Sourced from Mountain Journal
I had a dream in which all of the roofs in the Gallatin Valley were covered in grass.
The roofs were all sorts of shapes and pitches. Some were simple planes, others punctuated with skylights or sculptural installations that provided habitat for wildlife. Some had solar panels, water collecting fabrics or small wind turbines.
These were not stretches of exotic Kentucky bluegrass, but indigenous grasses. Grasses and the plants that would have been continuous as the expression of the valley before European settlers arrived with the notion of building villages, and towns and cities. Grass that lived in the valley before the settlers brought plows and ox and range cows and chickens, when the plants that grew co-evolved with the bison.
Living, breathing, growing organic architecture.
It may sound like a crazy dream. Yet no dragons or unknown beasts or lost loves presented themselves. It was simply a dream of “thousands of acres” of built grass roofs that replaced the ground we removed from the valley floor and that we took from the native peoples, the habitat of the elk and black bear and rabbits, from the songbirds and hawks.
But how crazy is it really, if we are concerned about the health of the ecosystem where we live, about its longevity and continuance long after we are committed to the dirt where we lived?