Part 4 (1/2)

MALADJUSTED TO EMPIRE.

9. WILDCRAFTING AND COUNTRY STEAK.

AS THE DAYS AT JACKIE'S Pa.s.sED, and the cold earth softened, buds and tendrils began finding their shape, and I increasingly thought about heroes. My heroes are mostly people you never hear about. They quietly go about creating a durable vision of what it means to be an American and a global citizen. These are the people whose spirits nourished me as I hoed the rows at Jackie's place, people like Stan Crawford, Bradley, and Jackie herself. As the world flattens, they give hope. They are what I call and the cold earth softened, buds and tendrils began finding their shape, and I increasingly thought about heroes. My heroes are mostly people you never hear about. They quietly go about creating a durable vision of what it means to be an American and a global citizen. These are the people whose spirits nourished me as I hoed the rows at Jackie's place, people like Stan Crawford, Bradley, and Jackie herself. As the world flattens, they give hope. They are what I call wildcrafters wildcrafters, people shaping their inner and outer worlds to the flow of nature, rather than trying to mold the natural world into a shape that is usable in the industrial world. Wildcrafters leave a small ecological footprint. They don't conform to any outward program, manifesto, or organized group, but conform only to what Gandhi called the ”still, small voice” within. I consider much of the dispersed ”antiglobalization,” pro-sustainability movement to be connected to wildcrafting. Wildcrafters inhabit the rebel territory beyond the Flat.

But one morning at the 12 12, as a particularly strong stench of the chicken factory blew in, I asked myself how people like Stan, Jackie, and Bradley find the inner strength to resist ecocide. As if in answer to this question, I discovered a copy of Gandhi's autobiography on Jackie's bookshelf and began reading it each night in her great-grandmother's rocker. I knew Gandhi's famous quote - ”Be the change you want to see in the world” - but the question still remained: How? How? In his autobiography he talked about how he was convinced that absolutely anyone can achieve what he did; he was simply an average person who decided to transform himself. In his autobiography he talked about how he was convinced that absolutely anyone can achieve what he did; he was simply an average person who decided to transform himself.

This transformation happened gradually when, as a young lawyer in South Africa, he decided there shouldn't be a gap between his convictions and his actions. Each time he identified something in his outer life that contradicted his inner beliefs, he decided to make a change. For example, believing it wasn't correct to eat meat, he immediately cut meat out of his diet. When he realized that buying British clothing supported the colonial system that oppressed his people, he began wearing a dhoti, spinning the cloth himself. And so he continued, one quick relinquishment after the next, until his outward actions gradually came into harmony with his beliefs. This not only built his character but inspired the confidence of others, turning him into the great, humble leader who would free hundreds of millions from the colonial yoke. In his own words, Gandhi was incredibly clear: changing yourself is the key; no external achievements, however n.o.ble, can replace that.

From the rocking chair, I regarded the 12 12's floor, a white slab of bare cement. So stark. An unadorned slab of rock surrounded by two full acres of breathing earth. Jackie later told me that she had mirrored Gandhi's transformation, relinquis.h.i.+ng one hypocrisy at a time, a gradual, deliberate evolution. She didn't want to support war taxes, so she reduced her salary to eleven thousand dollars. She wished to have the carbon footprint of a Banglades.h.i.+, so she went off the grid.

Bradley, using his skills and interests, was doing something similar. He didn't like the suburban sprawl he saw rolling into Adams County, so he began buying up large tracts of land and turning them into environmental eco-housing. Seeing that our educational system was perpetuating ecocide, he established innovative sustainable agriculture programs at the local community college. It was remarkable to feel the ripple effect of the courses he taught there, from horticulture to eco-design, from beekeeping to turning native plants into tinctures, medicines, and foods. Bradley shaped Jackie's skill set, and she in turn inspired Bradley with her ideas. And they are part of a larger constellation of wildcrafters. My direct neighbor, Jose, made traditional Mexican furniture by hand. The Thompsons had left the city to produce organic chicken and pork. Lisa, up the road, was a social worker who'd bought ten acres and was slowly transforming herself into a small farmer. And a fascinating father-son team, Paul Sr. and Jr. - whom I was eager to meet - had purchased thirty acres outside a nearby town and had followed Jackie's lead and built several 12 12s.

Like Gandhi, these wildcrafters made one small change after another in their lives and watched their inner and outer lives slide into harmony. They were beginning to inhabit a place I'd later come to see as the creative edge.

This idea first came to me in the 12 12, but only after leaving Jackie's did I fully grasp the extent to which these folks are shaping their inner lives first, then moving on to shape their outer environment through living beyond paradigms - including paradigms of environmentalism. Wildcrafters, those who work with nature's flow rather than against it, do this in a place that is, in the end, simultaneously internal and external: the creative edge, a dynamic geography.

