In Search of the Miraculous: On the Farm
Very little spiritual crack here. Lots of substance
Trigger warning: this will undoubtedly butt up against certain dogmas
Friends and family, read free here.
Spirituality is not to be learned by flight from the world, or by running away from things, or by turning solitary and going apart from the world. Rather, we must learn an inner solitude wherever or with whomsoever we may be. We must learn to penetrate things and find God there.
Meister Eckhart
My spiritual quest started long, long ago, which is why these writings are serialized.
I’m old. I’ve been at this for a long time.
So a rendering of my spiritual quest will take more than an eight minute read if I’m to be honest and at least somewhat thorough.
The Farm
From the beginning, I was taken by what had been created at Two Rivers Farm. It was 35 acres of organic gardens and fruit and walnut trees.
Headed up by Mrs Annie Lou Staveley, a direct student of George Gurdjieff, upon whose teaching Two Rivers Farm is based, it was largely a group of professionals: lawyers, doctors, accountants, educators. Musicians. Artists. There were a few carpenters and mechanics. Housewives. Students.
As for the lack of practical farm skills, the professionals took them on. One planted a vineyard and made pinot noir wine.
A few took on animal husbandry and looked after the cattle, the sheep, chickens, ducks.
When echinacea was the “hot” healer, someone decided to grow and sell echinacea.
Teachers ran the children’s school.
Gene ran the vintage printer and a group of people, mostly older, patient people, did book binding.
Carl was the chef — a real one. Trained.
Joan headed the choir. I’m not musical and I can’t sing, so I wasn’t a part of the choir. Oh, but there were stories. Joan could be pretty harsh.
And there were stories about Gurdjieff himself. He was a Russian mystic who died in 1949. He taught that “people are not conscious of themselves and thus live in a state of hypnosis, a waking sleep. But, he believed, it is possible to awaken to a higher state of consciousness and to serve our true purpose as human beings.”
Sundays
Sunday started with an early morning sitting — generally a guided meditation — around 6 am, then breakfast.
The second floor movements/dining room was generally empty but at mealtime, men would get the collapsible tables out of storage and set them up. The tables were configured such that when put together, they formed a circle.
At that time, in the 1980s and 90s, between 70 and a 90 people showed up for Sunday work days.
Usually women headed up cooking — sometimes men. Breakfast and lunch involved planning and preparing the day before and getting up early to start the fire in the huge cookstove for bread or rolls.
The meals were wonderful, organic, and from the gardens. Often lunch included beef or lamb or chicken that were raised right there.
Once meals were prepared, put into bowls and on platters, up the back stairs through the wash-up room they went to the tables in the dining room. This often involved a bit of pandemonium in those narrow passageways.
The bell was rung, everyone took a place at the tables, and blessing was invoked. If it was a silent breakfast, there was of course, silence. Believe me, that is a strange feeling.
But usually, there was lively chatter during meals. Ideally, lively, self-aware chatter.
After the meal, a theme, presented by two or three who’d met ahead to discuss and iron out an exercise to work on during the day.
Later, after lunch, there would be a theme discussion. How did you perform the exercise given? What came up? What did you see in yourself?
Themes usually involved self remembering, or keeping awareness on something during the day — anything to snap us out of our usual slumber.
Shocks wake us up — pain, loss, illness, accidents. How can we be more awake? How can we engage more of our Selves in our daily lives? Learning new skills will also wake you up — so that was always encouraged. Shocks don’t always have to come from trauma.
Without full participation in our lives, we are automatons. So themes generally involved wake up calls, engineering them into daily life. Though engineering them wasn’t generally necessary.
With such a diverse group of people, often it was people in the group who delivered shocks. Personalities that agitated our own.
Indeed, Gurdjieff was said to hire certain people because they were adept at delivering shocks and waking others up.
We’re all familiar with those types. Assholes. Arrogant jerks. Bossy types. Lazy talkers who don’t carry their own weight. Generally, we avoid them. No avoiding them here.
After breakfast, into action. I took on wash-up — a necessary but not so glamorous job. Definitely no competition for it. Crews were assigned and there were usually four of us.
Clearing tables, wiping them down. Washing dishes, cutlery. A line of sinks: the first for soaking after plates were scraped, then the wash, then the first and second rinses.
Reset tables for lunch. Sweep if needed.
Usually by the time all of the dishes were clean and tables reset for lunch, it was about time for lunch.
If I finished early, I’d wander off and look in on other projects: often one of the artists was heading up a children’s group with painting or clay. Always fun. Or there was food processing. Or a visit to printing and publishing where I loved watching the Turkish “marbling,” where colors were mixed and “combed, or raked” then applied to paper. These were glued to the inside of book covers.
Sometimes I checked in with the candle makers who melted bees wax and hand dipped candles.
Or the wool group, who carded and spun wool. And knitted. Or made rugs on looms.
Or I’d go do some weeding, or just spend some time outside if it was sunny and warm.
Special Events
Every year, there were events: the Gurdjieff dinner on January 13 being the main celebration. Everyone showed up, around 150 people.
Weeks ahead, preparations: the menu plan, gathering and ironing white linen tablecloths and napkins; silver place settings; elegant candlesticks, oriental rugs — these came from the homes of farm members.
