At Wild Roots, lacking electricity, we would always cook our meals by the same campfire. Taking cues from indigenous people, who did not want to use their fireboards too quickly, we would try to keep the coals from the former night, and then the coals from breakfast, burning throughout the day, resulting in fire connected to fire connected to fire.
But we, mere humans, did not quite appreciate the beauty of the situation. Here we were riding on the back of a pickup truck filled with apples while one of our friends played violin, eating food from a wild forest, living the dream of many Americans — yet still at our dinner fire we could only manage to focus on our problems: to talk about politics, to fixate on the drama of the commune, to argue about the ins-and-outs of this or that philosophy. But one night, we all fell silent, and all we could hear were the birds.
Vision of the future: