Twelve By Twelve Part 9

At the 12 12 I sometimes thought of Kusasu's solitude in the Bolivian Amazon. The last speaker of Guarasug' we, she once said to me that she had no one left to speak her language with. On the surface it's axiomatic: she's the last speaker, hence no one else to speak with. My first emotion was pity. Which chamber of h.e.l.l is that, where the Flat World has eliminated everyone who speaks your language? Not only are your parents and grandparents and siblings gone - leaving you with only the memories of meals and hanging laundry and trading jokes, all of it still fresh in your mind - but so too is every person you might share those memories with in the language in which they were created.

My pity for Kusasu didn't last. The light in her eyes dissolved it. I didn't see any self-pity there, nor any rage against the world that had eliminated her race. She reached out her skinny hand, veined like the air-roots of a cambara, and touched my hand, telling me something through her touch: I'm complete. I may be incomplete as the member of something, but as Kusasu there is nothing missing. I'm complete. I may be incomplete as the member of something, but as Kusasu there is nothing missing. Before heading into the Amazon's seven skies - and, considering her age, it might be soon - she seemed to have found the radically present place of her own solitude. Before heading into the Amazon's seven skies - and, considering her age, it might be soon - she seemed to have found the radically present place of her own solitude.

When you pray, who hears your prayer? You do. Prayer is a concentration of positive thoughts. Once, at the end of an exhausting eight-day yoga retreat, the instructor asked our group: "Do you feel the energy around you?" I did. Muscles burning, joints oiled, tendons warm and light, I felt an overflowing reservoir of what the Chinese call chi chi, or vital energy. "That's your protection," he said. "Nothing else."

IN THE SUMMER OF 1996, on a break from teaching Native American seventh graders in New Mexico, I volunteered as a human s.h.i.+eld in a remote hamlet in the Lacondon jungles of Chiapas, Mexico. It was one of my first experiences with solitude. The previous year, the Mexican military had flown bombing sorties over the Lacondon and killed a thousand people, aiming for Zapatistas and their sympathizers. I was part of a hundreds-strong volunteer team of international observers to simply be be in Zapatista villages. The thinking was that the Mexican military would not hesitate to kill innocent Chiapan peasants, but they would not risk the terrible global publicity of slaughtering Italians, French, and Americans. Our presence was "official," part of the San Andres Peace Accords, but the military refused to recognize us, so Mexican NGO workers had to smuggle me past military checkpoints in the dead of night. Then I had to walk for a full day, deep into the jungle near the Guatemalan border, before finally arriving at my designated village. in Zapatista villages. The thinking was that the Mexican military would not hesitate to kill innocent Chiapan peasants, but they would not risk the terrible global publicity of slaughtering Italians, French, and Americans. Our presence was "official," part of the San Andres Peace Accords, but the military refused to recognize us, so Mexican NGO workers had to smuggle me past military checkpoints in the dead of night. Then I had to walk for a full day, deep into the jungle near the Guatemalan border, before finally arriving at my designated village.

All went smoothly to that point. But soon the reality of my role set in. For weeks on end, I had absolutely nothing to do but "be" in the village. My Spanish was terrible back then, so I could hardly communicate. Because Zapatista guerrillas were camped in a secret location right beyond the hamlet, I wasn't even allowed the pleasure of a hike. So I spent a lot of time on the straw bed in my mud hut reading, thinking, staring at the walls. After a week, I began to go stircrazy. I wanted to at least explore the jungle. I wanted out. After all, I was using my vacation time to do this; I could have been exploring the pyramids at Chichen Itza, Palenque, and Tikal or scuba diving in Honduras. My vacation time was precious; was I spending it uselessly, in the solitude of a mud hut?

Amid these doubts, something happened. I was making rudimentary coffee one morning over a wood fire when I looked up and drew a quick breath of shock. Towering over me was a beautiful Zapatista woman, in full camouflage, her black hair pulled back in a ponytail, rounds of ammo slung around her shoulder, an antique machine gun held across her chest. She was so iconic she looked surreal. Up to that point I hadn't seen any of the actual Zapatista guerreros guerreros - they kept to their hidden camps in the forest, where the villagers brought them food. But here she was! - they kept to their hidden camps in the forest, where the villagers brought them food. But here she was!

I mumbled something. She just stood silently, unsmiling, hand on her weapon. I didn't agree with violence then, and I still don't. But I understood and admired the Zapatistas. These are Mexico's most neglected people, the disenfranchised descendants of the ancient Maya. Like Kusasu's Guarasug'we they are nearing the precipice of extinction, being pushed off the flat edge of the world - but not without a fight. Symbolically and practically, their uprising began on January I, I994, the first day of the North American Free Trade Agreement, or NAFTA. At the time, respected economists, since proven right, said that NAFTA would flood Mexico with cheap American corn, thereby undercutting the livelihoods of millions of Mexican corn farmers and turning them into the urban poor, forced off their land and into Mexico City's dangerous slums to work at whatever they could. To make matters worse, corn remains a potent mythological symbol. Traditional Maya believe that corn represents the perpetual circle of life. They imagine G.o.d with corn in the blood and consider themselves to be children of the corn. They decided to resist.

