Looking for Land, Looking for Home: A Permaculturist's Guide to Place

My family has been looking for a home. Pacing the Zillow feed like a hungry coyote, scrolling through sterile snapshots of houses with an abundance of white rooms, dark basements, and yards bulldozed to the bone. But it’s not just shelter we’re after—it’s a living place. A place where roots can go down and the canopy of our dreams can spread wide and slow. A place for kids and carrots. For bees and berries. For stillness and singing.

And in this search, I keep circling the same question:

What makes land livable, really—when you want to do more than just live on it, but with it?

Permaculture is a way of seeing, a way of listening to the land and weaving our lives into its rhythms. But when you’re staring down an MLS listing with 5 beds, 2 baths, and no mention of soil type or water access, it’s easy to lose sight of what actually matters for long-term, life-honoring living. So here’s what I’ve been chewing on as we look for our next piece of earth—less checklist, more compass.

1. Water First: The Blood of the Land

Every good permaculture plan begins with water. Not plumbing. Not showers. Wild water.

Where does it come from, and where does it go?

Does the land catch water, or shed it like regret? Are there natural swales, drainages, or low points to work with? Look for signs: cattails in spring, erosion scars, moss patterns.

Is there a well? A spring? Irrigation rights? Rainwater catchment potential? Water is the thing that can’t be faked. Without it, nothing lives—not you, not your dreams.

2. Soil: The Skin and Gut of the Earth

We’re not just buying dirt—we’re courting the possibility of a food forest.

Dig a hole. Smell it. Touch it. Is it sand, silt, or clay?

Are there worms? Is it compacted? Was it grazed, sprayed, scraped?

If the topsoil is gone, it can come back—but that’s years of composting, cover cropping, and patience. Know what you’re saying yes to. Some land is ready for a garden. Some land needs a healer.

3. Sun and Shade: The Slow Pulse of Energy

Where does the light fall? How long?

Stand still at sunrise and watch the land wake up.

South-facing slopes in the northern hemisphere mean longer growing seasons. Trees can be allies or enemies depending on their placement—map your shadows. Don’t trust the real estate photos—trust your own skin. Feel the warmth.

4. Existing Vegetation: The Old Story Beneath the New

What’s already growing there?

Weeds are prophets. Trees are archives.

Bindweed and thistle might tell you the land’s been abused. Juniper or sagebrush might mean dry and alkaline. Wild grasses, fruiting trees, native shrubs? You’ve got resilience in the roots.

What’s invasive, what’s medicinal, what’s edible? Don’t just look—learn to read.

5. Slope and Aspect: Gravity as Designer

Flat isn’t always best. 

Sometimes slope gives you the gift of movement—water, cold air, sunlight.

But too steep, and you’ll be terracing forever.

A gentle grade is a blessing for water harvesting. East and south-facing slopes warm early in spring. Pay attention to the contours—the land is already whispering how it wants to be shaped.

6. Zoning, Covenants, and Political Soil

You could find the perfect piece of paradise, only to learn you can’t have chickens, build a greenhouse, or put up a yurt for your uncle when he comes with seeds and stories.

Read the fine print. Talk to neighbors.

Some cities and counties are waking up to regenerative ways. Some are still clinging to the dream of sterile lawns and surveillance. Know what’s allowed, and what could be changed—with time, advocacy, and coalition.

7. Wildlife Corridors and Human Corridors

How do other beings move through this land? Are there deer trails? Coyote scat? Butterfly hosts? And how do humans move?

Is it near a highway? A school? A farmer’s market? A mine?

Think about your inputs and outputs. Can you get what you need without losing your mind in traffic? Can you sell, share, barter, connect? Or is this a fortress in a wasteland?

8. Community: The Invisible Infrastructure

The soil may grow food, but the neighborhood grows resilience.

Who lives here? Who leaves here? Who gathers at the local café or seed swap or town meeting?

Permaculture isn’t just personal—it’s collective.

Find the people who compost. Who share tools. Who dream of pollinators and local sovereignty. Without community, you’re just farming loneliness. 

Final Thoughts from the Threshold

We haven’t found our place yet. But every showing, every stretch of land we walk, teaches us something. Some properties smell like bleach and bankruptcy. Some hum with bees and the breath of old trees. Some feel like a trap. Some feel like a promise.

Home isn’t just where you sleep.

Home is where your care becomes compost. Where your children plant trees whose fruit they may never eat. Where you stop being a consumer of landscapes and become a participant.

We’re not just buying property. We’re entering a relationship.

With land, with time, with responsibility.

And like all good relationships—it starts by observing and listening.