Dispatches from Dreamland: Part III: I'm Hooked and I Can't Stop Caring

¿Cuál es tu sueño?
Por favor, oprima el número uno para inglés..
What is your dream?

Answering that question is how each child who comes to the Fundación Niños de los Andes begins their experience with this organization. For the last week and a half, I have had the distinct honor of volunteering one of the Fundación's sites, here in Manizales, Colombia.

I came for the classroom Spanish practice, I stayed because well, I said I would. But I like staying because every smile, every hug, every kind word, and curious question adds a new crack to my heart.

Time for a sad story: If you've known me for any length of time, you probably know that this isn't my first visit to South America. I traveled to Ecuador when I was in college, many years ago. Even though I stayed in a pretty tame little tourist trap of a town, the reality of life in this part of the world was ever present: children, with no place to live, and nobody caring for them. I saw them scrambling on garbage heaps to eat fruit peels, fighting with stray dogs for old bread, hobbling across the street because they had podiatric issues that were untended, begging for money, but still happy when they got a warm sweater instead. I guess I should have been deeply saddened by all of this, but the factors behind their unprotected childhoods were so immense, and so unsolvable; being a pouty gringa seemed profoundly useless.

And now, if you can take it, another sad story. Meet Jaime Jaramillo.

Known in these parts as "Papá Jaime," he was motivated to help children living in the streets, sewers, and dumps of Bogotá, Colombia, when he saw such a child, a young girl, crushed by a truck. She had rushed into the street to pick up what she thought was a box containing a doll. The box was empty. Jaime couldn't continue with life as he had lived it before after witnessing that. He founded Fundación Niños de los Andes in 1988, and  little by little, he built an organization that, for the children it has helped, has made all the difference in the world.

 

How does one approach this problem, much less solve it? I have had a little time to get to know the Fundación Niños de los Andes, and their approach focuses on the child. After receiving a child who has been removed from the dangerous environment in which he or she lives, they set about the gargatuan task of improving their lives, a little bit at a time. Once medical needs have been met, the child is asked "What is your dream?" Gone is the superstition that uttering your inner hopes will prevent them from coming true. The good people working for the Fundación know that you can't make something happen if you never allow yourself to say it out loud. Once the children can articulate a real goal for their lives, they are asked to paint a picture of their dreams, so they can start to realize them.

Through community partenerships, these kids get to do the things they drew: become athletes, fly in an airplane, learn English, achieve career goals, gain an education.

When I arrived for my first day at the Fundación Niños de los Andes, I was greeted by friendly directors who explained to me their mission, introduced me to the staff, and gave me a tour of the grounds. I admired how clean and efficient the facilities are, providing for every need imaginable. Their goal is to address the mental, physical, and spiritual needs of everyone they help.  Some kids might have been sleeping in sewers, boxes, steps, or not at all, due to drug addiction. Here, they each have a fully made bed, complete with a stuffed animal. Instead of hunger, they are fed well-balanced meals. Abuse and neglect are replaced with loving staff, who are teachers and mentors who hug them and wipe away their tears when the details of their personal lives hurt too much.

My tour wasn't limited to the buildings. I also discovered a very special project known as the Sendero Mágico. "The Magical Path," is an immense symbolic outdoor project that I would call a garden, if that were sufficient enough.  For now, it is outlined, with some of the vision realized.

 

A little more than a painting of a dream, drawn in the dirt, the idea is for this strip of nature is for the public at large to have an opportunity to access the kind of self-improvement offered to the children there. The basic premise of the Fundación Niños de los Andes is to attend the body, mind, and spirit of its children, and this is manifested in the outline and plan of the Sendero Mágico. Due to a tragic accident, Papa Jaime is now quadriplegic. For this reason, the entry to the garden will be filled with plants that he, and people like him, can sense: full of color, aroma, and taste. On to the zen garden, where there will be an area suitable for yoga classes, and next to it, the place where the mind is tended by the forces of nature. Earth and air, which are present anywhere you go outside.

