Lost Valley: The Strength & Challenge of Sustainability

You never get a blank slate.  For better or worse, the land has been clear-cut, sprayed, and tilled by agriculture and deforestation.  The people have been socialized, molded, and burned by culture, history, and genetics.  But they can always be healed, always be restored to the essence of what lies at their core.  That process of pealing back the layers and applying fresh compost, seedlings, affection, and inspiration involves conflict and failure.  It is inherently chaotic and sometimes offensive and hopeless, and it is never completely finished.  But Lost Valley is proof that this transformation is possible and a place for building hope.

In the 1980’s the founders obtained 87 acres of woodland and a few scattered buildings from the Shiloh Christian community.  Most of the pines on the property had already been clear cut to pay off a tax bill when logging neighbors turned Shiloh into the IRS for using their youth program as a volunteer labor force.  The echoes of this conflict between the conservative neighborhood and the idyllic community continue, as does the process of a forest in recovery.  During my permaculture tour with the head gardener, I learned about the abundance of invasive blackberry and Scotch Broom on many parts of the land, the constant pillaging of seedlings by deer, and the way the pine trees that grew back are becoming thin with thirst in clay soils notorious for withholding water during increasingly dry summers.  At a biweekly Community Pedal meeting, the director updated residents on the status of their county application to lease small portions of land to encourage new residents to build homes in the proposed Meadowsong Ecovillage and improve their infrastructure.  The neighbors had appealed and Lost Valley’s application was turned down over questions regarding whether they are operating in alignment with their nonconforming zoning.  In 50 years, all the pines may be gone from this region.  And in only 5 years, Lost Valley itself may no longer exist.

But what I experienced in my four days immersed in the daily life of this community was a warmth, good humor, and generosity of spirit that belies an intentionally nourished reserve of trust, innovation, and resilience.  Sociocracy was adopted several years ago to introduce a transparent, inclusive, and accountable process of decision-making that engages each community member as a vital voice and player in the rhythm of work and life.  One resident created the HIVE program to organize tasks that everyone, including paid staff and leadership, share.  Another resident began holding empathy circles to ensure safe space for members to share feelings and make requests for support using tools from nonviolent communication.  And in the community meeting about the county appeal, there were anxious questions as well as affectionate laughter, and every member present agreed to more fully embrace Lost Valley’s mandate to operate as an educational center by committing to teaching courses.

The land also has hope, skill, and perseverance on its side.  The challenging clay soil is ideal for building water-tight dams that slow and divert the rivers, improving retention of moisture and nutrients and supporting the natural filtering of their gray and black water treatment systems.  The blackberry and Scotch broom protect the soil from heat and erosion, guard seedlings as they grow, and will eventually be shaded out as the canopy returns.  The twisted wood of the centuries-old oaks on site spared them from the clear-cut and they remain naturally drought and fire resistant.  Oak seedlings are grown and planted on-site along with nitrogen-fixing alders and hawthorns that are paired with each baby fruit tree, grafted onto sturdier native root stock, to support its growth.  Living hawthorn fences are being trained to keep deer out of the food forest and cages placed over each chestnut seedling for protection.

I can understand why Liz, who is building Lost Valley’s visitor program, says that some visitors call this place creepy.  The paths are muddy and moss drapes the trees.  Furniture is scattered haphazardly and coats and shoes litter the entrance to every building.  Many buildings are chilly and dimly lit and lined with old machinery and miscellaneous buckets and boxes.  Gardens are piled with debris and punctuated by last year’s withered stalks.  But what a deeper look reveals is that each of these represents a vital element of sociocracy and permaculture, which strengthen the ability of the people and the land to heal in partnership.  People remove their coats and shoes to respect each other’s work to keep the space clean.  Buildings are chill and dim to conserve energy.  Scattered furniture and projects provide a welcoming space for residents to come together organically, pursue their curiosity, and innovate from what is readily available socially and materially.  Buckets hold food scraps to feed the chickens and boxes shelter bee hives.  Withered stalks and piles of debris protect the soil from winter’s chill and break down into nutrients to feed spring seedlings.  What appears to the untrained eye as chaos is in fact fertile ground for inclusion, creativity and new growth.  This process is messy, and residents here have no desire to hide it from themselves or the world.

Our world needs living, breathing experiments in social and ecological sustainability to ensure we have the relationships, food, and shelter necessary to thrive through political and environmental upheaval, but too much newness and difference can turn away the most valuable allies.  Neighbors, many of which have never visited, persist in their stereotype of Lost Valley as a breeding ground for dirty, lazy hippies, E. coli-infested water, and progressive ideas that are best contained if not eradicated.  Interns who sign-up expecting tidy theories instead of transformation recoil from engaging in the personal and logistical work of running the gardens and the community.  Visitors who come for a comfy hotel stay only see disarray and not the intentionality beneath it.  Lost Valley faces the challenge of how to exist as a vital education and demonstration site while operating by necessity within the very systems it opposes.  They must make a strong legal case for their expansion while knowing that true reason for their existence resides in the heart.  Each member must make a living in this economy to afford to live in a community that knows each person is deserving of full inclusion.  And they must continue to find ways to steward the health and productivity of land impacted by seeds, run-off, and climate factors beyond their control.

I believe they will endure because they represent the true strength and resilience of human nature.  They are curious, adaptable, visionary, and optimistic.  As a short-term guest, I was asked for my feedback many times.  I was engaged in deep conversation at every intimate meal I attended.  Whatever may have frustrated my need for organization or efficiency, or felt initially “creepy” or concerning, was immediately countered by a friendly greeting and offer of assistance from everyone I met: the resident running for president, the one systematically abused by his family and peers for decades, the one providing on-line sex coaching, the one working 24-hour food stalls at the Oregon Country Fair, the one who worked in prisons, who led youth wilderness tours, who provided counseling, the animal rights activist, the wild food forager, female metal worker, the one who has designed his own course of study in herbs and Chinese philosophy, the four year old who teaches yoga.  Whatever caution I felt about what sort of person, philosophy, or lifestyle I would encounter at Lost Valley was dashed by seeing a reflection of myself in every one of them.  We are each fully unique, deeply valued, and bravely committed to making a meaningful contribution to this work in progress called being human.

Nancy

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson