My friends come, too. We have a huge garden and lots of animals. We sell our extra vegetables and fiber from the angora rabbits and alpacas. Each of us does what we love – teach yoga, bake bread, work on cars, write, play music, teach in a public school, home school, counsel troubled teens – whatever it is we love, we get to do.
We support one another with goods, services, and money, and while we each have our own living spaces (this is a crucial element of a commune for me – space of my own), we have a dining hall and lodge where we can be together if we wish.
Plus, we all have a business manager who loves her/his job and helps us all stay out of bankruptcy.
We will not have a charismatic David Koresh-like leader (unless the business manager counts), and no one will be required to wear patchouli. People can choose to make their own clothes if they like, but I, for one, will still be relying on thrift stores and Target for my impeccable fashion sense. I don’t really foresee any chanting or nightly gatherings for prayer. We will not proselytize. It’ll be a fairly laid-back commune, as communes go.
I’m not really joking either. I’d love this.
Mostly, I just want to live in a world where people barter for what we need, where we all work to take care of each other, where we get to do what we love with as little worry about money as possible.
That’s because I hate money. I hate thinking about it; I hate figuring out how to earn it; I hate worrying about it. It makes my chest hurt.
So when money seems high on my mind, I turn to dreams – real ones like my impending farm – and big, idealistic ones like the commune. They keep me going; I think that’s what dreams are for, don’t you?
Now, who wants to join my commune?