WASHINGTON -- Thriving quietly since the spotlight of the '60s, communes have resurfaced to shake up the placid '80s.
When on Feb. 4 two male members of The Finders were arrested while camping with the communal group's six youngsters in Tallahassee, Fla. and charged with child abuse, old fears about that strange breed called 'hippies' were stirred.
Bond originally set at $100,000 for the two men has been reduced to $20,000. Two of the mothers testified that they had given the men, ages 23 and 27, permission to take the kids on a long trip, or 'adventure', in Finders language.
The sensational publicity resulting from the case reveals a society, despite 20 years of 'consciousness raising', still queasy about alternative lifestyles.
'It's become clear that The Finders' one crime, for which there is no forgiveness, is that they are different,' huffs Judy, a member for four years.
Yet, there are hundreds of 'intentional' communes in America today, groups modeled apart from society's main track and revolved around a central ideology or purpose.
For California's Kerista Village, the plan is 'neo-tribal' multi-adult homes that prohibit possessiveness. For The Finders, it's the empowerment of women. For the Gesundheit Institute, in Arlington, Va., it's raising funds for a free hospital to be built on 310 acres of land in Pocahontas County, West Virginia.
At the 20-year-old Lama Foundation north of Taos, New Mexico, it's spiritual renewal: 'It's purpose, as stated in the original bylaws, is for an awakening of consciousness and spiritual practice with a group,' says Lynn Marshall, 40, a resident since 1982.
Baba Ram Dass, formerly Harvard professor Richard Alpert, and author of 'Be Here Now', was Lama's original spiritual leader. Members now practice Vipassana meditation (Buddhist), Judaism, Christianity, Hinduism, Sufi dancing, Zen, and American Indian traditions.
Such New Age groups are networked by their own magazine, 'Communities', published by the 16-year old Stelle community in Illinois for some 3,000 subscribers. Those that successfully grew from seeds of the '60s learned that John Lennon was wrong when he preached 'All You Need Is Love'. Even in idyllic communes, survival means money.
'In the late '60s communes sprang up all over this country. The ones that have survived spent the '70s solving and evolving solutions to real problems and mostly it's how to deal with sex, money and power,' explains Diane Sherwood, 50, a Finder since the group's conception in 1970.
'If the problems were solved, and the level of discipline got high enough, the groups survived. And now in the '80s, these groups are thriving. These groups are into computer consulting, real estate, education, therapy, they've become very professional.
'In other words, we're following the trend of the rest of the nation,' Sherwood says.
Founded in 1971 by Stephen Gaskin, The Farm in middle Tennessee is an example of a commune that shifted with the times. In 1984, the 600 members populating 1,760 acres of farmland voted to join capitalist America.
Residents, largely farmers, now work, pay taxes and buy their own food and clothing. Those who cannot support themselves must leave.
But what lures modern folks to community living sounds remarkably '60s: 'Peace and love, that's absolutely our focus. We're people trying to find a wonderful harmonious life,' says Dr. Patch Adams, 41, founder of Gesundheit.
He picked the name, which means 'wellness' in German, because it makes people laugh. Comprised of a dozen core members, Gesundheit has treated more than 15,000 patients for free, operating on the notion that healing should be a loving human interchange laced with humor, not a cold business deal.
In its 15-year history, Adams has operated his hospital out of a series of group homes in Virginia. Gesundheit's medical services have been temporarily halted to focus on fundraising efforts for its new structure.
'We're people wanting to build a better society, rather than just bitching about it,' continues Adams, whose thick brown ponytail grazes his waist. 'A supportive community is the answer. Look historically, tribes have always been totally interdependent. Then somewhere along the line someone's making apartment buildings where nobody knows each other.
'The nuclear family is a failed system.'
Adds his artist wife, Linda Edquist: 'It would drive me nuts to live alone with Patch. He's just got too much energy for me. A lot of the pressure is off each of us .... We're not meant to be isolated creatures.'
Edquist and Adams and have lived communally for their entire 16-year marriage, which has produced Atomic Zagnut, 10, known as 'Zag', and a baby to be born in May.
Headquarters for the past five years has been a rambling stone house they rent along with a handful of other adults in Arlington where Zag Adams attends public school. Other Gesundheit members live on the land in West Virginia. The group's newsletter is called 'Achoo!'.
