It’s hot. And sticky. Sweat makes riverbeds of my spine and belly. I chase sleep through the delirious nights in a home without air conditioning, finding some solace in a small fan near the door. During the day, I drift from task to task: my job at SubHub, then to the office in our Common House. There is a turbidity to this time of year, as well as a thick soupiness. The humidity tampers with my mind, and I find it challenging to focus on the simplest of activities sometimes. Meanwhile, the world goes on and I must find my way through the bustle of being alive. 

Yep, it’s Prairie again, riding the waves of summer at Dancing Rabbit. Throughout the last two weeks, I have found myself wading into the swift and sure currents of what I call the season of expansion; in which the grass propels itself out of the ground in rich, green arrows of life, and the pond grows warm and dark and full of small, unseen creatures. Everything feels as though it is awake and hungry for summer. 

I was quickly swept away by the second visitor program of the year, and while the prospect of being a program liaison for the first time for these new and shiny faces felt daunting at first, I soon slipped into the rhythms of daily check-ins, answering questions, and piecing together the uniqueness of every individual, one day at a time. I cooked and led workshops and did all of the usual events that produce an educational, fun, and entertaining program. Meanwhile, I was sensing a growing tension, an internal intensity I could not have predicted would later manifest outside of my own body. 

When the summer solstice claimed the most daylight of the year, Red Earth Farms turned 18 years old. We celebrated its life in the best way the Tri-communities know how: with a massive potluck. The circle of people gathered before dinner was so big that we could barely hear the people across from us. Children roamed around us on their way to the pond or the trampoline. This was it. Summer had found us again, in all of her sweet, verdant glory. 

As I gazed at the sky after stuffing yet another homemade doughnut into my mouth, I marveled at the moment, at the braid that holds the strands of all of our lives together, right now. I thought about the visitor work party I organized earlier that afternoon, of the garlic we harvested and peeled together. This is a time of celebration, indeed, of cherishing the sun and her delicious offerings. 

Even so, my inner turbulence persisted. I tend to trick myself into juggling many balls in my communal and personal life. It was only a matter of time before my passion for taking on the management of the Ironweed Garden yet again transformed into regret and then resignation. I still have not moved the winter paraphernalia from my house into my shed. A new love interest recently entered my life and that has brought on an entire storm of its own. I watch my juggling act shift and slip and gradually dissolve as I add and subtract projects and passions and tasks. 

And then we met the storm. 

I was working at SubHub on Thursday morning when I saw the tornado warning alert on my cell phone. I showed Liz, who was working alongside me, and not two minutes after we put down our tools and glanced at the gathering clouds, rain took its sharp hand to the earth, the nearby shed, the new straw bale wall, the paths, and the trees. Needless to say, we ran inside and hid in the bathroom as the storm buffeted the building. 

It was an unrelenting yet swift 40 minutes. And then it was over. We emerged tentatively from SubHub and surveyed the damage, which was fortunately little. The abundant fruit tree south of SubHub had split and one half now hung low over the ground. As I walked toward the Common House, I spotted the trampoline, bent and disfigured and flung wildly into the road. As I neared my destination, the sound of a trumpet caught my ear and I saw Toren, completely soaked through, standing on top of a picnic table with his instrument held aloft. By now the rain had settled into a light drizzle and people were milling around the courtyard. 

We survived the storm. And by we, I mean the people of Dancing Rabbit, if not all of the animals. Fate did not favor the trees that perished, however. 

As I squelched my way home, I pulled branches off of the path, all the way up to my door, at which point I finally looked up to see an 18-inch thick by 36-foot-long maple that had split from its trunk and fallen directly onto my house. After about five minutes of gaping in shock, I sent Alis a text asking if he would do some chainsaw work for me. Somehow, the tree narrowly missed my protruding chimney, as well as my already unstable outhouse. Pieces of the metal roofing were dented, and my door will no longer close willingly, but all in all, I was very lucky to have a house to walk into, period. Many other trees throughout the village were in similar condition. The plum tree in Ironweed Garden was completely decapitated. Clean-up parties have continued into the weekend as we keep on keeping on with the unrelenting nature of summer. 

And what of my own inner storm? It seems to have quieted down, if not passed altogether for now. As the visitor program draws to a close and we enter into what is often the hottest month of the year, I pack for a week-long trip to my hometown of Sioux Falls, South Dakota, to visit my family and friends. 

Although I have no illusions that the intensity of this season is behind me, I welcome the gentle reprieve of time away from the routines I have created. I intend to return to Dancing Rabbit filled with more inspiration and energy to take on whatever comes next.

 

Prairie Johnson wears many hats for taking care of the village. She is cultivating patience by sanding many pallet boards for SubHub’s new tool shed, and we thank her for that!