Today, the Zapatistas continue to wage what has been called the first postmodern war, using tools of media and global sympathy much more than actual weapons. When they captured Chiapas's capital, San Cristobal de Las Casas, many Zapatistas had only wooden guns, a powerful symbol as CNN's cameras rolled. Others had real guns, of course, including the mujer Zapatista mujer Zapatista who stood in front of me. I poured a cup of coffee and held it out to her and also indicated some corn tortillas I had on a wooden plate. She refused. But before she left, she shared a heartfelt smile with me, which I took to mean who stood in front of me. I poured a cup of coffee and held it out to her and also indicated some corn tortillas I had on a wooden plate. She refused. But before she left, she shared a heartfelt smile with me, which I took to mean "gracias" "gracias" for being present in the village. For the remainder of my service in the Lacondon, I relaxed into the solitude, knowing it was tied to a larger purpose. for being present in the village. For the remainder of my service in the Lacondon, I relaxed into the solitude, knowing it was tied to a larger purpose.

Solitude in service of being a human s.h.i.+eld is clearly pragmatism in action. The silent force of a hundred European and North American people in Chiapas kept actual bombs from dropping. But conscious solitude is always pragmatic, always active. How else to learn to honestly look into the dark, infinite well within, to see those foreign lands that no one else can ever know?

IN MYTHOLOGICAL STORIES, heroes face demons and thereby grow as people. In solitude you find the warmth and glow of the hearth - the deep bliss of the unity - but you must first go straight through the fire.

I had a terrible, vivid dream one night at Jackie's. An ugly old man, somehow connected to the n.a.z.is, maybe earlier in his life during Hitler's reign, lived in a deep woods. A younger man visited him, and something hateful was planned. The younger man had a contingent of a half dozen other young men along with him; they milled around outside. Inside, the old n.a.z.i and the younger man laughed, and then the young man left with the others. The old man was once again alone.

Until that point in the dream, I saw events from a distance, as if from the perspective of the forest itself. The scene seemed vague, the humans tiny against the deep forest. Then my perspective flipped. I was no longer looking at this as if perched on a distant branch in a tree. I was right next to the old man. I could see the black moles on his cheek, hear him breathing, even smell his sour breath as he sat alone. Not alone in a luminous solitude, but rather utterly lonely, the very definition of loneliness: avoiding the well. He wasn't angry; he'd already resented and hated the world so much it had charred him into deadness itself. He had no feelings at all.

I awoke from the dream and grabbed my bedside marbled notebook to scribble down the details. In my semiconscious state, I realized to my horror that I was writing the dream down in the first person in the first person, as if I were the old n.a.z.i. Here is how I started to write, directly from the journal: "A younger man came to visit me, and we made a hateful plan, and then we laughed ..."

Tibetan Buddhist art is replete with horrifying statues, their grotesque faces displaying every kind of negativity, from bitterness and resentment to anger and outright murderous hatred. Western missionaries misunderstood these to be idols of G.o.ds and devils; they are not. They represent our own inner states that we "meet" when we go deeply into silence and solitude. After the n.a.z.i dream, I biked into Smithsville and called Leah. "What's sin?" I asked her.

"For me," she finally replied, "sin is when I'm at the center."

We often turn away from or ignore the darkness within, whether it's labeled Christian "sin," Jung's "dark side," or Eckhart Tolle's "unconsciousness." But I am glad when I meet the dark places on the shadowy borders of solitude. The black moles and sour breath, the deadness. The black moles and sour breath, the deadness. On the surface, my dream arose from my time living in the SS barracks in Buchenwald. Sleeping each night beside the ovens made National Socialism very visceral for me. But the dream hinted at the lifeless, the flat inside of me. On the surface, my dream arose from my time living in the SS barracks in Buchenwald. Sleeping each night beside the ovens made National Socialism very visceral for me. But the dream hinted at the lifeless, the flat inside of me. A younger man came to visit me, and we made a hateful plan, and then we laughed. A younger man came to visit me, and we made a hateful plan, and then we laughed. Kusasu's death is in me. The destruction of the Bolivian rainforests is in me. Buchenwald is in there, too. I'm complicit. Kusasu's death is in me. The destruction of the Bolivian rainforests is in me. Buchenwald is in there, too. I'm complicit.

"So what do we do?" Leah said, days later down by No Name Creek. We'd been talking about our inner flatness, how we were habituated to a central evil of our own time, what the late Susan Sontag called "an American-style consumer society that spreads itself across the globe, destroying the past, and enclosing all horizons within a selfish materialism."

Leah and I talked about Sontag, who in one of her last speeches warned of "the mercantilist biases of American culture."