Wildcrafters on the creative edge have social and political impacts beyond their numbers. For example, the several hundred wildcrafters in Stan Crawford's Dixon were only a few of the tens of thousands in New Mexico creating healthy, near-carbon-neutral communities. They voted on and pa.s.sed innovative policies like the mandatory ”media literacy” courses in schools, and they have grown the state's Green Party into a force in state politics. Nationally, the Green Party has around two hundred elected officials, including members of city councils in Boston, Cleveland, Minneapolis, Madison, and New Haven, and numerous mayors.h.i.+ps. In Europe, Green Party inroads are stronger still; in Germany, the world's third-largest economy, the Greens have controlled the powerful foreign minister position and other cabinet posts.

This growing political and economic resistance, sadly, comes not from our elected and corporate leaders, but rather from gusanos gusanos (worms) that gradually eat away at the apple from within; when it collapses, it decomposes and becomes soil so something new can grow. I have several friends, for instance, who are (worms) that gradually eat away at the apple from within; when it collapses, it decomposes and becomes soil so something new can grow. I have several friends, for instance, who are gusanos gusanos within the California system, working on the creative edge of health care, education, business, and conservation, laboring to turn their state into something approximating their vision of America, in the hope that it will inspire the rest of the country as a model. within the California system, working on the creative edge of health care, education, business, and conservation, laboring to turn their state into something approximating their vision of America, in the hope that it will inspire the rest of the country as a model.

What is particularly fascinating about the gusanos gusanos in North Carolina, my 12 12 neighbors, is that they did not choose to wildcraft in progressive Europe or in funky California, Vermont, or New Mexico. They're in the conservative rural South. The late Jesse Helms used to have a lock on this area of North Carolina. The Thompsons, when they escaped to experiment on their new ten acres, were in a sense in rehab. The trailer park, the weapons and crack, neighbors in prison, the constant drone of commercial TV - all of this gone, cold turkey. They now opened their front door to a profusion of birds, a pond, a dark stretch of forest - to No Name Creek. in North Carolina, my 12 12 neighbors, is that they did not choose to wildcraft in progressive Europe or in funky California, Vermont, or New Mexico. They're in the conservative rural South. The late Jesse Helms used to have a lock on this area of North Carolina. The Thompsons, when they escaped to experiment on their new ten acres, were in a sense in rehab. The trailer park, the weapons and crack, neighbors in prison, the constant drone of commercial TV - all of this gone, cold turkey. They now opened their front door to a profusion of birds, a pond, a dark stretch of forest - to No Name Creek.

While musing over all of this, one morning I noticed a coc.o.o.n attached to the deer fence. Was it from last year, or from a caterpillar that had already gorged itself on spring leaves and gone into an early coc.o.o.n? Around the 12 12, dozens of different-sized, -shaped, and -colored caterpillars and inchworms dangled from silk strings and attached to budding leaves. I came to marvel over the miracle of that coc.o.o.n and the transformation of one organism into a completely different one.

Really, we've got the story wrong. We imagine that the caterpillar, knowing that it is time, goes to sleep in its womblike coc.o.o.n and wakes up a smiley, happy b.u.t.terfly. That's not what happens. As biologist Elisabet Sahtouris explains, the caterpillar devotes its life to hyper-consumption, greedily eating up nature's bounty. Then it attaches itself to a twig, like the one on the deer fence, and encases itself in chrysalis. Once inside, crisis strikes: its body partially liquefies into broth.

Yet, perhaps guided by an inner wisdom, what Sahtouris calls ”organizer cells” go around rounding up their fellow cells to form ”imaginal buds.” These multicellular buds begin to bloom into an entirely new organism but not without resistance. The caterpillar's immune system still functions and thinks that the imaginal buds are a virus and attacks them.

But the imaginal buds resist - and ultimately prevail - because they link together, cooperatively, to become a beautiful b.u.t.terfly, which lives lightly, regenerates life through pollinating flowers, and migrates over vast distances, exploring life in ways that would have been incomprehensible to the caterpillar.

Jackie, Bradley, the Thompsons, and the other people I was meeting were undergoing this transformation, not alone but in a network of hundreds of thousands of other ”imaginal buds” throughout Pine Bridge, the United States, and the world. By allowing themselves the s.p.a.ce to change, instead of clinging out of fear to what they knew, they were embarking on this transformative journey.

BUOYED BY THIS EVOLVING REALIZATION of wildcrafting, the creative edge, and the possibility of transforming from caterpillars into b.u.t.terflies, I found my spirit lighter than ever at the 12 12. One day I biked to Smithsville, rolling along South Main Street (the town was so small that there was no North Main Street), whistling and exchanging NC waves with the good folks in pa.s.sing cars, until I arrived at Rufus' Restaurant. My stomach growling, I decided to go in for lunch. of wildcrafting, the creative edge, and the possibility of transforming from caterpillars into b.u.t.terflies, I found my spirit lighter than ever at the 12 12. One day I biked to Smithsville, rolling along South Main Street (the town was so small that there was no North Main Street), whistling and exchanging NC waves with the good folks in pa.s.sing cars, until I arrived at Rufus' Restaurant. My stomach growling, I decided to go in for lunch.

