Lesbian feminists pooled their finances and bought land in the 1970s, fed up with compromise and disillusioned with traditional action. Some made outright purchases. Others banded together. Not only did they resist against patriarchy, but they also shared a very clear vision: a life that is by, for, and of women. In locations like We’Moon Land and OWL Farm, that vision became both a statement and a sanctuary of refuge.

The surroundings, which include garden beds, fences, and trees, appear surprisingly ordinary when traveling over the meandering country roads close to Glendale or Azalea. However, there is a very uncommon kind of resistance hidden beneath those small dwellings and solar arrays. Not only is the land occupied, but it is also cultivated according to the politically contentious idea of exclusion as preservation. Debates have only gotten more heated over time because many of these communities completely excluded men, and some even required womyn-born-womyn status to gain entrance.

The environment at OWL Farm feels both alive and aware. An old barn is being used as a meeting room. Barrels of rainwater buzz with vitality that has been stored. One of the residents, who had grey hair and was wearing a denim work shirt with goddess symbols patched on it, told me, “We didn’t come here to escape men.” To stop being defined by them, we came here. Her remarks sounded remarkably resilient. Since then, I’ve given them some attention, particularly as I’ve seen other feminist forums succumb to political exhaustion.

Because these communities were ideal, they weren’t utopias. Because they made an effort, they were utopias. They established an ecosystem where identity, labor, and land intersected by cultivating their food, governing by consensus, and adhering to frequently contentious limits. They were making political statements while constructing compost toilets. They were conserving culture, conserving seed libraries. Every action served as a metaphor, and this layering of symbolism was especially creative.

Many of these women are now in their seventies or beyond. It becomes more difficult to replace a roof than to hold a solstice ritual. Younger residents gradually move in; some are lured by the politics, others by the affordability or the desire to live in a community. But the question remains: can a separatist ideal hold water in an era that values inclusivity more than anything else?

We’Moon Land has made minor changes. Today, it accommodates a range of gender expressions, hosts visiting artists, and maintains its remarkable ecological literacy in land stewardship. The space’s coziness has remained unchanged. Visitors may see a chicken house bearing the name of one of the founders or pass a driftwood altar adorned with memories and dried lavender. These small yet deliberate actions convey a past that will never be forgotten.

Women’s lands teach lessons that go much beyond identity politics by rethinking how to care for, educate, and share. They are very successful at reducing environmental footprints and quite inexpensive in terms of lifestyle. Conventional woodstoves are placed close to solar ovens. Where commercial pharmacies are hours away, herbal medicine flourishes. Their homes are tactics rather than just buildings.

The ideological conflict still exists, though. When a new generation of queer activists emerges, they frequently anticipate greater inclusivity. The founders occasionally battle with changing definitions of what constitutes a “womyn,” as some of them experienced harassment, arrest, or homelessness for loving women. These are emotional battlegrounds steeped with decades of suffering, not merely linguistic disagreements.

I once spent three days at a place where visitors were instructed not to wear synthetic fragrances—not because it was fashionable, but because one of the residents was extremely sensitive to chemicals. These settings foster that kind of fine-grained awareness. Being attentive is more important than following a set of rules. Members of a collective have had to constantly adjust, sometimes awkwardly but always sincerely.

These areas are now living archives as a result of their persistent perseverance. Not in the sense of a museum, but as locations where morals, instruments, and frameworks have been put to the test over time. They demonstrate how a composting toilet may start a dialogue about respect. They serve as a reminder that slowing down involves resistance, not just a way of life.

When I visited the area recently in the winter, it was damp and covered in leaves. A mismatched enamel kettle was used to boil tea, and a wood-burning furnace hissed with cedar logs. By the sink, I saw a handmade sign that said, “Wash your cup with thanks.” It was a fantastic representation of the spirit. Here, thankfulness wasn’t ritualized. It had been embedded.

Despite their difficulties, women’s lands continue to be extremely effective breeding grounds for ideals that are frequently diluted in contemporary advancement. collaboration. contemplation. live with purpose. These values are incorporated into the building rather than existing as abstract concepts. The flooring are still sturdy after forty years, and you can feel that when you walk barefoot across them.

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