But it isn't enough to replace Thomas Friedman with Susan Sontag. Too many of us do this, if unconsciously; we think other people's thoughts. Solitude's richest gift is allowing one's own thoughts to flow, and not through mental aqueducts built by others. That engineering is ecocide's infrastructure. There's so much mind control, more now in our hyper-mediated world than ever, and truly thinking for ourselves may be the hardest thing to do. Yet could this, ultimately, be the only way our society will achieve the necessary basis of change, a paradigm s.h.i.+ft?

DURING LEAH'S VISITS TO THE 12 X 12, we usually spent some of our time in solitude. Once we decided to spend the morning in the woods, separately. She plopped down on the banks of the creek, a hundred yards from the 12 12, dangling her feet in the water, her fingers stroking the mossy bank as if it were a drowsy cat. Meanwhile, I walked down the creek, as far as I ever had, until No Name Creek finally came to an end. It liquidated itself into a larger river.

In the place where the creek disappeared, I stuck in a toe and then eased in my body. The chilly water cooled me, and the current ma.s.saged out tensions. I came out dripping and sat on the bank. An hour pa.s.sed, two hours. A blade of rock sliced the water and the creek's lacquered flow touched the edge and sent off caviar dimples of water that instantly grew into quarter-sized whirlpools. Another moment and twelve inches later they swirled into silver dollars reflecting the branches of the tree above. That reflection on the circle of water looked just like a dragonfly. And the water's motion made it appear to be flapping its wings. Furiously. Earnestly flailing for its life, as if wanting to break free of two dimensions. Flapping like that, it actually became a live dragonfly to me. I focused on the spot where they were biggest, and they zoomed by, hundreds of them with their long thoraxes, heads, antennae, and translucent wings, to be killed in their prime, and by not very much: a nub of falling water slaughtered them.

Watching all those dragonflies die, I thought of how thoughtlessly I'd squashed a fly the day before. I noticed it upturned, buzzing away on its back by Jackie's front door. The buzzing sound annoyed me mildly. It would stop, but every ten seconds there'd be another burst of buzzing. Its dying gasps. Hardly thinking, I got up, took one step, and the next one crushed its tiny body underfoot with a crackle of insect parts against cement. I sat back down, laptop in lap - but. But a single point, like a black magic marker dot, caught my peripheral vision, and I knew I couldn't write another word with the corpse in full view. So I ripped off a square of toilet paper, scooped up the fly, and deposited it in my little trash bag, feeling better without an accusing corpse in plain sight.

Then - seemingly out of nowhere - Kusasu came to mind. Her people used to live in the rainforest. But over the years, logging and rubber operations - and big soy plantations - took over much of the land, destroying the forests and corraling Kusasu's people into ever tinier areas. Others fled into far-off cities to become "pavement Indians," unable to a.s.similate, begging for sc.r.a.ps on street corners. I thought of how the Amazon's indigenous people are now "environmental refugees," forced to migrate into Third World urban sprawl. And suddenly, that fly felt like a metaphor. I squashed it almost unconsciously; it was the evidence of that unconsciousness staring me in the face that bothered me. Bring it to light. Bring it to light. Is it really a stretch to suggest that our civilization crushed Kusasu, the Guarasug'we, and their rainforest home with its boot heel but quickly hid the evidence? Is it really a stretch to suggest that our civilization crushed Kusasu, the Guarasug'we, and their rainforest home with its boot heel but quickly hid the evidence? Bring it into the light. Bring it into the light. Genocide is part of me; ecocide is part of me. Genocide is part of me; ecocide is part of me. Don't repress it. Make it conscious. Don't repress it. Make it conscious. I walked quickly back up along the creek toward Leah, the ripples s.h.i.+ning like blades. I stepped with splashes, then up onto the bank through the tangle, building up a sweat, feeling the sun burning my forehead. Rounding a bend I finally saw Leah. I walked quickly back up along the creek toward Leah, the ripples s.h.i.+ning like blades. I stepped with splashes, then up onto the bank through the tangle, building up a sweat, feeling the sun burning my forehead. Rounding a bend I finally saw Leah.

She sat in the same spot she'd been hours earlier, feeling the water with her feet. I stopped. She didn't see me. There was no journal on the bank beside her, and she'd long since finished My Name Is Ch.e.l.lis and I'm in Recovery from Western Civilization My Name Is Ch.e.l.lis and I'm in Recovery from Western Civilization. In fact, she seemed to read less and less. There is a point where we must let the feel of water on bare feet replace books and spiritual practices. They can be very helpful as guides, as structures, as inspiration, but can also, if we hold on to them too tightly, obstruct the most important thing: an unmediated facing of the world as it is, which is to say, as we shape it.

I walked through the gleaming water up to Leah and asked: "What's the shape of the world?"

