We wanted utopia. When we arrived at the farm, that was our dream. Utopia. Heaven on earth. A place where we could all embrace our intellectual and emotional pursuits, cheering each other on as our potential was realized. A place in nature where we could nourish ourselves from food we brought forth from the ground through our own hard work.
Together, we would achieve this. Our heaven.
But that’s the thing about heaven, isn’t it? Heaven is not of the mortal realm. Heaven cannot live on earth. So while we could get a glimpse of our utopia there in the woods of Concord, we could never fully achieve it. Among the wintry pines and the steel clouds above, we showed our love for each other and for the arts and philosophy we debated fiercely around the glowing stove at night.
And we were happy.
Or, as happy as could be. Like I said, there is no heavenly paradise in the earthly realm. So while we might have thought ourselves angels, we were still humans. And with that humanity came egos and selfishness and clashes among ourselves. While one family wanted to take our community in one direction, another family informed them that this decision was not utopic for them. And all the reading, all the lectures, and all the snowy walks in the world could not bring us to a unanimous idea of what, exactly, utopia looked like.
So while we were happy, there was always friction. Sometimes it was minimal, a quiet whisper rumbling through the otherwise sturdy ground below us. Other times it came out in booming, thunderous clashes, debates over morality roaring out of the men around us. Their morality was true morality and whoever was against it was simply ignorant.
Eventually, these clashes were more common than not. So while it was heartbreaking, it wasn’t a surprise when formerly devoted members of our group, ones who dreamed of utopia alongside us, broke away. And eventually we were so many shattered fragments that we needed to give up on our dream of earthly utopia.
But this was centuries ago. And we are earthly no more. We left this earth years ago. And by now, so have our children and our grandchildren. And yet, the quiet winter woods of Concord remain. The clouds hang low in the sky over the stripped brown trees below. Our buildings are no longer, though the worn remains of a few stone walls remain deep within the woods.
It calls to us in our new forms. We are not human this time. We are spirits of light, beings of pure knowledge and energy. At least, that is what we suppose we are as we hurtle toward the winter woods once more. Perhaps this time, we can put aside our egos and our love of self. Perhaps years later, we can try again.
Perhaps this time we will have our utopia.
This is the last episode of Rest Stop Stories. Thank you so much for listening. It means the world to me. Bye.