The reality is that I’d benefited from being plugged in, but learning all this new material felt like I was relinquishing society’s hold on me. I’d spent a sizable amount of time squeezing into the system even though my body rejected it. Far removed from myself and the world around me, this grounded me, this gave me hope.
No scarcity complex or illusion of constant linear growth. A true way of observing, of caring and relating to the world. Here was a space with dreams beyond self and ideals that truthfully felt no different from what we’d learned in primary school—be kind, collaborate, take care of the Earth, share—concepts that don’t jibe well with our capitalist system, the ones they push us to forget.
We went over the principles of permaculture, a term coined in the 1970s, a result of combining the words “permanent” and “agriculture.” The core tenets of cultivating a regenerative, reciprocal relationship with nature are derived from Indigenous science and wisdom. Permaculture illustrates our interconnectedness and how we can live in partnership with the land and natural cycles of our planet. Essentially, slow down, look, listen, and witness what is happening. Let the landscape tell you what to do, make meaningful decisions or adjustments, versus forcing your ideas or expectations. Take a breath and find the alignment. Nature takes time, all of our growth does. If we can see the impact of our actions, perhaps we can make better decisions based on those observations. Work with the cycles, not against them. Permaculture is about closing the loops. Yield with no waste. Our actions reflecting the planet’s. And as humans, how do we as individuals harness and store our energy? How best can we protect it, embrace it, and share it? To keep cycling through?
On the third day, a final person arrived late for the course. He had been at Lost Valley for a month or so right before the course began. I could sense the delight regarding his return. He had originally arrived with a group of WWOOFers, the Worldwide Opportunities on Organic Farms, a grassroots organization that formed in 1971 and connects volunteers with host farms. They had all just traveled across the country from New York City in a biodiesel school bus. He left Lost Valley to stay in Portland with his fellow WWOOFers but chose to say goodbye and head back south to take the permaculture course.
I felt a thread between the two of us. A version of love at first sight when I saw him. Ian was small in stature, big in presence, with an effusive charm and knowing eyes. A beanie sat atop his head, concealing a bun that kept his massive red mane of hair contained; unrestrained, it flowed all the way down to his ass. Gesturing as he spoke, his movements were distinct, frenetic, and full of flair. His vernacular witty, sharp, and spicy. I could not stop laughing. I was drawn to him, something already attached, it would just take a little detangling to get close.
“Want to come with me to Portland this weekend?” I asked on a whim.
We were sitting in the computer room together, researching how people manage to utilize the permaculture principles in densely populated areas. I wanted to seek out and visit examples of urban permaculture. And I also wanted to see a woman I had a crush on.
“Yeah, I’m down,” Ian said.
I rented us a white sedan, and off we went. Ian and I barely knew each other, but it did not matter. We existed well together, an unspoken agreement to skip the silly stuff and jump right in.
Our love and friendship was solidified on that trip, an intimacy encouraged if not forced by the car. We hadn’t yet begun to know our trauma, but in talking, we were starting to see it. It was the first time I bonded with someone so fiercely who understood a particular shame. We spoke of similarities in our childhoods, families, unrequited loves, hometowns, and although we were part of different systems, something about our upbringings connected us, a roundedness and similar suffering. It was as if we entered a field of pain, yes, but also one of camaraderie and healing. Something altered for me in that time, knowing him. I felt supported and seen, I could put my guard down, relax, here was a true friend.
We were both in a space of needing not only a respite but also new ways to see things. Seeking comfort, yet leaning into our discomfort as well. A risk-taking through wanting rest and a desire for community that was connected to our queerness, digging through the layers to find it. We craved a paradigm shift from other worlds, and required other eyes that didn’t hold us down to old narratives.
When we arrived in Portland, our first stop was to meet a woman who had turned her small Craftsman home on a compact property into a permaculture haven. She produced zero trash, and the list of just the edible perennials growing in her yard was mind-blowing. She had chickens and rabbits, water catchment and gray-water systems. There was even a silkworm tree. I’d never seen anything like it. She gave us a tour of her house, explaining how she composted her shit. Pee went in one bucket, shit in another, and if I am remembering correctly, she would rotate biannually between two compost bins, closing one off for six months so nature could work its magical chemistry, transforming waste into fresh, fertile soil to grow something new. Her root cellar was filled to the brim, cans upon cans, jars upon jars of preserved food. It was magnificent.
I had never been to Portland before and wasn’t sure where we should stay. This was a perfect excuse to text my crush for suggestions. We checked into a hotel, dropped our backpacks, and lay on the one queen-size bed. He’s cute, I thought as I looked at Ian, wondering what he was thinking. A sense of attraction, yes, but more a curiosity. Strange how immediate intimacy often conflates the two.
We went to a wine bar to meet up with her and her partner. The four of us sat at a high table next to the window. I looked at my crush from across the table, eyes glued. She was brilliant, funny, multitalented, and sexy, and I was transfixed by her mouth, had been since watching the music video for “Entertain” by Sleater-Kinney compulsively.
I had first met Carrie Brownstein at the SNL after-party when I hosted back in 2008. Sleater-Kinney has always been one of my favorite bands. After school in grade twelve, before my mom was home from teaching, I would strip down to my sports bra and briefs, close the blinds, and place The Woods CD in my mother’s stereo system in the living room. I loved the cover—forest grows through a theater floor, heavy red curtains frame the wooden stage, close to fully open. Pressing Play, I’d crank it up and up and up. The moment the drums hit—Janet Weiss, taking you like the tide—my body would drop, surge, and sway, I’d enter a different world.
On the day the duck was born
The fox was watching all along he said
Land ho!
Land ho!
Corin Tucker’s voice, its otherworldly, guttural bellow, had me breaking into a full dance, head banging, jumping jacks, mash-up. Full throttle to the entire record, I’d go nonstop, flailing myself around the house, all limbs extending, stretching, frantically releasing energy. Sweat dripping, I’d drop to the floor, give twenty, run up the stairs, down the stairs, push-ups again. “Entertain” is my favorite Sleater-Kinney song, Carrie’s voice, that singular yowl, it motivated me, sent me somewhere, I felt it in my bones.
Hey! You look around they are lying to you!
They are lying, ha, they are lying!
Can’t you see it is just a silly ruse?
They are lying, I am lying, too!
And all you want is entertainment,
Rip me open, it’s so freeing, yeah
I did this pretty much every day when I got home from school. I rotated Sleater-Kinney’s The Woods with Peaches CDs, they were the most actively spun—cute baby queer. Insulated, I had the space to release, force it out of the body, attempting to jostle awake a connection. For lack of a better word, it felt spiritual, the music held me while I pranced freely.
Upstairs, I’d make a pit stop in my mom’s room. To the left of her bed was a full-length mirror. I’d stare at myself in my underwear and sports bra, my bangs gooey with perspiration. Turning my body to the right while cranking my head to the left, I’d interrogate my profile, always surprised. Breathing in, it swells, the poor things always suffocated.
Carrie and I became good pals and still are. Our shame at the time bonded us, a recognized pain and internal strife. Our mutual self-loathing bringing us close.
“Every self-respecting person hates themselves,” Carrie said once, making me laugh.
Terrified to be out, resentful of the entitled desire to pry open who we were, pushing not only before we were ready, but before we even knew what to say. There’s a shared joy in knowing that the love did come. A bond shifting from shame to healing.