Give the money somewhere to grow.

After selling my healing services to someone, I would put the money back into building the future I keep writing about. Earnings from my stores, writing, creative work, and the projects that follow would move in the same direction.

After covering what I need to live and keep the work going, I would set aside what I could for something lasting. Those earnings would accumulate into land, materials, equipment, and the means to begin.

I imagine looking at a payment and seeing what it might become: a window in someone’s room. A machine in our workshop. The roof under which we sit down to dinner.

Years later, I would like to walk through the place and remember. That job helped buy these tools. Those orders helped build this workshop. That project helped make room for someone to stay.

Little pieces of my work, becoming a place large enough for other people to bring theirs.

First, there would be a field.

No finished campus. No laboratory waiting behind a glass door. No row of warm houses with everything already connected. Just open ground beside a forest, grass moving in the wind, and somewhere to imagine where the first path might go.

The first things would be simple: somewhere dry to keep tools, a workbench, a small place to live, and a table where we could spread out our drawings.

I can see the early workshop. Parts on shelves. Frames waiting to be assembled. Motors, cables, and tools gathered gradually. An engine arriving in pieces. Someone cleaning a component while someone else works out what can be repaired and what is still missing.

Some parts would not fit. Some attempts would fail. Someone more experienced would show us a better way. And then, one day, a machine would run. What had been separate pieces would help us move material, shape a component, or build the next structure.

The first machines would help us build the place. The place would help us build better machines.

I would keep photographs of those days. Years later, we could stand in the same spot and remember the grass, the pile of parts, and the drawing. The field would have changed. I would want the forest to still feel close.

Come live here. Let’s build together.

The homes belong in the picture from the beginning. Warm rooms, privacy, gardens, somewhere to cook together, and a shared headquarters where a conversation can become a project.

I would invite builders, engineers, programmers, researchers, artists, growers, and makers. People with experience to share. People with questions. People still discovering what they love. People who have carried an idea for years and would finally have somewhere to put it on a workbench.

Some might visit. Some might stay for a project. Others might decide to make their home here. I would live here too — through the muddy paths, unfinished mornings, ordinary chores, and everything that comes after the first excitement.

Not a workplace with somewhere to sleep.
A home with room to create.

This is where the Fix It list would get a front door. I want to build towards a place that makes the basics easier, instead of leaving each person to solve them alone.

Free housing. Free electricity.
Shared tools. Room to learn, create, rest, and live.

Free to the person would not mean the costs disappear. Our work and businesses would need to cover maintenance, food, materials, services, and reserves, as well as the next building. We would make room for more people as we became able to support them well.

And living together would still leave room for separate lives: doors people can close, quiet, different rhythms, disagreement, and the freedom to choose what comes next. I would not want every hour of a person’s life to need a useful result attached to it.

The university would have a forest outside.

This is how I imagine University in Nature: a living place where learning, research, practical creation, and everyday life meet.

Someone could read about a mechanism in the Knowledge Ark, walk into the workshop, and examine one. A programmer could see their code move a machine. An engineer could help solve a problem in the greenhouse. Someone learning about soil could step straight into the garden.

We would document what we tried, what failed, and what finally worked. The knowledge would not have to stay inside our buildings. Someone on the other side of the world could use a lesson from our workshop, notice something we missed, and send a better idea back.

There would be things I could teach and far more I could learn. I want to be around people who understand what I do not, ask questions I have not considered, and enjoy working through a difficult problem together.

I like the thought of spending an afternoon on something ambitious and walking into the forest afterwards. The view from a laboratory could include a garden. The people discussing an experiment could also be the people sharing dinner.

Engines like LEGO pieces.

Follow the workshop and factory forward, and I see larger manufacturing halls, laboratories, robotics, and teams designing equipment we once had to buy. Machines making parts for other machines. Lessons from one project becoming better ways to build the next.

Then I see a different assembly hall. Engine modules on stands. Structures ready for integration. Power systems, computers, and components designed to work together. People moving between them with the familiarity of a team that knows what every piece is there to do.

I imagine us putting engines and spacecraft systems together like LEGO pieces for our own space station.

That is the feeling I mean: well-designed modules, understood connections, parts we can assemble, test, replace, and improve. A great deal of knowledge and careful engineering made into something a team can keep building upon.

Engines for the vehicles carrying our work upward. Transport systems to deliver it. Station modules that could become laboratories, workspaces, and living quarters. With the right people, resources, and proper facilities, even a launch site could belong to a later chapter, safely separated from the homes.

The same instinct that brought the first engine together on our workbench, carried into far more demanding work.

“Come have a look.
The next module is ready.”

I want to imagine a day when someone says that quite naturally.

From our shared place to a world working together.

I would not want all of this to depend forever on my energy, my income, or my decisions. The people who help create the place should have a real voice in it. The work should be able to continue when I need to step back.

And it would not have to remain one ever-growing settlement. We could share what we learned so others could build something suited to their own land, their own community, and their own lives.

Another home. Another workshop. Another place beginning with knowledge we did not have at the start. Factories helping equip new factories. Teams helping other teams get going.

The stores, the writing, the digital meeting places, and the practical projects could become parts of that shared effort. A conversation online could become a visit. A visit could become a project. Someone who first knew us through a screen could one day be sitting at our table.

From our shared place to a united world working together. That is the larger direction I would like this to grow in: more people able to learn, make, and build a life, with useful knowledge travelling further than any one of us could.

When I say “forever,” I imagine leaving something worth continuing — a home, a body of knowledge, and a beginning that someone else does not have to build from nothing.