The super-cerebral Finders community is 'experimenting' with educating its children at home, says Sherwood who holds a doctorate in English Literature.
Home to the 26-member group is three properties -- adjacent apartment buildings in the moneyed Glover Park section of Washington, a cavernous Capitol Hill warehouse complete with hot tub and satellite dish and a 90-acre farm in Madison County, Va.
One veteran Finder, a former professor of architecture, unabashedly admits, 'We are millionaires. We want to be very strong financially. We don't just lay around.'
Sherwood, who periodically stretches her spine in Yoga moves, hesitates when asked to pinpoint the philosophy of her group, or to describe its founder, the reclusive Marion Pettie last heard from in Ganeshpuri, India.
'It would be so simple if I could say, 'Why yes, we're Christian', or, 'Why yes, we're Zen.' If I could just give a label, everybody would go 'phew'.' Sherwood mops the gray-blonde wisps off her forehead.
'Basically, if I had to boil it down, we're about mutual benefit and cooperation,' says Sherwood. The ultimate goal of their 'games', Finders-speak for any of life's activities, is to be 'healthy, wealthy and wise'.
Income for The Finders comes literally from finders' fees. The group's professional base is information gathering and processing for individuals and corporations. Much of the research is done in the warehouse library the size of a basketball court and through their sophisticated computer system.
The 20 adults in the group are single, and standard male-female-child roles are re-defined. 'We don't think the concept of fatherhood is healthy,' says the former architecture professor without a flicker of facial expression.
'The patriarchal society has all been turned over where the children are on top, women are the managers, men are servants and advisors.
'Children's needs are met first, like taking them out on adventures such as a camping trip to Tallahassee', he said of the ill-fated outing that has embroiled the group in court.
Once the babies are weaned from breastfeeding, Finders' child-rearing becomes a collective process to foster non-parental attachment.
Children, men and women sleep in segregated quarters on bedding of blankets and floor pads. The women have ownership of the apartments. Men live in dormitory fashion.
Whereas the soberly dressed Finders could pass for straight-laced accountants, Adams, the guru of Gesundheit, is vintage hippie in billowy red genie pants and a powder blue T-shirt that touts 'Peace on Earth'.
A white sock smeared with floor wax covers one hand. It's Adams' day to clean, and the sinewy 6-foot-5 doctor spends the next hour of conversation on his knees polishing the wood dining room floor.
The sounds of Pink Floyd's 'Dark Side Of The Moon' set the mood.
But when it comes to marriage, this strapping visionary is a traditionalist.
'I've always been monogamous,' says Adams, who along with his doctoring skills is a unicylist, juggler, clown and goat herder. 'I have a fantasy of growing with somebody for 50 or 60 years. That's a more attractive fantasy.
'But if Linda and I are in one of those rare moments when we're not communicating, rather than leave home or stew in my room, I can go to somebody else's room and play there. It's an astounding freedom.'
Gusendheit members hold down part-time jobs to keep the communal house running. Gareth Branwyn is a computer ace, and an editor of Communities magazine. His wife, Pam Bricker, sings with the jazz group 'Mad Romance.' Edquist is a costume designer for local theaters.
Adams commands upwards of $1,500 as a lecturer at medical schools, universities and church groups where he turns audiences on to his 'balanced health' approach with a doctor's bag that includes elixirs marked 'Peace' and 'Faith'.
He predicts in three years they will have raised the $1.5 million needed to build Gusendheit in the hills of West Virginia. Services will run the gamut from acupuncture to faith healing to surgery.
His face beams ethereally when he talks about how the hospital will be designed with secret passageways in the walls, slides going from floor to floor, a resident arts and crafts colony.
'We're going to show the world that you can take the most expensive thing in America and give it away for free,' Adams says, toying with his handlebar moustache. 'My idea is to have 10,000 people on a mailing list who give me $20 a year. I mean, let's face it. Community gives me every one of my dreams, an opportunity to have a very rich life, raise a family, build a hospital.
'I'm a genuinely happy all-the-time person. I'm trying to promote the happy paradigm whereas the baseline of life is that you're blissed out. That happiness isn't something you hope to have three times in your life, at your wedding, the birth of your child and promotion to vice president. But it's the day to day, waxing this floor -- now that's bliss.'
