There’s a particular ache that comes with recognizing the distance between the world we dream of and the one we currently inhabit.
I feel it most acutely in those quiet moments when I catch myself longing for the spontaneous drop-ins of my childhood, the shared meals that happened without planning, the natural rhythm of lives intertwined rather than carefully scheduled.
The suburban dream we’ve inherited – with its neatly trimmed lawns and carefully maintained boundaries – often feels like a prison of our own making. I know that’s nothing new to anything reading it, but it feels worht repeating.
We’ve traded the mess and chaos of genuine connection for the illusion of control, the warmth of impromptu gatherings for the safety of planned events. The house must be cleaned first, the dishes put away, the toys organized.
We’ve turned community into a performance rather than a practice.
But beneath this tension lies a deeper truth: our longing for authentic community isn’t just nostalgia for a simpler past – it’s our souls remembering what it means to be truly human.
The Buddhist teachings speak of interdependence, reminding us that we exist not as isolated individuals but as threads in an infinitely complex web of relationships.
The indigenous wisdom I’ve learned from in ceremony echoes this truth – that healing happens not in isolation but in circle, in the sacred space we create when we come together with intention.
This understanding has transformed how I view renunciation.
What once felt like giving things up – whether it’s alcohol, certain foods, or even fixed ideas about who we are – now feels like making space.
Space for deeper connection, for more authentic presence, for the kind of community that nourishes rather than depletes.
When we let go of the need to present a perfect facade, we create room for real relationship to flourish.
The dream of intentional community that keeps calling to me isn’t just about shared living arrangements or pooled resources, though these are important. It’s about creating spaces where we can practice being human together, where we can remember how to live in harmony with the earth and each other. It’s about building something that honors both the wisdom of our ancestors and the needs of future generations.
In my journey through Buddhism, ceremony, and community building, I’ve come to see that transformation rarely happens in isolation.
The path to awakening isn’t a solitary trek up a mountain but a spiral dance we do together, supporting each other as we stumble and celebrate, grieve and grow.
Every time we choose connection over convenience, authenticity over appearance, we’re taking part in a quiet revolution.
Perhaps this is what our ancestors understood when they gathered around fires, shared stories, and raised each other’s children.
Perhaps this is what we’re all seeking when we dream of different ways of living – not just physical proximity but the sacred intimacy of lives genuinely shared.
The paradox is that building this kind of community requires us to be willing to be uncomfortable, to let go of our carefully constructed barriers, to risk being seen in our imperfection. It requires us to renounce not just individual habits but collective patterns that keep us separate and afraid.
When I dream of land in Pennsylvania, of recording studios in the woods and spaces for ceremony and celebration, I’m not just dreaming of a physical place.
I’m dreaming of a way of being together that honors both our need for solitude and our fundamental interconnection. A place where drop-ins are welcome, where meals are shared freely, where work and play and prayer flow together in natural rhythm.
This vision may seem idealistic in our fractured world, but perhaps that’s exactly why we need to hold it. Not as an escape from reality but as a reminder of what’s possible when we dare to live from a place of trust rather than fear, abundance rather than scarcity, connection rather than control.
The journey from here to there isn’t linear.
It happens in small moments of choosing vulnerability over protection, in sharing our dreams and doubts, in showing up imperfectly but authentically for each other.
It happens when we remember that community isn’t something we find or join but something we create together, moment by moment, choice by choice.
In the end, maybe the ache we feel isn’t just longing for what’s lost but recognition of what’s possible.
Maybe it’s our hearts remembering what our minds sometimes forget – that we were never meant to do this alone, that the path to healing leads us not away from each other but toward deeper connection, and that in this reconnection lies our greatest hope for transformation.

Writing a bio is always hard. What to pin down in a life well lived? My background is a blend of many things, always finding the intersection of creative and analytical. Mostly I’ve made indie films, organized many community events, more recently worked in tech startups. I also spend a lot of time learning new skills as well as deeply connecting with people through conversation and shared experiences.
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