She looked directly at the earth. Splashed water with her feet, sank her fingers into the supple moss. "It's not flat," she said, squinting up at me.

I looked into No Name Creek. No more suicidal dragonflies; here the water was woodcut, carefully etched with a sharp metal tool. But those neat streaks suddenly jumbled into a rutty swirl, like pasta loosening in boiling water. "The world is everything but but flat," she said, standing up. "Feel the smooth river rocks, the spongy banks. flat," she said, standing up. "Feel the smooth river rocks, the spongy banks.

" Colors tangled together in the creek: light purple, red, and orange. "The world curves," I said.

"It spins."

"It's sandy."

"There's clay."

"There's jellyfish."

"Rainforests full of animals."

"Slithering anacondas."

"Giant pandas."

"Six-toed sloths."

I'd look back on this moment as transformative: Leah and I groping for softer language concealed the flat, proclaiming the immediacy of smells, sounds, and textures. The beauty of the earth grew as we chose its beauty as the focus of our attention. The world is wet, Leah said, getting into the creek.

It's cold! I said, following her in. I said, following her in.

Deep canyons.

Snowy peaks.

A million people die today.

A million are born.

The world is divine! The world is mine. The world is mine. It's yours. It's yours. No, it's ours. No, it's ours. It's It's ... ...

Leah opened her mouth as if to say something else, but all that came out was a puff of air. Emptied of words, she collapsed onto No Name Creek's yielding bank and pulled me down next to her. We listened. Trees s.h.i.+mmered; water flowed, and a hawk called out, urgently, thick in the south.

19. SOFT ECONOMY.

LEAH HUGGED A GOAT and then paid the farmer for its cheese. and then paid the farmer for its cheese.

Durham's farmers market, a few blocks from Leah's house, was alive that morning. Fifty farmers had come in from the surrounding counties with meat and veggies, and a thousand of us gathered to take those organic products off their hands.

After paying, Leah and I lingered with Jim and Keisha, a farming couple in their midtwenties who had just bought thirty acres for fifty-six thousand dollars. "We love it!" Keisha told Leah while giving another customer change. "We're now in a yurt on our land, but we'll slowly sell enough goat cheese and vegetables to build a house. But there's no rush." Leah didn't want to leave their presence. I could feel the tug, too. Both of them were so vital, full of zest and health.

We went from table to table, filling our canvas bags. Leah floated through the place with an irrepressible smile, greeting the farmers, their kids, their dogs. She pressed a fresh blueberry between my lips; we sampled all kinds of cheeses, crusty breads, fruits that gushed juice onto our cheeks. Produce smells blended together. I felt joyful. This was a far cry from a supermarket or the Gold Kist factory. No heavy packaging, no corporate logos. Natural colors merged gracefully with the faded old pickups, the farmers' tie-dyed Ts, the bustle of the place. It evoked a Bolivian or African market.

Farmers markets are like an emerging social contract between twenty-first-century polis polis and and dumos dumos; country folks produce healthy foods in an earth-friendly way and townspeople pay a little more. The number of farmers markets in the United States has more than doubled, from 1,755 in 1994 to 4,385 in 2006. They provide a lot more than food. Leah and the rest of us were there, you might say, to heal. Farmers markets, I began to realize, heal the edges of our uber-industrialized economy, allowing a less chemical- and fossil fuelintensive economy to flourish. They heal our relations.h.i.+ps with each other as we reconfigure the buying and selling of food around fresh air and community. Most importantly, they heal our spirits, because if something pays, it stays, and those of us at the market that morning sensed we were voting with our dollars for a kind of independence: the right to farm.

"Leah!" said Jack at the next stand, his T-s.h.i.+rt reading, "Fix Marriage Not Gays." "You need some pork?" As he handed her a pound of meat, freshly slaughtered the night before on his farm, he asked me about myself. I told him where I was living.

"Your neighbors are who who? Mike and Michele Thompson?!"

"Yes."

He silently shook his head, lips pursed. "They, how should I put this, are libertarian. Now I'm libertarian, too, and so is my partner, but we're libertarians on the left. The Thompsons are libertarians on the rlght rlght."

I said I thought they were good people.

He laughed and said, "I wish them well with their farming. Just that I don't know if they have it together. I hear their whole operation, what there is of it, may go on the skids. Hopefully it won't be welfare for them again."

Our canvas bags full, we took a spin past an iron foundry and watched sculptors create. On the walk back to her house we pa.s.sed the restaurant Piedmont, an art deco place that serves only local and organic food. All of this flourished within walking distance of her little white apartment.

"This could be the new economy," I said. "Healthy, community-centered."

"Eerie. That's exactly what I was just going to say." This was another change in myself I noticed. Since coming to Jackie's I'd become more intuitive. Several times I knew exactly what Leah was going to say a couple of seconds before she said it. While part of this was simply our getting to know each other better, I also discovered how mindfulness - being fully in the roomy present moment - enhanced a natural sixth sense. Goethe talked about this, how he became so sensitive to his surroundings that he could predict the weather with precision just by opening a window.