 Fire

 in the form of a fire pit. Water

 

 in the form of a reflecting pool.

These areas are dedicated to bringing harmony to the mind. At the path's end, there is a large paved spot. This is where visitors will be asked to paint a picture of their dream; invited to take all that they have gained from the magic garden and push it into some kind of real change in their lives.

It's also a great place for hand-stands.

After touring the Sendero Mágico, I was moved. Everyone I've met here in Colombia is a very devout Catholic, yet this garden is full of Eastern philosophy. I admire how they embrace other ways of reaching the same goal. Is it inner peace? Self discipline? Impetus to change themselves? I can't quite put my finger on it, but I can't deny it's good.

After ambling peacefully through the magical path, I was thrown into the girls' house, to hang out with them a bit, and have lunch, after which, I would be "rescued." Um...okay. What was I in for?

I don't know if anything could have prepared me for what was next. In five short minutes, I found myself of a bench, surrounded by about twenty girls, one of whom gave me a glare that rivals pre-film career Ice Cube. I was devastated and enamored all at the same time, especially when she sat next to me without saying a word and put her head on my shoulder. They all wanted to sit next to me, and the ones sitting next to me, wrapped their arms around my waist, put their hands on my knees, and occasionally touched my hair. It was a little intense, but I wasn't put off by any of it. These were girls living without mothers, and even though some of them were quite grown young ladies, it was obvious that inside them was a child, reaching out for something: diversion, affection, attention, a chance to prove how cool and funny they are. And they are.

They asked me questions. I tried to understand and answer them. They asked me to sing something in English. How to explain the them that the songs I can most easily sing are in Spanish? Lame. As I looked at all of the expectant faces, I shouted at myself in my head, "THINK OF SOMETHING!" For some reason, all my brain coughed up in response was Baby Got Back. They absolutely loved it, and asked me to sing it again and again. Eventually, I asked them to clap for me, to lay down the beat. As I rapped one of the tackiest songs in existence, within minutes of meeting all of them, I tried not to dwell too much on how surreal it all was. I didn't want to forget a lyric or mess up my ritmo.

They moaned with delightful yearning when I said I was married. The ultimate in grown-upness! And have four children? And a zooful of pets?! Big eyes all around and more questions. They asked me how to say their names in English, told me on what days to expect the best meals, and then cranked up the music and started dancing the rhumba in pairs. One of them grabbed me and started commanding me on how to move my feet. Being a total Latin music geek, I've basically been practicing for this very moment most of my adult life. I picked it up quickly, and they exclaimed how fast I learned. Then, the reggaeton, which for those who don't know, is straight up booty-shaking music. Being pretty sweaty and completely without boundaries at this point, I responded to their demands to dance with a quick how-low-can-you-go grind-off with one of the other girls. Complete abandon, what did I have to lose? Hooting and applause ensued. I was in and loving every minute of it.

Before anyone out there thinks I returned to South America to have a teen dance party, I should say, the rest of my time at the Fundación has been seriously spent, teaching English to some of those girls, and whole lot of other students. My heart flips out a little when I walk into a big whitewashed classroom, full of kids shouting, "GOOD MORNING TEACHAIR!"  I smile from ear to ear and shout, "GOOD MORNING, STUDENTS!" and when one of the bright-eyed boys I teach asked me, "¿Cuál es tu sueño?" I said, "To come to Colombia and meet you."

A dream come true, painting and all.  

They still make me perform Baby Got Back at least twice during every class break, even though I have other, better material for them to sing.

This is probably how Sir Mix-a-Lot feels.

Dispatches from Dreamland: Part II: I Have Tired But Maria is Help Me

What do you think of when you hear the word "Colombia?" Narcoterrorism? Third World living? A university in New York?

In preparation for my trip here, I had to get a couple of vaccinations. The receptionist working for my doctor asked where I was going, and why. I said Colombia, because I wanted to improve my Spanish and get volunteer experience, working for a foundation that serves kids living in poverty. She responded, "Oh, there must be a lot of those." I think she meant to sound encouraging, like I was doing something important and necessary. It's just, she was showing that her impression of my favorite South American country (so far) was limited to the worst news coming out of the place.


