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Last week, I said good-bye to our 1600 sq ft home in Richmond, Virginia. It took three-yard sales including an Everything Must Go Sale. I learned to specify that everything does not include the refrigerator, the dogs, or other house fixtures such as our front door.
As the economy dips into people’s discomfort zone and real estate prices line the pockets of financial consultants in the face of foreclosure, my partner, Lauren, and I have chosen to sell off all our belongings, quit our 401k careers and put everything (well almost everything) on the line. We are doing this because our need to create our own modern myths far outweighs the fear of remaining mute.
Cry Freedom is Dave Matthew’s freedom call for my generation’s conscious and unconscious yearnings -- a generation that grew up listening to Dave’s sermons kindled during rock revivals across his home state of Virginia. Little did we know as teenagers that our membership into the Its Cool to like Dave included spiritual guidance through unshakable lyrics:
Cry freedom cry, from deep inside,
where we all are confined.
My generation -- confined as Gen Y -- is an age sprouted from the notorious hippy era now known for their booming independence, 60-hour workweeks, skyrocketing divorce rates, and social security. Despite our parents’ rock n roll –turned-oldies evolution, Gen Y has come under as much, if not more, scrutiny.
A part of me believes that generational analysis comforts some people about the inevitability of the apocalypse. If we can determine a pattern demonstrating how each new generation is more damaged then the previous one, then our world will implode right on schedule.
I believe the souls of my generation are in question.
There is doubt whether my generation is capable of translating sacred rituals into the Age of the Iphone. Is Gen Y sober enough to take up its rite of passage? Do we have the grace and fluidity to perform rain dances around our tribes’ ceremonial rings of fire?
Do we even know what tribe we belong to?
In search of our modern day labyrinth, Lauren and I moved from Bellevue neighborhood into a 230 sq ft. silver palace, otherwise known as the iconic Airstream. The Airstream has been a part of America’s fabric for over 70 years with the majority of them still in use. It is reassuring to know how uncommon it is to see the Silver Bullet at the county landfill next to the other recreational vehicles being mass produced under the same expectations put on my own generation:
Cheap. Expedient. Unsustainable.
Lauren’s dream is to work on WWOOF Farms – Worldwide Opportunities on Organic Farms. She was born into a grassroots congregation of gardeners who experience God through plants, vegetables, and worm-rich soil. Lauren’s congregation sings the truths about worms. Basically, the more worms a wigglin’, the better the veggie eatin’.
Although I rarely converse with God over the stench of homegrown manure, I have gleefully agreed to hop on board the Airstream with Lauren to tour America while working on WWOOF farms. After all, my one-person congregation is cheap and won’t take up space in the Airstream.
When you only have 230 sq ft. of space, every aspect of your life is taken under serious consideration.
Airstream’s slogan is, " “Let's not make any changes — let's make only improvements!" Hence the exterior of a 1936 Airstream looks pretty similar to a 2008 model. Lauren and I are borrowing this slogan for our travels. We made a decision to take a journey for an indefinite period of time in hopes of making our own improvements. We are relying on faith that our core structure already meets its standards without need for change.
We have labeled our trip a journey, or rather a pilgrimage. Pilgrims, according to Richard Niebuhr, “are persons in motion passing through territories not their own, seeking…completion or clarity; a goal to which only the spirit’s compass points the way”. We will certainly pass through territories not our own as we figure out how to work our compass in the land of GPSs and OnStar.
We have lived in Richmond for five years. We moved from Oregon – land of hippy dwellings and organic everything -- because we knew that Virginia’s job market would better help us to fulfill (what we thought) was our duty after college: to do “the oughtas”.
We oughta make money. We oughta find recognition. We oughta fit in. We oughta get an IRA. We oughta not think too much.
Lauren found her dream job as a graphic designer and I broke the seal of the nonprofit sector. Together we moved from a 700 sq ft. apartment to owning our first house at 24 years old, purchasing life insurance, starting a web and graphic design business as a third income stream, and discovering that it is possible to “earn” a decent income early on in life. We have been able eat out a lot, attend a dozen weddings that spanned the globe, and spend money on unnecessary items that has lead us to three gargantuan yard sales.