As we walked, Leah told me about her evolving dream. For years she'd fantasized about having a farm. Buy land, homestead, live with two chickens and goats and vegetables. Now it was economically viable to be an organic farmer. She could still be a journalist on a freelance basis, perhaps blend the two in some creative way. How empowering to discover that, if the culture around us was not working, we could join others who were creating a new culture.

That night Leah and I went to the Full Frame doc.u.mentary film festival in Durham. Out of nowhere I heard, "Billy. Billy! Billy!" Suddenly, my mom's warm arms were hugging me.

Billy, she kept repeating. Childlike. Happy and present, in all her sixty-eight years of glory. She wore an earth-toned outfit and a necklace I'd gotten her as a gift while in the Ivory Coast a couple of years before. She hugged me again and took me over to introduce me to three of her friends from their activist group, The Raging Grannies, liberal-looking gals, good Americans. I asked my mom, "How about we have lunch tomorrow?"

She immediately agreed, as I knew she would. Leah came over. Introductions and hugs. Leah got a little stiff, as she always did when meeting new people, her "I'm-a-producer" mode, a professional young woman keeping a bit of distance. Mom's three friends asked for Leah's business card; all the while Mom's face beamed love toward me.

Then Leah and I disappeared into the film festival. What a pleasure to be in a place where your parents live, spontaneously b.u.mping into them, setting up a lunch. To have a friend I adore at my side. To be at a film festival, in a smallish town in America, in spring. I wondered: Could I stop being a man without a country? Could this be home? Could I stop being a man without a country? Could this be home?

AT THE 12 X 12 I STARTED DREAMING about a soft economy. about a soft economy.

Being with Jackie, being alone in her tiny house, provoked a question: How might personal economy and the leisure ethic come together as rebellion? Jackie's lifestyle is a twenty-first-century Boston Tea Party, but she hasn't thrown just one product overboard; rather, she's tossed the whole lot of planet-killing junk. Today it's not the British Empire colonizing us, but a pervasive corporate globalism. We resist through our vote, and I don't mean for this political candidate or that, though that's certainly part of it. We cast powerful votes for the kind of world we want to live in whenever we fish out a twenty or click BUY BUY on the Web. on the Web.

After Jackie's tea party, here's what remains on her permaculture s.h.i.+p: a tiny car that she runs on biodiesel; delicious local and organic food, 90 percent of it produced by herself or her neighbors; fresh drinking water she collects herself at a local spring; solar flashlights (she doesn't use disposable batteries for anything); a slight house, with building materials so minimal that the forests can live; and not a cent into federal war coffers.

She's part of a larger rebellion that includes wildcrafters like Bradley, the Thompsons, and the Pauls, who are reshaping Adams County; the Slow Food and farmers market movements in the larger RaleighDurhamChapel Hill area; and the budding national renewable energy, natural foods, and national TV-turn-off subculture. There are intriguing trends like the Compact (groups of citizens who join together and buy nothing new for one year), national Buy Nothing Day (no purchases for a day), and Boulder Bucks (cities like Boulder, Colorado, create a parallel currency that circulates only locally, therefore encouraging the local economy). But even if no such efforts existed, each of us possesses an incredibly powerful tool of resistance: our household economy.

It's been said that only little ideas need patents because the most transformative ideas are protected by public incredulity. Household economy as protest is one of those big ideas. Being at the 12 12 reminded me that I can examine with acute interest every single penny that goes out of my accounts. Is that penny helping create a vital farmers market or McWorld? The Thompsons' free chickens or Gold Kist's beakless chickens? A simple elegance that coexists with Bolivia's rainforests, or a decadence that fosters comfort but destroys a far greater beauty? Ideas like warrior presence, the Idle Majority, and the creative edge, I realized, can be crystallized in my life by becoming aware of personal economy's radical effects - and changing the direction of pennies.

LEAH AND I ATE OUR WAY into Jackie's soft economy. We gathered from the garden the herbs we used for baking with Mike's chicken. Leah pulled from her hair a bright red ponytail holder and used it to bunch basil. She had me smell each herb on the farm individually with my eyes closed. We sometimes brewed dark coffee - and once Leah rooted around until she found a special chocolate spice Jackie had ground herself. She added a little bit to her coffee, and I sampled it - even richer and more luxurious! I added a bit to mine, too. into Jackie's soft economy. We gathered from the garden the herbs we used for baking with Mike's chicken. Leah pulled from her hair a bright red ponytail holder and used it to bunch basil. She had me smell each herb on the farm individually with my eyes closed. We sometimes brewed dark coffee - and once Leah rooted around until she found a special chocolate spice Jackie had ground herself. She added a little bit to her coffee, and I sampled it - even richer and more luxurious! I added a bit to mine, too.