In my last blog post, I explained the thought process behind planning this voyage, and let the curtain down between what might be an outsider's impression of me, and the very different reality. Time to bust up some more misconceptions, by way of a story about my voyage.

Last Saturday, I hugged all of my precious children, got in a truck and cried as my calm supportive husband drove me to airport, to begin this odyssey.

I wanted to look forward to my adventure, but my head was so full of unknowns. An open mind seemed best. I wanted to believe that I would love Colombia, that the people would be as friendly as I had read they were, and that I would be able to enjoy some of the best things about the beautiful Andean college town, Manizales; but the superstitious part of me felt that I would jinx myself into being wrong, so I held out and decided to focus on the actual traveling part. One thing at a time.

Flying here took a full day, a night, and half of the next day. I tried to sleep on the overnight flight from Texas to Bogota, but I was sandwiched between two bulky hombres with the screen on the back of the seat in front of me flashing the same five commercials and movie trailers, mere inches from my nose. By the time I reached Bogota, I was in full space cadet mode, and it was suddenly time to speak and understand Spanish. My neurons were barely firing well enough to speak English. It was early morning, still dark, when we arrived. I went through immigration, exchanged some of my money, and wandered to the small terminal where I would get on my last flight, in a mere three hours. Three hours of trying to stay awake, by reading, listening to music, writing, imagining sleeping, and dozing off, which, it turns out, is not staying awake.

One hour before my flight, a vision appeared. Three women arrived and seated themselves across from me. At first, I saw only their shoes, because my head was resting on my hands, my arms wrapped around the bulging messenger bag  on my lap: three pairs of wedge boots, at the end of three pair of very tight pants. Surely I was dreaming of Shakira in triplicate and needed to wake up before some wily thief snatched my bag from under my chin. But it turns out, I was awake, and these chicas calientes in front of me were actually señoras*

 *Señora is what you call a woman in Spanish when she has garnered enough años to earn such respeto.

With the sun starting to beam through the window behind them, they resembled a mythical trio from an epic poem. Okay look, I was really exhausted. Each lady looked as though she could be a grandmother, if grandmothers were eternal hotties: perfectly coiffed hair, make up, bling, designer duds, and the accompanying aura of lux perfume.

They took their seats and started to open the newspapers they carried with them. A glossy insert dropped from the paper of the señora directly in front of me and I reached down to pick it up for her. She got it first, but noticed my effort, smiled warmly and graced me with a sincere "Muchas gracias." I smiled weakly and nodded, and went back to the Herculean task of staying awake. That's when a distorted female voice spoke very rapidly over the intercom. I heard the word "Manizales" and figured I had just missed important information about my flight. "Oh yay, my first chance to ask someone for help, and I'm not even there yet," I thought.  So, after thinking about the right way to phrase things, I leaned across to the ladies and asked if they were going to Manizales. All nodded, and the one whose paper I reached for said,"Sí." That's when I cobbled together something that must have sounded like, "The woman who talked, she did say we must board now, or she says only is for the people with the needs special or something?"

Our Lady of the Newspaper Insert very kindly offered me a long incomprehensible explanation and I tried not to stare too blankly. I said, "In that case, I wait then?" She said, "Sí!," which I did manage to understand. She then said that they would bring me with them when they boarded the plane to Manizales. The resulting relief I felt was not only because I didn't have to worry anymore that I would accidentally board a plane to Uruguay. It was also caused by the knowledge that here were people with kind hearts, able to take pity on a travel-weary gringa and keep her from accidentally boarding a plane to Uruguay. Conversation ensued, one which I have had in one form or another since arriving here. It covers the following bases:
Where are you from? What part of the U.S.? What is it like there? How long will you be here? Why did you want to come to Manizales? 