Different groups assembled to plan and bringing about an elevated atmosphere everywhere on the farm, from Mrs Staveley’s living room where we’d begin with the toast, along the pathway to the barn, the barn foyer, and up the stairs to the dining room. Everything was cleaned. Everything was decorated.
You could not come away from this event without having been changed in some clear but subtle way. In me, an awestruck hush as I took in the details: everyone in their best clothes, excitement and well wishing for all — petty grievances put aside for this evening at least — as we gather for the toast.
Listening to words honoring our teacher, Gurdjieff, raising the glass, setting an intention to be present this evening. The short walk to the barn, candles in lanterns illuminate the way.
Remove shoes at the barn entrance, into freshly cleaned cubbies they go, traded out for slippers.
Oh, a small wooden table with crisp white cloth, Turkish cigarettes and matches and ashtray — it’s the one night of the year that I allow myself a smoke.
I’ll have it later, after dinner, before the performances. And it will gag me, burn my throat, make me dizzy and I’ll put it out after just a couple of puffs, relieved that I am no longer addicted to tobacco.
Up the stairs and into the dining room — soft lighting, a glow that seems to emanate from where? The walls?
On windowsills, candles and greenery.
I find my place. We’re all immersed in the most delicious feeling — of joy, goodwill, gratitude — and it shows on all faces. It’s felt in all hearts.
Hours later, I’ve changed my clothes and I’m in the wash-up room with Sid finishing up the last of the dishes. It’s 3 am and snowing and I’m savoring these moments. My heart is full. Happy.
After any event, decorations are taken down and everything returns to the way it was, all traces of the event erased. Except for the memories. The impressions are lasting.
Over the year, the Equinoxes, Easter, the Solstices and Christmas are observed. Special foods, special decorations and ceremonies.
I’ll never forget the midnight procession during winter Solstice — the choir, all carrying lanterns, proceed through a field where there’s a huge mound of pruned and wind fallen branches — fuel for the bonfire.
I hear Ted’s distinctive bass voice, which carries below all the others. I don’t remember which songs, but something fitting for a foggy winter night — the longest of the year.
We gather around the wood mountain and the blaze is set. Faces are illuminated in fire light.
We’ve prepared slips of paper containing our bones of contention and anything else we want to offer to the flames. After words are read commemorating the solstice and its meaning, we offer our tinder to the inferno and watch it burn.
I linger. I’m mesmerized by the flames.
Movements
Saturdays there were several movements classes: for women, men, children, mixed.
So many people loved the movements. For me, they were torture. They were right down there with public speaking.
Of course, I loved watching them. Especially the faces of performers who were really good at them.
Depending on the particular movement, there are six rows and four files. Though eyes looked out, I could tell that the focus was truly within. How else could you possibly keep up? While arms and legs and head all obey a certain pose, rows and files shuffle precisely.
I went to a few classes over the years. Always with resolve, intention. But mostly with dread.
While class went on, instructor Tim would pull me to the back of the room and drill me. Initially, he had faith that I could actually get them. But I never could. I was a complete movements bonehead. Tim gave up. I gave up and I stopped torturing myself. I quit movements.
Though most of this sounds pretty idyllic, people are people wherever you go. During the sexual revolution of the 1970s and 80s, before AIDS, there was some fairly wanton behavior among some of the people on the farm. None of that happened directly on the farm and none was approved by Mrs Staveley, I assure you.
And as a result, there were children born who carried the distinctive traits of three or four male members of the farm—men who were married, but not to these young, single women who birthed these babies.
And I recall a couple of things Mrs Staveley said. “We all clamor to be born,” suggesting that we all wanted to be here and we’ll take whatever vehicle is made available.
And something else that always stuck: “I can tell what kind of a lover a man is by how he ties his shoes.”
She was from a different era, and I doubt that she sampled many lovers. It was her way of getting men to remember themselves — to be aware — whenever they tied their shoes.
And possibly for women to pay attention to a man tying his shoes to see if she could somehow determine the prowess of that man. Guessing here.
We had our weekly group meetings in a room that was part of an addition to Mrs Staveley’s house. During my first years there, she attended group meetings. Then she passed group leadership to some of the senior members.
Still, through the walls, you could hear her coughing. Though she’d quit smoking years before, she never recovered from emphysema.
There were a few doctors on the Farm, and a team of women took care of Mrs Staveley toward the end. Right there, in her home.
She was sick for a few weeks before she passed on April 6, 1996, the day before Easter. She was 90.
It was a sunny, lovely Easter morning and I couldn’t help but feel happy for her. My sense was that she was full of joy — she’d completed her life’s work and now, she was free.
The carpenters built her coffin, a plain pine box. Women washed and dressed her, and closed her mouth with a strip of white cotton fabric under her chin and tied firmly at the top of her head.
In the movements hall, a lovely ceremony and send off, and pall bearers carried her remains in that pine box to a grave prepared in the garden just west of her house, and lowered her remains therein.
And the pall bearers, all six strong men, sweated as they lowered that coffin into the earth. They marveled — the coffin and the 100 pounds she left behind weighed far, far more than they ever would have expected.
Shortly after Mrs Staveley passed, I left the Farm. It carries on still, though there are far fewer members now than when I was there.
I honor my time at the farm by doing my best to apply what I learned, particularly self observation, being present. It’s the work of a lifetime.
More to come.
Related story: The Journey Begins: In Search of the Miraculous; It’s not Refundable
Thanks for sharing this, and hope you have had a great new year so far!