These essays don’t have to be read in order, but previous ones are here, here, and here.
One spring evening, about dusk, reps from the Pima County Sheriff’s Department banged on my door. As I have recounted elsewhere, neighbors used various law enforcement agencies, from dogcatcher to SWAT teams, as a form of targeted harassment toward those of us on “the land.” I probably didn’t look too friendly as I opened the door.
The two women explained that there was a gas leak in the area, and they were cautioning residents to close their windows until the source could be determined.
“Most of the women living here don’t have windows,” I explained. “Not the kind that open and close. They live in tents or primitive open structures.”
The deputies had no answer for that one. They said we could evacuate, if we wished, but we would not be allowed to return to the area until the mysterious gas had dissipated. Standing on the porch, I could smell it, too.
Since the little trailer I was living in did have windows, I collected the others and we holed up together on the floor in sleeping bags, like we were at a slumber party. The little girls thought it was a hoot; the adults were worried.
If you are planning an intentional women’s community, chances are it will be very low tech, constrained by philosophical principles or financial resources, or both. The ramifications of this lifestyle must be soberly explored and thoroughly prepared for.
The thought of living without central heating or air conditioning, without wi-fi or cell phones, without electricity, and without running water sounds daunting, but the good news is that you can adjust. You can carry water, you can build fires, you can adjust your daily routine to utilize sunlight and the cool part of the day. There are always women ready to help you make the transition. The slower pace allows daily living to proceed without labor-saving convenience devices, which seem to have functioned mainly to allow the modern woman to cater more completely to the demands of her employer and family.
Women coming to the land spoke a lot about feeling “owned by their things.” A strong motivation for returning to the land – for all intentional communities, not just feminist ones – was a desire to break free from long hours of employment geared to paying a mortgage. Large houses mean lots of floor space and many bathrooms to clean; kitchens choked with small appliances feed the pressure to prepare elaborate meals. Home repair requires specialized knowledge that requires money that requires longer hours of work. Coming to the land means letting go of things – clothes, furniture, dishes, books, artwork – and making do with very little. For some women, that’s a huge relief. After withdrawal from television, telephone, coffee shops, nice (clean) clothes, hot showers, favorite foods, and the corner convenience store, the world expands again. By living simply, you begin to understand the difference between wants and needs. The experience is tremendously freeing.
Until something goes wrong.
An accident, an extended illness, a fire, a psychotic episode, a burst of severe weather: rural life is complicated by all of these potentialities, and they are in turn greatly complicated by primitive lifestyles. These are the things that make rural poverty ugly. We were protected, to some degree, by the extended networks of support within the women’s community, which included women living in town, but there were periods when a low tech lifestyle had its drawbacks, to say the least.
When things got difficult on the land, we used to remind each other that “most of the world lives this way.” This was in the twentieth century, and things have changed a bit since then, but one thing that has not changed is that most of the world does not want to “live this way.” Sanitation is compromised when you’re sharing bath water and washing dishes outdoors from a jug. Weather is a greater concern when you’ve built your planned community without regard for building standards and engineering assessments.
There are unique challenges to living in a first world country in third world conditions. Much of rural America is struggling to conduct ordinary business without broadband internet and cell phone coverage. Though we rely less on the post office, everyone is still expected to have a physical address where they receive mail. Meeting expectations of cleanliness for even a casual-clothes job can be difficult when you don’t have a washer, dryer, or wardrobe of clothing. When you return from your job, you may be fixing dinner and getting ready for bed in the dark. Many of us started buying packaged cookies and other processed convenience foods, because living simply in a complicated world can be hard.
Many reasons that have been postulated for the decline of women’s intentional communities, but two significant ones to consider are 1) the problems with bare-bones living that become apparent over the long term of these experiments and 2) the increase in the cost of land, fueled by income inequality, which has made it difficult to fund new projects. Planned or “utopian” communities, since the Transcendental Movement of the nineteenth century, have had a limited lifespan. New communities, armed with lessons of the old, need to arise to replace those that become defunct.
Technology for low-tech living has improved. Clean methods of generating electricity have become more efficient and less costly. There have been significant advances in water collection and waste disposal. Satellite communication can be utilized anywhere. The logistical difficulties for living comfortably in isolated green communities continue to decline. Maybe it’s time to try again.
I will conclude this series on wimmin’s land next time with some high points of living on the land and discuss how women’s communities can benefit all women, not just those who choose to adopt the lifestyle full time.