Our home stands now, not as a monument to wistful longing but as a realized truth, a defiant rejection of the slow decay of modernity. Here, we do not merely exist, we thrive. We grow our own food, we raise our own livestock, and we hunt, not for sport or vanity but for sustenance, understanding that to cede our survival to unseen hands is to accept a slow death. We have cultivated a life of self-reliance, where work is not a burden but a birthright, and where each labor serves a purpose beyond mere subsistence.
Our elders walk among us, their wisdom not confined to the corners of forgotten institutions but woven into the very fabric of daily life. We repay our debts to them by giving them this life, as they impart their knowledge to our children. They sit beneath the great oak, telling stories that stretch across generations. The children gather at their feet, eyes wide with wonder, absorbing lessons of hardship, triumph, and the unbroken chain of human perseverance. The little ones scamper barefoot through the fields, their laughter ringing through the valley as they chase each other between rows of ripened crops, their hands stained with the juice of berries freshly plucked.
And as they learn from the elders, so too do they learn at our own hands, for we have made education a matter of love and urgency rather than obligation and neglect. We have taken the schooling of our children back from the dispassionate bureaucracies and the dull, spiritless institutions that mistake regimentation for enlightenment. My daughter excels in her studies not because I have handed her over to a factory-line of indoctrination but because here, in this place, she learns as children were always meant to learn, through immersion, curiosity, and an unrelenting engagement with the world. History is not bound between the lifeless pages of a state-approved textbook but recalled in the tales of those who have lived it and carved into the tools we still wield, and found in the well-worn pages of the books we cherish. Science is not a subject but a practice, observed in the planting of the fields, the turning of the seasons, the mixing of compounds, the building of machines, and the studying of the stars. Arithmetic is not a routine drill, but the logic that governs trade, construction, science, and craftsmanship. Here, she is not taught to memorize answers for a test but to seek truth with a mind honed by rigorous thought and an imagination unshackled from convention.
We have carved into this land a place of endless possibility. The horse barn hums with activity, the soft rhythmic thud of well-trained mounts, like a steady drumbeat in the earth, blending with the calls of their trainers. Young riders learn the art of horsemanship with discipline and grace, guiding their steeds through morning mists that hover over emerald pastures. A hammer echoes from the workshop, where sparks fly as metal is shaped by calloused hands, tools and trinkets forged not just for utility but as heirlooms to be passed down or traded. In the gardens, life explodes in every color imaginable, tomatoes hang heavy on the vine, sunflowers stretch toward the sky like celestial sentinels, and lavender sways in perfumed waves beneath the caress of the wind. Among the rows of rosemary and echinacea, figures move with careful precision, harvesting leaves and roots that will be refined into medicines, tinctures, and tonics. From the gardens to the laboratory, the knowledge of healing is not surrendered to bureaucracies but held in the capable hands of those who understand that true health is not found in sterile corridors but in the very earth beneath our feet.
A craftsman need only walk to the fully equipped shop to shape wood, forge metal, or repair machines. A musician finds sanctuary in the recording studio, where ideas are not lost in idle daydreams but made manifest in song. The main house serves as a heart rather than a home, a space where we gather, where meals are made and shared, where discourse flourishes around the fire. The long wooden table, worn smooth by years of use, is always full, of food, of laughter, of arguments and agreements, of minds sharpened against one another. Here, we are not afraid to challenge one another, to speak truth without fear, nor are we afraid to hold one another accountable. And yes, my views are certainly of the sort that will provoke debate though offered not as unquestionable truths but as invitations to engage and to challenge. After all, to believe something deeply is not to clutch it like a sacred relic, but to place it on the anvil, hammer in hand, and see what holds up under the pressure of scrutiny. We strive, not for comfort, but for betterment.
The land breathes with us, and we have shaped it to reflect our needs. The homes, modest yet deliberate, dot the landscape, each with its own expanse of earth, affording privacy without isolation. At the heart of it all, the community hums with life, children swinging on the playground, their shouts of triumph as they climb higher and higher, alongside men and women training on the outdoor gym, sweat and grit shaping their strength. The sharp twang of a bowstring releases an arrow into its mark, the distant crack of a rifle signals the mastery of skill. A bunkhouse stands ready to welcome those who come to learn, to be tested, to be sculpted into better versions of themselves. We do not merely guard this way of life; we spread it, teaching resilience, resourcefulness, and the unshakable knowledge that to truly live is to take responsibility for one’s own existence.
For some, this place is more than just home, it is livelihood. The land provides, and we, in turn, make our living from it. We sell or trade what we grow, be it produce from our gardens, meat from our livestock, or crafted goods shaped by steady hands in the workshop. The horse barn not only houses our own steeds but serves as a place of business, boarding horses, training riders, and refining the bond between human and beast. A kennel, nestled at the edge of the property, hums with the sharp barks of eager pupils and the steady commands of their trainer. The training camps we host bring eager learners of all ages from beyond our borders, those seeking to rediscover the forgotten arts of survival, craftsmanship, and self-reliance. Yet not all who live here work here; some find their purpose in the world beyond our gates, carrying the spirit of this place into their own trades while returning each day to the warmth of a life built with intention and care.
We have done it. We have built what we set out to build, not with idle words but with hands in the dirt, sweat on our brows, and minds unclouded by resignation. The dream has been shaped into reality, stone by stone, beam by beam, with the certainty that we are no longer beholden to forces that would see us meek, placated, dependent.
And yet, as I look around at this life we have built, a shiver runs through me. The fire crackles, the wind blows through the trees, then all goes silent, and for the briefest of moments, I recognize the cruel trick of the mind. For when I open my eyes, it will all be gone. The land, the people, the hum of craftsmanship and artistry, and of purpose, and of life. All of it will dissolve like mist in the morning sun. Because this is, after all, only a dream. A dream I have had since I was a child. A dream that seems so out of reach, not for lack of will or ability, but for lack of those willing to pursue it with me. This place is not just built of timber and stone, nor even toil and sweat, but of the dreams of many, and alone, a dream is all it can be.