I’m dreaming… because that’s what imaginative beings, like myself, do and like doing.
And my dreams are day dreams, and they are outspoken.
Propelled not by brain stimulant substances. I have even stopped drinking coffee some weeks ago.
These thoughts, clearer and clearer, are impulses of my deep yearning for a life lived naturally, with an intransigence like never have I experienced before. It is possible. I know it. And more importantly: I feel it.
In my barefooted dreams the picture of a children’s bed is gaining contour, filling up with smooth, soothing leather, with a double layer hide of calf or deer, furry side in, stretched taut on its hardwood frame, intuitive in shape and on solid legs, elevating somewhat this sacrosanct space of resting and connecting. Raising it above the easy temptations of indolence.
Comfort nature’s way, that pampers but doesn’t spoil.
In a parallel running and related image flow I’m crafting a bed for the co-sleeping us, a sanctuary of co-evolving dreams. Squished egg shape that accommodates the stretching body and soul. Bed at night, table to socialize on in daytime. When not in use, the leather mattress and comforter (duvet) rolled up and set aside on a special storage stand by an openable window.
Comforters have their altogether separate dream. Their shape informed by our silhouette as well as the instinctual moves we make in sleep, also allowing for individual self-cooling without discomforting others in the bed.
Meanwhile, my ever-evolving sense of home in a resilient vernacular ecotope was catalyzed by a Monbiotic jolt to my former, however aptly open sense of balance in the landscape and among its innumerate composing parts. When considered from an unorthodox vantage point and on a broad enough horizon, this recent twister includes a double time warp.
The evolved aethos, value judgement, on one hand sentences sheep as a semi-deified food item, source of clothing, insulation, and so on fiber through a progressive cultural and economic redevelopment to a landscape scale elimination. Fitting only a non-native, largely human dependent and entirely human controlled animal species in most of the temperate zone world, in both hemispheres.
The other time warp would awaken us from an unfortunate and manifold amnesia, that has victimized stinging nettle for way too long. Humanity’s growing consciousness level is slowly bringing due justice to this unsung modest hero of our landscapes, here in the temperate north, and Urtica dioica is reentering the healthy food and drink scene. As for crafting clothes from its fine but strong fibers again, that is equivalent to resurrecting a fallen hero, only a lot more promising. It takes will and creative power, but not horse power and acreage.
With our background of self-taught wool artisans and handcrafters of all natural garments, the thought of fazing out sheep from our drive for comfort does not come so easily and I do not wish to come across as an eco tyrant, nor as a fool.
The simple fact re-dawning on me (an Aries), that this species, Ovis aries descends from the wild mouflon (Ovis orientalis orientalis), native to the Fertile Crescent region, presently encompassing western Iran, northern Iraq, eastern Syria and eastern Turkey, as a result of domestication there between 13.000 and 11.000 years ago; that it force-migrated with human tribes and traders virtually across much of the globe; the extreme case of landscape devastation people have assisted it to in Great Britain from southern to far northern fringes of the mainland and beyond; its spatial reverberation, though at lesser extent in other parts of Europe I have seen and taken for granted until now – for me, all these things appear too alarming to ignore, to just keep on merrily counting the lambs over terrestrial and celestial pastures and with closed eyes before falling asleep.
That being said, Cheryl has just spun two beautiful skeins of wool yarn from less common British sheep breeds. She has put them up for sale, too. Means by which we are trying to financially better accommodate our aspirations for a life lived in nature. It’s building on skills we have, before we can learn new ones.
Just as I’m still proud of my felt hat, born from the cut-offs of our daughter’s Racka/Cigája felt cradle, also crafted by me in collaboration with Cheryl and a stainless steel works specialist.
But I’m also grateful for our former plan of raising sheep on the farm in southwestern Hungary, that we sold a year and a half ago to move abroad, not having materialized.
I dream, however about being able to earth with bare feet on a piece of (wood)land we can call our own again. I long for this simple act to befall us soon. Because I can tell that since we have detached ourselves from this sensation, the well being of all three of us has suffered.
Since we couldn’t help but put synthetic soles on again, hovering over asphalt and concrete desensitized up to our knees, we have been tripping a lot more, literally and figuratively.
Csermely, our five and a half year old daughter, of whom we had thought as the healthiest, most robust and resistant to sickness person we had ever met, in this small but vastly urban context has contracted persistent colds, one time the ailment lasting over a month! Something unheard of before, which is rather unsettling for us, her parents.
Grounding and reconnecting are key in my maturing life.
I stopped drinking coffee as a daily indulgence and am gradually eliminating exotic treats of all manner. I’ve learned to draw in. To draw from native nature.
I walk by camelias in full blossom in the Devon February and ignore them, just as all insects do. I couldn’t care less for exotics, for the introduced, but guess what – I’ve learned to look with respect at the common ivy (here in Europe).
Until later, I button up my organic cotton coat self made from Csermely’s diapers and pull the wool hat crocheted by my dear wife over my dear locks – Ciao!