud. Not anything like a club, but a good volume to allow the sound to do its job. I tried explaining that without low end and a bit of moving air the whole idea of dancing lead by the sound would no longer make sense. There was no room for discussion.

I am not an unreasonable man. But this was ‘my’ event. I get passionate about music. And I have some definite trauma on people asking the drummer if he can tone it way down. I’ve done that, been there. Music as a scented candle. Elevator muzak. After a bit of heated discussion the guy said to me, if I didn’t comply I would be asked to leave. I asked him to repeat that. And he was even more clear. Not obeying meant packing our bags. What?

I walked back onto the dance floor and pulled the plug. Shutting down the music altogether.

Yes I was angry. And my tongue can be sharp. The doubts and observations, and frustrations were expressed. I demanded a response. After spending four months every waking minute in the service of this place I had earned the credit of being listened to at least. Or so I thought.

The next morning we had to appear in a carefully chosen room (away from prying ears). Us two went in with the intention of talking this through. I apologised for maybe having been too harsh but still having some serious concerns about how things and people were handled. We only got a decision. There had been a meeting of the permanents that unanimously decided we had to leave asap. Only one of the permanents had been witness to me having words. The Judge lived off grounds and hadn’t been around for the event or the argument. Again very precise instructions followed.

The Man would be away for a week, so he didn’t have time to deal with us now. In seven days we would hear the final verdict. And in the meantime it was strictly forbidden to discuss this with anyone. We were stunned. With no choice but to agree.

No discussion? Were we on probation?

We spend that week trying to figure out how we should interpret this. I did confide with some close friends. Trying to make sense of it. Was this even a community? Was this a scam to get a huge amount of ultra cheap labour?

XVI The Tower, in the last week of being there I drew this Tarot card. After this there were only a few cards left to complete this fools journey.

Murmuratio

The forbidden murmuration kept the secret to a certain extend. The next Sunday was the talk, or the final verdict, we still had hope this conflict energy would be put to good use. But nothing had changed. It turned out the delay of execution had a simple logistical reason. Again no discussion. No defence, no witness reports, no other perspectives than the One. The words and judgments now put even more sharply. My wife and son could stay if they wished, I had to leave. Main reason; I was aggressive. Maybe it would be best to divorce me he said to my partner for over thirty years. He knew guys like me because they knew people.

Well, he didn’t know me. How could he, we hardly ever talked, never sat down for a tea, he never asked me anything. Forgot my name, even after three months. And I am definitely not perfect but aggressive was not even close…

The Sunday divide

That same day we told people. The response was overwhelming. People loved having us there, which was in line with how we felt. Couldn’t believe their ears on the sudden break. A lot of people wanted to have an on the spot meeting to set this right. They had questions that needed answering. Yes, please. This needed airing. The buzz on the food square was electric.

But the permanents had already retreated from us. The Man was defensive and unwilling to discuss anything. It was one of the strangest Sundays of my life.

Because during the day the atmosphere slowly changed. In one on one conversations with all the crucial characters of the unfolding drama, the Man made clear there was no middle ground for anyone who wanted to stay. We got singled out that day. Set apart. If you were seen talking to us you ran a risk. We started looking over our shoulder meeting with what I felt were friends. But the number was dwindling fast.

I was utterly shocked about what happened there. It was as if we had landed in a real life Shakespearian play. People sticking to the perceived role. A tiny kingdom that resembled a totalitarian state. A witches trial and I had been the witch.

This wonderful place had turned into a nightmare. And our little family had to quickly find a new place. A next step. The adventure had started with a bang.

And all because of a dance?

I’ve learned so much from this micro version of fascism. It is difficult to unsee those simple dynamics. The utopian surface and the undercurrent of energetic dependency. The tyrant playing his cards so cunningly. And largely with noble intentions. Making it all the more scary. The trail of victims over the years was stunning. In the year after we heard an endless stream of similar stories. Compared to which my clash was mild.

Experiencing the shadow of one strongwilled man up close like this was a big lesson. And so much of the same patterns, the same movements have since come to the surface in what is happening on the world stage that it feels as a practice round. As a warning to trust my inner readings of change, and listen to the guidance from within to find a path through the turmoil. And a clear push to stand on my own two feet. To demand having my say in processes that I am part of. To listen.

The polarisation in that place was a form of cancelling. Pushing out people is nothing less than a crime when you pretend the place is a community. It was a business. Spiritual Tourism.

Conflicts between real people are solved by communication, through love. Not purification or sacrifice. Nobody gets to choose if you are in or out.

I’ve had my respect deepened for how difficult it is to live together. But the term like-minded people is forever poisoned. Alignment cannot be imposed. Communication must be open, two way. I am sure there was a great compromise possible. And if things get heated, cool down and then talk again. Don’t simply replace.

The search for the perfect inhabitant is a nasty one. It allows to never deal with who you share the room with.

Community is not a choice menu. It is simply the people you are with. Your neighbours.

Despite the looks and all the hardware this wasn’t a community. It was a pretend place void of real love and creativity. They wanted the product, not the hassle of making it. They wanted to create a place of the future by only having the good bits but neglected the present.

And with real people you get it all. You can’t flush your shit down the river and not care what happens downstream. I do not want to be part of that kind of clean.

I am afraid I am though. We all are. High time we sat down and had a good talk about that.

To Hans, who lives downstream from the place.

Just before we left our house, I burned the last remainder of the cardboard city. A tiny ceremonial goodbye.