Ironically, compared to some professionals climbing Corporate America’s ladder, some might view us as poor. Or as people remind me when I tell them I work in the nonprofit sector, nonprofit is code for:
NO PROFIT.
Predisposed to a lifetime of oughtas, I believe we have suffered with poverty. This depleted feeling despite our financial success proves that poverty is more then just money. Poverty is the distance felt between a person and God. Money can certainly act as a wedge between humanity and the Divine. Gandhi highlights this abominable reality when he writes, “There are people in the world so hungry that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread.”
Despite a world where poverty is the result of soul rotting, we have proven our ability to identify heroes. Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for decades. While there, he accrued a fortune that would humble anyone to their knees to cry freedom rather then serve another 27 years of oughtas.
History reassures me that at least poverty wasn’t created by my generation. Poverty crosses generational picket lines across all nations, ages, and socioeconomic statuses. Bono, a poverty fighter in Africa and modern day heretic with an insatiable appetite for The Sacred, wrote in The End of Poverty that poverty is mentioned 2003 times in the Bible, second to personal salvation.
Working on organic farms throughout the United States is our attempt to break free from a 28-year life sentence. We want to learn how to fish for a lifetime of purpose. We are choosing to risk our careers to overcome poverty rather then find a quick fix in a world where global warming hinders a person’s ability to walk through the pollution of hatred, consumerism, and poverty.
Lauren and I have started this pilgrimage singing our own generation’s crusade hymn. Perhaps on the road we will discover a nation of anthems formed in light of We Shall Overcome pilgrimages and We’re Not Going to Take It psalms. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll help mend the wounds of the Collective Soul – wounds caused through galactic wars, religious duress, and soul starvation -- in order to hear the communal freedom cry that transcends a nation in fear of its own capacity for greatness.
Who are we kidding? This is a tall order for a couple of idealists. It is just that our need to hear our own cries is far too great.
The future is no place to place your better days
– Dave Matthews
– Dave Matthews
Last week, I said good-bye to our 1600 sq ft home in Richmond, Virginia. It took three-yard sales including an Everything Must Go Sale. I learned to specify that everything does not include the refrigerator, the dogs, or other house fixtures such as our front door.
As the economy dips into people’s discomfort zone and real estate prices line the pockets of financial consultants in the face of foreclosure, my partner, Lauren, and I have chosen to sell off all our belongings, quit our 401k careers and put everything (well almost everything) on the line. We are doing this because our need to create our own modern myths far outweighs the fear of remaining mute.
Cry Freedom is Dave Matthew’s freedom call for my generation’s conscious and unconscious yearnings -- a generation that grew up listening to Dave’s sermons kindled during rock revivals across his home state of Virginia. Little did we know as teenagers that our membership into the Its Cool to like Dave included spiritual guidance through unshakable lyrics:
Cry freedom cry, from deep inside,
where we all are confined.
My generation -- confined as Gen Y -- is an age sprouted from the notorious hippy era now known for their booming independence, 60-hour workweeks, skyrocketing divorce rates, and social security. Despite our parents’ rock n roll –turned-oldies evolution, Gen Y has come under as much, if not more, scrutiny.
A part of me believes that generational analysis comforts some people about the inevitability of the apocalypse. If we can determine a pattern demonstrating how each new generation is more damaged then the previous one, then our world will implode right on schedule.
I believe the souls of my generation are in question.
There is doubt whether my generation is capable of translating sacred rituals into the Age of the Iphone. Is Gen Y sober enough to take up its rite of passage? Do we have the grace and fluidity to perform rain dances around our tribes’ ceremonial rings of fire?
Do we even know what tribe we belong to?
In search of our modern day labyrinth, Lauren and I moved from Bellevue neighborhood into a 230 sq ft. silver palace, otherwise known as the iconic Airstream. The Airstream has been a part of America’s fabric for over 70 years with the majority of them still in use. It is reassuring to know how uncommon it is to see the Silver Bullet at the county landfill next to the other recreational vehicles being mass produced under the same expectations put on my own generation:
Cheap. Expedient. Unsustainable.