I bought the coffee at the Adams Marketplace, the community-owned natural supermarket halfway between Pine Bridge and Durham where Paul Jr. and I had talked. The coffee was organic, shade-grown Bolivian, from the same Andean farmers cooperative I'd supported while working there. With each sip I felt a visceral connection between the work I'd been doing over the past decade in the Global South and choices I was now making in the States. For years, I gave technical a.s.sistance to cacao and coffee farmers in South America, so they might gain access to these very markets. The sense of coming full circle in that way - being able to picture Don Ernesto and Dona Celistina maintaining their local rainforests to produce coffee in an ecological fas.h.i.+on as I sipped that very product outside the 12 12 - warmed me to the core.

Leah and I would go to Adams Marketplace together. The food and other products in Leah's home were increasingly organic and fair trade, as our consciousness deepened. At Adams Marketplace I learned about Slow Food USA, which per its website "promotes the pleasure of good food and the integrity of local cultures that grow it" and "envisions a region with local markets, restaurants, and small farms overflowing with fresh food and food choices." The movement began in Italy at the foot of the Spanish Steps as a protest against McDonald's and the h.o.m.ogenized, fast-food culture it represents. It now has eighty-five thousand members worldwide, including twelve thousand in the United States, and six chapters in North Carolina.

During my stay in the 12 x 12, both Barbara Kingsolver and Bill McKibben pa.s.sed through the Research Triangle; they were on separate speaking tours, but both focused on transitioning from our industrial food economy to something more local, organic, and "durable." Leah b.u.mped into Kingsolver at Adams Marketplace, joining her, her daughter, and her husband for a bite of free-range egg omelet and tertulia tertulia, a relaxed conversation about her family's year of eating only local foods in their native Kentucky.

DECOLONIZING OUR CONSUMPTION PATTERNS is about more than shopping differently or shopping less. Food can be the simplest way to vote with one's wallet because it tastes so good. Trickier are all the ways our relations.h.i.+ps and emotions are entangled with the corporate economy, such as how we give gifts. Consider that the average American spends $900 on Christmas gifts, not counting the shocking $120 per person for dog and cat gifts. is about more than shopping differently or shopping less. Food can be the simplest way to vote with one's wallet because it tastes so good. Trickier are all the ways our relations.h.i.+ps and emotions are entangled with the corporate economy, such as how we give gifts. Consider that the average American spends $900 on Christmas gifts, not counting the shocking $120 per person for dog and cat gifts.

We were pa.s.sing a large store in a mall in Chapel Hill called A Southern Season, and Leah said this was where she bought gifts for her parents, her colleagues, everyone. It was, she admitted, her addiction.

We got into the delicate issue of personal finance, and it turned out Leah lived from paycheck to paycheck. Right on the edge. Her December gift splurge alone set her back the better part of an entire paycheck. As a society, we are raised to express love with our wallets; suggesting we "spend less" can be almost like asking someone to "love less." It's such a sensitive topic that merely raising it can be enough to cause offense.

I remember feeling anxious when my mother, several years back, proposed the idea of a no-buy Christmas in our family. We'd make things for each other or figure out other ways to express love and gratefulness. Wouldn't it feel stingy? Wouldn't it feel stingy? I thought. After all, we'd typically had dozens of wrapped gifts piled under the tree. Then Christmas morning arrived, and I gathered around the tree with my parents, my sister, her husband, and their son. There were few gifts underneath it, making each one more special. My father gave my sister and me excerpts from his journal around the time of our birth, where he reflected on the joy we brought him. I gave my parents and sister each a beautiful sh.e.l.l I'd found in a village on the Gambian coast, sharing with them the story of a day without money, and what it taught me about the importance of belonging, not belongings. They still have those sh.e.l.ls prominently displayed in their homes, as bells - or rather sh.e.l.ls - of mindfulness. My sister, tapping into her talents, painted us beautiful wall hangings with inspirational words on them. It was a meaningful, deeply joyous Christmas. Though we have not kept up a strict no-buy Christmas practice, the experiment woke us up to an empowering fact: We can create our own culture around gift-giving. Since then we've reduced gifts to a fraction of what they were while still experiencing an abundance of love and togetherness. I thought. After all, we'd typically had dozens of wrapped gifts piled under the tree. Then Christmas morning arrived, and I gathered around the tree with my parents, my sister, her husband, and their son. There were few gifts underneath it, making each one more special. My father gave my sister and me excerpts from his journal around the time of our birth, where he reflected on the joy we brought him. I gave my parents and sister each a beautiful sh.e.l.l I'd found in a village on the Gambian coast, sharing with them the story of a day without money, and what it taught me about the importance of belonging, not belongings. They still have those sh.e.l.ls prominently displayed in their homes, as bells - or rather sh.e.l.ls - of mindfulness. My sister, tapping into her talents, painted us beautiful wall hangings with inspirational words on them. It was a meaningful, deeply joyous Christmas. Though we have not kept up a strict no-buy Christmas practice, the experiment woke us up to an empowering fact: We can create our own culture around gift-giving. Since then we've reduced gifts to a fraction of what they were while still experiencing an abundance of love and togetherness.

