Dec 18, 2016
By Filipa Chatillon
In the Delightful Company of Me
The sun had set. The patch of sky above the mountain range was painted shades of yellow. Before, it was orange, lilac, light blue and then dark blue. The moon glowed between pink clouds.
I was alone, at candle light, behind a book with me as my only company.
It was my last night as a volunteer in an intentional community in the mountains above Vilcabamba, in Ecuador. Yves, the founding member of the community, bought the 90 acres of degraded land 12 years ago. He has been working towards turning it into a productive site, both for humans to live sustainably as well as to promote biodiversity and create a healthy, growing ecosystem. Over the years many volunteers has come and gone to help and for the past three a community of resident members has established.
Everyone had gone down to town for the weekend, just as they had the weekend I arrived. I decided to stay.
At the time I had struggled. I had been traveling by myself for 5 months, volunteering in farms and communities like this one. I loved it, but seemed to find myself among couples again and again . When night came, I was always alone. And there I was again, in the company of me.
When they arrived it didn’t get better. Some people there were handling their own personal issues and they would bicker with each other and hardly talk to me all day. I had work to do in the morning, that I liked, but felt I was alone all the time. Community and loneliness don’t seem to match, but that was exactly how I felt the first days: lonely among people.
So why had I decided to do the same on my last night? Because somewhere in those two weeks I fell into place. My place. I embraced everything.
I created my own moments that didn’t need anyone else: listening to the sound of a hummingbird before I saw the bright green and blue of its wings, as I was squatting in the garden smelling the arugula; the taste of strawberries and uvillas picked straight from the trees, filling my mouth as I walked to the greenhouse; gazing in awe at the Andes range in all its colors and heights, spreading in front of me as I read, as I ate, as I cooked, as I talked, as I weeded, as I trimmed, as I plastered,
I learned everything but expected nothing. I marveled at the mountain library they had created, and its “living books”. Books on gardening with earth between the leaves, books on cheese making with mould on the edges, recipe books with grease stains, books on earth building with mud on the cover, books on animal cutting spotted with blood.
I focused on the keenness of some, rather than the negativity of others. I listened carefully to Yves enthusiasm talking about the plants. He spoke of “giving love” as he explained how I should weed them, trim them and compost them.
I realized I could adapt better to any situation and that that skill was growing, every day.
I don’t know if the general mood shifted at the same time, or if I just responded differently to it, but my second week there flew by and I actually wished for some time alone in the end. When everyone went down the mountain to town on Saturday, I stayed.
I wanted to say goodbye properly. I wanted to finish my book from the mountain library. I wanted to thank nature for the explosion of colors at sunset every day. Every day different. I wanted to sit in that room without windows looking at the stars. I wanted to tell myself, with no one around: “You did this. You found your place and you can do it anywhere, anytime. You are free.”
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About the Author
Filipa Chatillon
Filipa loves the world but has a softer spot for Latin America in general and the Argentinian accent in particular. You can find her in search of ways to live and travel more sustainably, and the stories that inspire her to do so (or in the nearest salsa club).