How many variations of teepees did I try to build—in miniature or life size—as a little girl? I don’t remember being highly successful, but, oh, the wigwams and tepees of my imagination! The leathery aroma of soft animal skins.The sweet scent of mats woven of plains grasses. The colors emerging as the hide was embellished with beads, shells, and stones. The rugged canopy under which I snuggled by starlight in my dreams. By day, I hovered over clay pots simmering over a fire of buffalo dung. I raised rambunctious little ones, braiding long dark hair into tightly woven patterns, finished off with leather ties and feathers.
However we compare our romantic idealizations of nomadic life against grim realities, the mystery remains. There was peace and war, laughter and lovemaking, hard work and incessant searching for food over long distances, but the center of life was the shelter where the idea of sacrifice, the shed blood of animals, and the bounty of those animals brings to mind the idea of holy ground. Holy, because it is about where we live, our dream of life, our hopes and fears and place in history. Holy, because it integrates the complex relationship between climate, land forms, plants, sociological realities, and humankind’s spiritual environment.
In modern times we imitate the migratory patterns of Native Americans by living for short periods in tents, campers, or motor homes. On occasion we sleep under the open sky. Alternative lifestyles promote portable domed yurts, inspired by those still in use among indigenous people on the high plains of Central Asia. Drum tight, wind resistant, and leak proof, these provide an option for hearty souls looking for simplicity and affordability. Although yurts are gentle on the planet, it is unlikely that a yurt frenzy will surge across the nation. Most Americans still dream of a cabana in the Bahamas, a garden plot in California’s foothills, or a chic apartment in Paris. Some may settle for a log cabin hideaway in the Rockies, an adobe hacienda in Mexico, or a renovated loft in Manhattan. But whether we live in a huge ranch house in Texas or a townhouse in Miami, aren’t we all just camping on this earth? As pilgrims, we’re temporary residents on the globe. No matter what we accumulate and cart around from place to place, our time to enjoy it will be shorter than we think.
Perhaps indigenous peoples knew better. They somehow knew that a dream home is wherever the tides or herds take us, close to family, in connection with community. America is still a nomadic society, but in contrast to our Native American countrymen, these days we migrate alone, isolated, and often out of context with any heritage whatsoever. We travel linearly while the early Americans saw that everything comes fl.1l circle like the seasons. They lived in circular homes and arranged their villages in circles, promoting protection and belonging. We build rectangular houses surrounded by high fences on straight streets. Blended into one homogenous nation, many Americans have lost a sense of legacy and security— the sort that cannot be purchased. While native peoples, traveling in tribes, took theirs with them, we leave ours behind.
Nomadic shelters of long ago implied spiritual healing inherent to living in harmony with nature. These shelters were wonderfiil examples of the maxim “Live simply so that others may simply live.” Weathered faces and clothing detailed with ornaments from the wild fed a sense of integrity and beauty that we miss today in a world of face-lifts and plunging necklines. But many of us have gone absent, and we are seeking our tribe.
We long to live interdependently, creating intimate spaces, not showplaces. One day we will wake up to the fact that we need each other after all. Perhaps then the fences constructed between us and our habitats will come down. Guided by our soul hunger, we may yet create a new paradigm for our neighborhoods limited only by our resourcefulness or our fear.
These ideas have brought me to a revolutionary decision. Basking in dreams of renovating and remodeling my house, I envisioned its glory. There was to be a new porcelain sink with a stylish kitchen faucet. A garden bathroom would replace the dated cubby that offers barely enough room to stand between toilet, tub, and vanity. Pine plank floors, weathered to a fine patina, would replace the worn carpet. Dancing would happen nightly when the earthy, colorful wool rugs were rolled to the side. I could hardly wait to get started. Then, as if awakening from a sweet dream to brutal reality, I realized that dream no longer fit the terrain of my life. The buffalo herds have moved on. With my children grown and gone, the teepee no longer includes gathering with people to whom I belong. The structure no longer holds any allure. I have friends, of course, along with activities that have my name written all over them. But the tribe calls.
Only a grandmother will recognize the drama of my unexpected epiphany. My granddaughter, one hundred miles to the west, is a toddler and will soon be in school. I don’t want to miss her. I want to be part of her life. So I’ve decided to move and am settling at least temporarily where Mira’s mom and dad promise all the babysitting I can stand. My dream home must fit the landscape. So I’ll rent my cottage home and relocate just across the mountains.
An igloo? A wigwam? A tepee? A simple, staid duplex just around the corner from a blue-eyed cherub with curly hair?
I no longer give lip service to the most charming home anywhere on earth. I want to be smack-dab where my heart is. Shaping a dream home vision is about going where the fish are jumping. Can you catch sight of them? Can you catch hold of them?
I’m going to at least put myself in their path.