JACKIE MINED THESE ISSUES DEEPER STILL. She used her household economy as radical rebellion. I have spent years exploring ways to weave a softer economy into my life, and her example pushed me further.

Declare independence from the corporate global economy, Jackie seemed to say. Doing so has two synergetic positive effects. First, by simplifying her life and working less, she creates less garbage on the planet. Second, the time and s.p.a.ce she liberates nourish her. We exchange something very precious for money: our life energy. Do we want to spend our time and energy earning money and contributing to the market economy, or fostering creative pursuits, our relations.h.i.+ps, and community, and contributing love?

One way I've tried to do this is to take regular "sabbaticals" (what Tim Ferris, in his book The Four-Hour Workweek The Four-Hour Workweek, calls "mini-retirements" interspersed throughout your life). I have found them to be the absolute richest parts of my life; they create time and s.p.a.ce for my creativity to flourish. During the sabbaticals - the time in the 12 12 turned out to be one of them - I followed my bliss instead of the necessity to pay bills. I found my voice as a writer during such periods of "moodling": walking along abandoned railroad tracks, bathing in creeks and rivers, listening to crickets and macaws, meditating, reading hundreds of books, and growing flowers and food. These activities and nonactivities require little money but abundant time.

My father taught me an important lesson when I was a teenager: live within - or below - your means. He taught me this by putting me to work. Even though he had money to spare, he had me bus tables at a restaurant starting at age sixteen so that I'd earn my own spending money. I also worked through college, first in a pizza restaurant and then at one of Brown's libraries, and also through graduate school, by then in part-time professional positions at the World Bank and World Conservation Union, earning enough to pay off all my Stafford Loans on graduation day. He instilled in me the connection between life energy - my sweat - and dollars; this can also be understood as the interconnection of the material and the spiritual.

Unfortunately, I forgot my Dad's lesson after undergraduate university. Suddenly I had debt on two credit cards and lived from paycheck to paycheck. A good friend handed me Vicki Robin and Joe Dominguez's Your Money or Your Life Your Money or Your Life, which argues that we trade our precious hours of life for money, then use that money for things that bring little satisfaction. Their idea is to ratchet down personal expenses and grow savings in order to have less need to work for money and, thus, more free time to focus on what we really love.

This new take on voluntary simplicity was dubbed post-capitalist. People from modern, industrial societies were for the first time consciously scaling back consumption instead of trying to increase it. One PBS doc.u.mentary showed professional couples in Holland, a hotbed of post-capitalism, selling their cars and riding only bikes. They also scaled back to the bare minimum of household products. As one Dutchman explained, "With shampoo, I start by using half my normal amount. If that still lathers, I use half of that half. I keep halving it each time until it has no effect, and then I increase the amount slightly every day until I find the perfect quant.i.ty."

Influenced by these ideas, I began tracking every penny that went out of my life in an account book each evening, and I was amazed to find that some 30 percent of my expenses were on things that, in the end, I decided weren't worth the exchange of my life energy. I graphed it over the months, watching the line of expenses go down without any drop in the quality of my lifestyle. I paid off the debts and took a pair of scissors to my credit cards and have since used only debit cards. I never made a bundle as a junior high school teacher at a Native American school, nor later as an aid worker, but I always "paid myself first" before paying the other bills, depositing 10 percent of every paycheck into investments. I taught myself fnancial planning for free on the helpful Motley Fool website. Over time, I found myself living well below my means with enough of a buffer to fund those creativity sabbaticals.

Ironically, the more I treated my life energy as sacred and lived frugally, the more I was able to indulge myself; I could gush generously where it counted. I learned this during my decade among the world's Idle Majority, the leisureologists of the Global South. Subsistence cultures have a forest instead of a supermarket; board games and guitars on stoops instead of minigolf and other paid entertainment. They aren't materially rich, yet I found myself continually amazed by their generosity - in the form of a meal, a bed, and all the time in the world to be with you. In that spirit I support the Sierra Club and other worthy causes, especially those that spontaneously arise in my daily life. And I don't cringe over a ffty-dollar bag of organic and local groceries because that's the actual cost of producing food in a healthy world. That same bag at Safeway is cheap because the costs to the environment - of pesticides, soil erosion, cultural erosion, and genetic modification of life forms - are not included in the price. Can we look beyond the sticker price to see the true cost of our goods, and our economy?

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FOSTER A SOFT ECONOMY.

20. HUMILITY.

THE SOLITUDE, THE s.p.a.cE, the time by the creek, all of it helped break the skin of the coc.o.o.n I'd been in. As spring emerged into fullness, I felt the structure of my cellular tissue dissolve and re-form, and something new begin to emerge.