The place was a quarter full, and I peered under the empty tables looking for an outlet to plug in my laptop. As I stooped, a waitress came over and cleared her throat: ”'Scuse me,” she said. ”But may I help help you with something?” you with something?”

”I'm going to eat here,” I a.s.sured her.

”Under one of the tables?”

Chuckling from the other waitresses. Some of the conversations stopped. I reached up to pat down my hair, cowlicked as it was from my bike helmet; I probably looked crazy.

”I'd like a table where I can plug in my laptop.”

A completely blank stare.

”My notebook computer. It hardly uses any electricity.”

”See that clock?” she said.

I looked across the room at an electric, unplugged DRINK PEPSI COLA ICE COLD DRINK PEPSI COLA ICE COLD clock stuck at 2:04 and 13 seconds. I sat down under it and plugged my laptop into the empty socket. One of the waitresses had been trying to hold in a big old laugh; when our eyes met, our mutual smile was the pinp.r.i.c.k that caused her to burst. She was still chuckling and shaking her head when she came up to me and asked in a friendly Southern tw.a.n.g, ”What can I get ya?” clock stuck at 2:04 and 13 seconds. I sat down under it and plugged my laptop into the empty socket. One of the waitresses had been trying to hold in a big old laugh; when our eyes met, our mutual smile was the pinp.r.i.c.k that caused her to burst. She was still chuckling and shaking her head when she came up to me and asked in a friendly Southern tw.a.n.g, ”What can I get ya?”

”What d'ya got?”

”Well, we've got country steak. It's not on the menu, and it comes with slaw, pintos, taters, fries, creamed potato, any two.”

”What is country steak?”

”Cubed steak.”

”What's that? Hamburger steak?”

”Oh no, it's meat that's been cubed.”

”So, cubes of meat. In sauce?”

”Gravy, yes. But it's been cubed and put back together. How do I explain this? Mary!”

Mary groaned, as if to say, ”How many times times have I explained this?” I glanced around the restaurant interior; the decorations had been hanging on the walls for decades, mostly soda pop posters with long-dead ad campaigns like ”Drink Dr. Pepper. Good for Life” and ”Mountain Dew, it'll tickle yore innards.” Another slogan, the text inside a three-foot-wide bottle cap on the wall, read obscurely, ”Thirsty? Just whistle.” have I explained this?” I glanced around the restaurant interior; the decorations had been hanging on the walls for decades, mostly soda pop posters with long-dead ad campaigns like ”Drink Dr. Pepper. Good for Life” and ”Mountain Dew, it'll tickle yore innards.” Another slogan, the text inside a three-foot-wide bottle cap on the wall, read obscurely, ”Thirsty? Just whistle.” Whistle for what? Whistle for what? I thought, the brand it was meant to elicit unknown to me. I thought, the brand it was meant to elicit unknown to me.

”It's fried” came an impatient Southern tw.a.n.g from the other room.

”Fried,” repeated my waitress.

”Fried,” I said.

”And it's good!”

”Okay, I'll take your word for it.”

”With what?”

”Creamed potatoes. And slaw.”

”Yeah, I think it's cubed cow, because I've seen it in the cow section at the grocery store.”

”Hold on,” I said, ”so we're not completely sure what animal we're talking about?”

She sighed and said, ”I know it ain't chicken.”

There was good humor in our banter, but only later would I realize the ironies and complexities. For instance, I unconsciously judged Rufus' for ”backwardness” for not understanding the twenty-first-century lexicon 101: the laptop plug-in. Yet wasn't my very presence there a Flat World advertis.e.m.e.nt, sidling up and whipping out my portable computer? That community still had what Bradley was trying to foster up the road in Siler City: life centered around people, not machines.

Then there was a more insidious undercurrent: racism. During three visits to Rufus' I never saw an African American person. By virtue of my white skin, I was basically a member of the club, hence the easy repartee with the white staff. Similarly, at Bobby Lu's Diner in Siler City, I didn't see any Latinos - despite the fact that Siler City is half Latino. Other restaurants in Siler City were purely Latino.

There's a grocery outpost a few blocks from Rufus'. Once, when the restaurant was closed, I went in and asked the clerk, a hirsute, heavily tattooed man in his forties, if they served food. He sighed and said, ”Nope.” Behind his head hung chewing tobacco packets, raw sausage links, and packets of beef jerky. The remainder of the store was filled with possibly the world's widest selection of 40-ounce beers and malt liquors.

The only plausible lunch food was a Hot Pocket. I held it up, frozen stiff in its colorful little package, and asked if I could microwave it. ”Sure,” he said. He was a man of few words, but not the guy who burst in next. This man's voice boomed through the outpost for the next several minutes, as my Pocket got hot. He was already in midsentence as the front door flung open, a heavyset African American man with long braids tied into a ponytail, trailed by his wife. ”... Oh do I see it. I see it! No, not the milk.” - his wife was pulling a gallon out of the refrigerator - ”It's this!” He hoisted a cold Colt 45 over his head like an Oscar.