22 November 2024
As the world gathers in conference halls to address the monumental challenges of our time, we find ourselves on a different path—one that leads us to the earth, to the mud under our feet, and to the warmth of a fire shared.
We are in the early stages of understanding and beautifying our base camp, feeling the rain and fire as teachers. This journey may feel like swimming against the current, yet nature shows us the resilience we need. As winter approaches, we witness her preparations—hibernation, rest, but also the steady continuity of life. The rain greeted us for the first time at basecamp, and despite our Bamboo Bar shelter leaking, the children and I noticed how the rain freshened the air and brought with it a certain magic. Birdsong seemed more pronounced, and the fire we kindled afterwards not only warmed us but gathered us together—giving us a moment to appreciate what is truly in front of us and to reawaken our senses.
We are also learning about cob—building with earth, clay, sand, and straw. It’s slow, honest work, shaping the clay from the Danube with our hands and feet, connecting with a forgotten yet enduring technology. Our goal is a simple cob oven—an example of resourcefulness built with care. This land, a parkland, has proven both welcoming and somewhat barren; its biodiversity is scarce, and at times it feels daunting to know where to begin. The children mostly concern themselves with the joy of play—and who can fault them for that? Yet, in their laughter and inventiveness, we glimpse the seeds of something deeper: a biophilia, a love of all life that we hope to nurture.
We ask ourselves what it truly means to make a difference beyond lofty promises and complex negotiations. Here, in our patch of earth, our questions are more immediate, more tangible: Can we turn this place into a sanctuary for life? Can we build beauty and resilience with our hands? Can we awaken a sense of wonder deep enough to counteract the pull of convenience and instant gratification? Our actions may seem small, but they are deliberate, and they are shared. We take what we have, the old bricks littering the space, and shape them into something useful and beautiful. We prepare pots for the acorns we collect, imagining how they might flourish.
In this work, there is hope—not a passive hope, but an active one that drives us to keep going, to keep building, to keep tending the fire. Our relationship with the living world, like the flame we gather around, needs our care and attention. As we warm ourselves in a circle, we find our way back to what is real, what is shared, and what is possible. We are creating not just with cob but with a renewed sense of belonging—to each other, to the earth, and to the generations to come. It may be slow, it may be imperfect, but it carries a quiet sense of awe, and perhaps that is what we need most of all.
– Loic