During those days I felt that if a hummingbird were to fly into me, I'd break out in tears. Inside this softer world the trellises filled in with greenery, the bones of plants found their leaves, the canopy cast fuller shadows. I ate olive caper bread with cheese from a local farm, chewing each bite thirty times to fully appreciate it. As I chewed - and chewed - I noticed the new lettuce rows, garlic, the walking onions, asparagus, s.h.i.+take mushrooms, larger on their logs. This lives.

Next to this flouris.h.i.+ng garden was my bike, just waiting, an ongoing invitation to pedal into air and silence. I sometimes biked alone, other times with Kyle, and I hung out with Hector when Jose was at work. Sometimes I gardened with the Thompson kids. They taught me new things about permaculture, things Jackie had taught them. She would have them over all the time, they told me, and teach them about her garden. Greg used a push mower to cut the gra.s.sy parts around the 12 12, while Kyle and I weeded the lettuce, onions, and asparagus. Afternoons pa.s.sed in banter and work, and before we knew it the ch.o.r.es were done.

But something about my mood those days bothered me. At one point I read a news story about a general census in Great Britain, in which four hundred thousand people identified their religion as "Jedi," or among the lightsaber-wielding characters in Star Wars Star Wars. Okay, I thought, that's an ironic statement for some, but there must be plenty among those hundreds of thousands who all too seriously think of themselves as enlightened crusaders battling the Dark Side of the Force.

The story about UK Jedis woke me up to something that was happening, unconsciously, in me. As I learned about wildcrafting, warrior presence, and compa.s.sion, and began to reduce my carbon footprint, consume more responsibly, and eat fair, organic, and local food, my ego grew attached to the idea that I was becoming "more enlightened." Walking the aisles of the organic Adams Market, I looked around and saw what I might become: a holier-than-thou progressive, carving an ident.i.ty niche out of being so darn responsible. I was actually, in many ways, trying to eliminate my individual ego ident.i.ty through warrior presence. The trap, I was discovering, was that the fiction of the ego is replaced by an even heavier fiction: that of being a Jedi, a spiritual warrior, an enlightened being - and therefore better than those miserable people who are not. This is why so many supposed spiritual teachers have such big egos; they've fallen into this very trap of specialness and are therefore not real teachers at all. It's high irony: building an ego out of the notion of having conquered it.

Afterward, I was looking at the 12 12 one day, and I suddenly saw it differently. The l.u.s.ter it held for me vanished, and for an instant, it was a mere shack. You could easily view it that way. Likewise, Jackie - if you b.u.mped into her walking along the railroad tracks and Old Highway ii' South in central North Carolina - might not appear particularly noteworthy. Her oversized navy blue jacket, the salt-and-pepper hair, small frame, slightly off-white teeth, mild Southern drawl. She certainly wouldn't identify herself as a doctor (she never uses the t.i.tle Dr. Benton) or try to impress you as a Wise One. She might seem a jolly lady out for a stroll.

And that's what she is. Jackie is wise, spiritual, and inspiring, but she's completely unattached to any of this. That is to say, she's humble. Like the cla.s.sic Tao master, she is an ordinary person.

IN LEAH'S WHITE APARTMENT, the giant tree hovered above, its now leafier branches brus.h.i.+ng lightly on the windows. I smelled herbs from Jackie's and spotted a dozen of the Thompsons' eggs on her counter. We'd begun reading less and viscerally experiencing more, but we maintained our habits of juggling several books at once. She dipped into the play Homebody/Kabul Homebody/Kabul (she was interviewing playwright Tony Kushner the next day) and Thich Nhat Hahn; I was reading (she was interviewing playwright Tony Kushner the next day) and Thich Nhat Hahn; I was reading The Solace of Open s.p.a.ces The Solace of Open s.p.a.ces and a volume of Galway Kinnell's poetry. We'd occasionally look up from our books and exchange glances. I read aloud to her Kinnell's poem about a little boy who sleeps soundly through a litany of alarmingly loud household noises: and a volume of Galway Kinnell's poetry. We'd occasionally look up from our books and exchange glances. I read aloud to her Kinnell's poem about a little boy who sleeps soundly through a litany of alarmingly loud household noises: but let there be that heavy breathing or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house and he will wrench himself awake ... he appears - in his baseball pajamas, it happens, the neck opening so small he has to screw them on.

The tree swayed above us, and I told her one of my most frightening memories. When my daughter was three months old, she suddenly stopped breathing. Her mom and I rushed her by taxi to a Bolivian hospital. I tried desperately to rouse Amaya, to feel some sign of life, but there was nothing. Amaya's mom couldn't even touch our daughter; she let out these primal wails as we skidded to a stop at the emergency room.

As soon as Amaya landed on the gurney, she woke up, blinked once, and began to bawl. The doctor told us this happens. The infant has such a long day that it goes into a coma-like sleep where it can't be roused.