June was all about getting our hands deep into the earth—literally. We started a massive project: turning the base of a raised yurt into a living space, a cool hideaway from the scorching summer heat.
It began with leveling the ground on a gentle slope, which sounds simple but was anything but. Week after week we shoveled and hauled stubborn clay soil, sweat dripping, muscles aching. Then came the stone wall. Imagine giant rocks that refuse to cooperate, each demanding to be turned and tried like pieces of some Herculean jigsaw puzzle. When they finally locked into place, though—oh, what a feeling. Our mortar? Nothing fancy, just clay and gravel, but it held like a charm.
After that, we laid down a salvaged brick floor, brushing soft sand into the cracks until it all felt smooth under bare feet. The furniture, too, got its share of love—sanded down, painted, cared for—before finding its home in the space.
And then came Midsummer’s Eve. The fire roared high, sparks flying into the night sky, and couples leapt over the flames three times. It’s an old tradition, but standing there, watching, it felt timeless: the belief in fire’s cleansing power, the promise of luck, love, fertility. Each leap was like shedding old skin—stepping into the new season lighter, freer, reborn.
July was a mix of hammering, digging, and dreaming. We built a lean-to roof over the yurt’s terrace, laid a winding stone path, and added a small storage shed by the community house. Practical jobs, each one slowly stitching our place together.
At the same time, behind the scenes, the organization whirlwind began. The Gyüttment Festival and the Global Ecovillage Gathering loomed large on the horizon. My days blurred into endless phone calls, tangled Excel sheets, and scribbled to-do lists. Sometimes I felt like I was juggling ten worlds at once.
But there was always balance. My faithful little cat was my shadow, inspecting every stage of work with a kind of regal seriousness that made me laugh. Long walks in the forest gave me air and peace—the trees towering, the air so clear it felt like drinking. Clean, nourishing food and playful moments grounded me. And the best part? My family came to visit, filling the place with warmth. Their presence gave me the strength I didn’t even realize I needed.
August swept me away completely. Almost the entire month I spent in Lengyeltóti, by the magical Blue Lake, together with our mountain crew and the Mindenegyüttmegy association. Two huge things filled my days: hosting an international ecovillage gathering and organizing our very own Gyüttment Festival. At the first, I somehow found myself running the pub (a whole adventure in itself!), and at the second, I got to create and coordinate the Craft Courtyard.
It was intense. Honestly, I was often tired to the bone—but every day brought so much learning and joy. I invited a colorful mix of workshops: clay sculpting, basket weaving, jewelry making, felting, weaving, spinning, carving “soul birds,” screen-printing T-shirts, juggling, soap making, flower-water distilling… plus endless conversations and inspiring talks. Watching people dive into these activities, seeing their faces light up—it made all the effort worthwhile.
And then there was my oven. The clay oven I had built with my own two hands back in May—standing there, alive, baking the most beautiful sourdough loaves. Golden crusts, tangy scent in the air. I can’t even describe how proud and moved I felt, seeing something I had shaped with mud and sweat become a true hearth for the community.
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