Coming Home From Knoll Farm
Steve Chase
sponsored by the Center for Whole Communities, which is based at Knoll
Farm in Fayston, Vermont. The participants and facilitators were a
group of environmental leaders from across the country trying to move
beyond the limited thinking so often embedded within their particular
sectors of the movement. The personal reflections below are adapted
from my journal writing upon returning home.
Steve Chase
Coming Home from Knoll Farm
Driving home from Knoll Farm reminded me of the last scene in My Dinner
With Andre. In that movie, Wally Shawn is driving home in a cab through
the streets of New York City--something he's done countless times
before--and he is staring out the window transfixed, seeing everything
again for the first time and with appropriate awe. All of life was
sacramental to him after his amazing dinner with his friend.
That was also true during my quiet trip home through the sometimes
cloud-hidden, very rainy, green mountains and hills of Vermont. I drove
in silence (without my usual talk radio jabbering on and on). I now and
again munched one-handed on organic blueberries--some of which I had
probably picked the day before. I even drove home at 55 miles per
hour--ten miles an hour less than the speed limit, and twenty-five
miles an hour less than I usually drive. Not changing lanes, not
passing anyone, and burning less gas on the trip, I had time to look
out the window more, to notice my breathing, to think deeply about my
time at Knoll Farm and about all of my companions on the retreat
journey, including the luminous green humming bird I saw in one of the
flower gardens during one of the few sunny moments in the week.
In Jewish Scripture, the word for “sin” literally translates to the
phrase “missing the mark.” At the Farm, I tasted “the mark” with
unusual vividness. I tasted being a part of a diverse, inspiring, and
intentional community working to be an environmentally sustainable,
spiritually fulfilling, and socially just presence on this planet. I
tasted what Jesus called faithfulness--being both smart as a serpent
and as open-hearted as a dove.
For five of our days together, we walked up and down Bragg Hill—or rode
in the “sun buggy”--though the Farm’s gardens, grasslands, and woods.
At the top of the hill, we sat in a circle in a giant yurt and shared
our core visions and values and—very blessedly—took the time to talk
honestly about race, power, and privilege in our lives and in our
organizations.
We did this even when it was painful, incomplete, and raw. All of us
experienced moments of anger, hurt feelings, and misunderstanding in
that yurt—as we sometimes did during the rest of our time together at
Knoll Farm. Yet, we also shared many moments of profound forgiveness,
repentance, and insight. We became imperfect, but powerful, allies
during those six days.
The time also fed my clumsy, Midwestern, Quaker soul. We spent from ten
at night to ten in the morning in silence. We even meditated together
several times during the “talking” part of our day. We told stories
about our lives and about our work back home to help heal the world.
There was one night of ecstatic dancing and chores everyday, as well as
hot, outdoor, solar-heated showers early in the morning, sometimes
taken in the rain. I mulched and picked blueberries, sorted wool, or
shucked peas most afternoons. There was singing sometimes while we
worked or did spoon carving--and some people read poetry before dinner.
Don’t even get me started about the food! There were also giant orange
moons coming up over the mountains at least partially visible through
the clouds to the southeast most every night. These moons were most
frequently viewed from a fire circle where several people sat a while
before heading off to sleep in their tents.
I found it hard to say goodbye to everyone at the Farm and drive home
on our last morning. Yet, as well as one can driving alone in a car
powered by gas and lubricated by oil, I came much closer to the mark
than normal on that journey home. Inside that car, I drank water from
the Farm that I carried in the metal bottle that I now usually keep
clipped to my belt loop. On such a trip in the past, I would have
stopped along the way and purchased six or seven plastic bottles of
diet soda.
I also got hungry for lunch near Randolph and took the town’s exit off
Interstate 89 and drove right past the MacDonald’s at the end of the
ramp. Usually, driving alone and with no one looking, I would have
turned into that parking lot and indulged in some childhood/teenage
comfort food, one of my private guilty pleasures that has had a huge
addictive pull on me for decades. On this afternoon, however,
MacDonald’s did not hold any allure or offer any pleasure to me. It was
not just far from the mark, it was also far from my own heart.
Instead, I drove into town and looked for a little, locally-owned
restaurant that served me a handmade salad with a bit of chicken, a
hard boiled egg, and some diced black olives on top of a mix of greens,
romaine lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, and carrots lightly
dressed in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. The Depot Restaurant owner
brought it to me with a smile, along with a slice of homemade bread,
and all of it in a glass bowl!
I ate slowly thinking of the single wooden bowl that I had eaten out of
every meal for a week, the very bowl that was now sitting cock-eyed on
the front seat of my borrowed car. I also thought of Helen and Jay, two
long-time organic farmers that I now knew personally. I silently lifted
my glass of local tap water and toasted them for their love of our soil
and their ability to help the earth say beans or squash or blueberries.
I only wished that the owner had stood by the table before I ate and
told me what farm every ingredient in the salad had come from. I also
fantasized about someone standing up at the next booth and reading a
poem by Rumi out loud and then another customer on the other side of
the room offering a few passages from Wendy Johnson’s Gardening at the
Dragon’s Gate. Gently letting go of that sweet image, I offered a
silent prayer before I ate my lunch. “Stealth meditating” Wendy would
call it.
Driving homeward again, I felt Dunking Donuts, Burger King, even the
Olive Garden slipping away from me. I felt myself drawing closer toward
the mark--closer toward farmers markets, roadside produce stands,
locally-owned restaurants, and the organic section of my big chain
supermarket until those precious folks in Keene, who are working on
establishing a food coop in our town, succeed. And, yes, I thought I
should send them a little money and a thank you note, right after I
send a thank you poem to all the dear ones from my retreat week at
Knoll Farm.
When I finally arrived in Keene, I picked up my computer from work and
drove straight to my house, unlocked my backdoor—I hadn’t had keys in
my pocket for five days, let alone a computer nearby—and I began to put
all my stuff away. I laughed at a week’s worth of unread newspapers
dutifully piled on the dining room table for me by my partner Katy and
I checked to see if there was any mail for me that had arrived while I
was gone. I only opened one piece—the invitation to the upcoming
September weekend celebration of the Center for Whole Communities'
fifth year anniversary at Knoll Farm.
I then drank some water from my own tap and got back in my borrowed car
to go fill up its tank at a Citgo station—whose profits at least help
some of the poor in Venezuela—and returned the car to my friend. By way
of a small thank you, I gave her my last unmolested box of Knoll Farm
organic blueberries. She was thrilled. We hugged and then chatted a bit
and she offered me a ride home. Even with it threatening rain again, I
said no.
Like my four hour drive home, I walked this final bit as Wally Shawn
rode home in his cab—in my case, wide-eyed and delighted while walking
by our Town Common, which sits across from City Hall and the big white
United Church of Christ, then on down our Main Street dotted with small
businesses, past the Colonial Theater (an amazing nonprofit arts
organization), and up the hill on Water Street to my little house
surrounded by Katy’s flowers.
I sat there at home, looking forward to Katy returning from work and
hearing all about her week. I imagined her as a double rainbow over the
Mad River Valley and I waited.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
Steve Chase
Director, Environmental Advocacy and Organizing Program
Department of Environmental Studies
Antioch University New England
40 Avon Street, Keene, NH 03431
603-283-2336; 603-357-0618 (fax); Steven...@antiochne.edu
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