building a village
In ancient Mayan culture, the magical ingredient of happiness and connection was built on the generosity of its people. How was this maintained? Through inefficiency and decay. The houses within the community were built not to last too long; structures were constructed in a way that made sure the communities had to come together at least once in 12 months to work on a member of the community house; this is where the magic happens, through coming together as a community and rebuilding the house a strong level of togetherness was formed and secured the wellbeing of the community. Once the house was built, there was a sense of celebration; communities strengthened their bond, praised the building, and then moved on to the next house.
Can you see where this is going?
Yet, the harmony of the Mayan community was disrupted when politicians and missionaries intervened, introducing sturdy houses that lasted. In doing so, they dismantled the relationships and communities built on the foundation of regular house rebuilding.
This understanding shows that a crisis can bring a community together. We can see today that when there is a flood, or someone wants to pull down an ancient tree in the village, everyone rallies around and tries to solve the problem. The ancient Mayans didn't wait for this to happen; they created their choreographed disaster—rituals—in which the community had to work together to remake the clothing, the house, the community, or the world.
Everything had been made so delicately that everyone needed to put it back together again, and the renewing process ultimately strengthened something. The same principle can be applied to houses, language, relationships, and health for us now and future generations.
I came to view Kettlesbridge Farm 19 years ago. I was searching for the right property for my daughter Ella to grow up in. At this point, we didn't know how she would develop due to her recent diagnosis of cerebral palsy. I had a gut feeling that the space would be a place where a community would grow, where her friends could come and stay, and where we could create a world within a world if Ella couldn't access as many possibilities as we hoped. I didn't know who or how the story would unfold, but the land spoke to me—a faint whisper to my soul; I heard it nonetheless.
As a culture, we only know a little of our indigenous roots; little was written down, and then the Romans documented their accounts through a biased lens. I don't claim to be an authority on the matter or a scholar, but I do advocate that we all spend time with bare feet listening to the birds and trees and singing to the rivers to find our way home to our roots. You can find me singing to the stream at the bottom of our garden, offering prayer and chocolate to the altar in the yurt, and building healing energy within its walls.
Over the last 21 years, my relationship with myself and spirit has deepened; I now understand the vast ancestral debt that has been created over decades of destruction and war, of pillaging the land and its resources and using these sacred resources to make a throwaway and consumer-driven culture. I'm not stating that I'm separate from this story; I'm as entrenched in our systems as anyone is and part of our mass problem. However, I am guided by the above principles to embark on a journey to create a space at Ellasfield that will allow a community to form. Ellasfield is in its infancy, but we are growing together. This community is not based on dogma or fixed views; it is based on acceptance of where we are today and on love and trust that together, we can remember ways to repay this debt and to try and live with grace and, beyond that, leave a village that will continue to maintain its self and widen into the communities of all folks who visit.
Watering the seeds of love and compassion is an excellent place to start, and that is what you will find as you walk through the gates at Ellasfield, whether you visit for the day for one of our cacao ceremonies or events or a more immersive stay or retreat.