Lauren’s dream is to work on WWOOF Farms – Worldwide Opportunities on Organic Farms. She was born into a grassroots congregation of gardeners who experience God through plants, vegetables, and worm-rich soil. Lauren’s congregation sings the truths about worms. Basically, the more worms a wigglin’, the better the veggie eatin’.
Although I rarely converse with God over the stench of homegrown manure, I have gleefully agreed to hop on board the Airstream with Lauren to tour America while working on WWOOF farms. After all, my one-person congregation is cheap and won’t take up space in the Airstream.
When you only have 230 sq ft. of space, every aspect of your life is taken under serious consideration.
Airstream’s slogan is, " “Let's not make any changes — let's make only improvements!" Hence the exterior of a 1936 Airstream looks pretty similar to a 2008 model. Lauren and I are borrowing this slogan for our travels. We made a decision to take a journey for an indefinite period of time in hopes of making our own improvements. We are relying on faith that our core structure already meets its standards without need for change.
We have labeled our trip a journey, or rather a pilgrimage. Pilgrims, according to Richard Niebuhr, “are persons in motion passing through territories not their own, seeking…completion or clarity; a goal to which only the spirit’s compass points the way”. We will certainly pass through territories not our own as we figure out how to work our compass in the land of GPSs and OnStar.
We have lived in Richmond for five years. We moved from Oregon – land of hippy dwellings and organic everything -- because we knew that Virginia’s job market would better help us to fulfill (what we thought) was our duty after college: to do “the oughtas”.
We oughta make money. We oughta find recognition. We oughta fit in. We oughta get an IRA. We oughta not think too much.
Lauren found her dream job as a graphic designer and I broke the seal of the nonprofit sector. Together we moved from a 700 sq ft. apartment to owning our first house at 24 years old, purchasing life insurance, starting a web and graphic design business as a third income stream, and discovering that it is possible to “earn” a decent income early on in life. We have been able eat out a lot, attend a dozen weddings that spanned the globe, and spend money on unnecessary items that has lead us to three gargantuan yard sales.
Ironically, compared to some professionals climbing Corporate America’s ladder, some might view us as poor. Or as people remind me when I tell them I work in the nonprofit sector, nonprofit is code for:
NO PROFIT.
Predisposed to a lifetime of oughtas, I believe we have suffered with poverty. This depleted feeling despite our financial success proves that poverty is more then just money. Poverty is the distance felt between a person and God. Money can certainly act as a wedge between humanity and the Divine. Gandhi highlights this abominable reality when he writes, “There are people in the world so hungry that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread.”
Despite a world where poverty is the result of soul rotting, we have proven our ability to identify heroes. Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for decades. While there, he accrued a fortune that would humble anyone to their knees to cry freedom rather then serve another 27 years of oughtas.
History reassures me that at least poverty wasn’t created by my generation. Poverty crosses generational picket lines across all nations, ages, and socioeconomic statuses. Bono, a poverty fighter in Africa and modern day heretic with an insatiable appetite for The Sacred, wrote in The End of Poverty that poverty is mentioned 2003 times in the Bible, second to personal salvation.
Working on organic farms throughout the United States is our attempt to break free from a 28-year life sentence. We want to learn how to fish for a lifetime of purpose. We are choosing to risk our careers to overcome poverty rather then find a quick fix in a world where global warming hinders a person’s ability to walk through the pollution of hatred, consumerism, and poverty.
Lauren and I have started this pilgrimage singing our own generation’s crusade hymn. Perhaps on the road we will discover a nation of anthems formed in light of We Shall Overcome pilgrimages and We’re Not Going to Take It psalms. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll help mend the wounds of the Collective Soul – wounds caused through galactic wars, religious duress, and soul starvation -- in order to hear the communal freedom cry that transcends a nation in fear of its own capacity for greatness.
Who are we kidding? This is a tall order for a couple of idealists. It is just that our need to hear our own cries is far too great.
“We’re seeking an experience of being alive, so that our life experiences on the purely physical plan, will have resonances within our own innermost being and reality, so that we actually feel the rapture of being alive. – Joseph Campbell
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