I managed clunky answers to all of these questions, the last of which seemed to make a good impression: I'm planning to work for La Fundación Niños de los Andes, as a volunteer. By now the conversation was solely between me and the woman whose paper I feebly tried to rescue. She opened her designer clutch, took out a small billfold, and handed me a multi-colored, embossed business card, from which I learned that her name is Maria, and she is a lawyer who specializes in family and children's rights. She spoke slowly, saying, "I want you to take this and give me a call while you're in Manizales. If you need anything, I'm at your service. But if you don't, you should call me anyway because I would love to show you the beauty of my city." I was moved beyond words, and that's not just because I am limited in what I can say in Spanish. I held the card to my heart and smiled gratefully, saying something like, "Maria, I cannot say how thank you I am."

The time to board arrived, and as promised, I was included with the three señoras as we walked out to tarmac. Maria put her arm in mine, half dragging me, saying, "You will love this country. Everyone is very relaxed and friendly. Some people who visit are afraid to be here because they only think about the bad things, but it's not true." I cobbled together, "Same it is in United States. One can think only the bad without to think about the rest." Dude, I needed sleep. She then looked up at the sky, smiling, and proclaimed, "What a beautiful day for you to arrive, the sun is coming out!" To me, this seemed like the kind of thing an angel from heaven would say. I perked up, thinking, "I'm really doing this, and it's working out, and oh my g, this lady should be the ambassador of Colombia."

Together, we climbed the steps a small red and white plane.

Our seats were in different spots, so the conversation took a little siesta, as did I. After flying over the velvety green mountains and brown snaking rivers between Bogota and Manizales, there began to be more and more colored and metallic dots of development until we were over a dense, pastel, Gustav Klimt painting of a city.

That's when it dawned on me that the money I had exchanged earlier was all large bills. I suspected I'd have a difficult time making change in the cab. As I left the plane and crossed the tropical landscaping around La Nubia airport, I wondered what I would do about that. Maria al rescate, once again! Once we were inside the small, clean airport, she took me by the arm, pointed to the luggage carousel and said, "Suitcases," then to the row of tiny yellow cars waiting on the other side of a glass wall and said, "Taxis." I thanked her and asked "I think my money is too big and this is not going to not please the driver the man." She opened her wallet again and took out some small bills, trading them for one of my large ones, led me outside, asked my the address of my final destination, ordered the cab driver to take me there, hugged me, did that kissy cheek thing, and held her hand to her ear, like a telephone, saying, "I await your call!"

Did any of you envision any of that when I asked what came to mind at the mention of Colombia? I didn't. I was probably a little guilty of being afraid of the place before experiencing it, not because I believed the hype, but because I know what a target I am when I go anywhere where the people aren't pale, tall, blue-eyed and English speaking. I stick out like a big white blue-eyed thumb who speaks bad Spanish.

  I was also expecting to see more accordions by now. Not a one, so far.

At a vulnerable time in my journey, I didn't get my bag stolen, or my throat slashed. I was helped by someone who could have ignored me. I probably could have managed that leg of the trip on my own, but it certainly would have been much more stressful, and possibly would have been more expensive. Besides, without the kindness of a stranger, determined to represent her country and prove that it was the best place on earth, I wouldn't have known right away what a great idea it was to come here. Well, not until my next warm helpful interaction with a Colombian, which ended up being right around the corner in the house where I live, and at the gymnasio, and at the supermercado, and at La Fundación Niños de Los Andes, and basically everywhere else I go. When my good old American fear of being an idiot pops up and I fall all over myself apologizing and thanking someone who helped me navigate some aspect of life here, I hear the same word over and over. "Tranquila," which means, "Relax." As in -Relax, nothing is such a big deal that I'm going to be a jerk to you. Relax, you're among decent folk. Relax, you're in Colombia.

Dispatches from Dreamland: Part I: The Journey to the Journey

Hey y'all! I'm in Colombia! No, really. South America: I am in it.

And if I eat enough obleas, it is in me.

How? Why? What? Why?

Let me start at the beginning. About eighteen months ago, I was involved in one of my favorite activities: lengthy late night conversation with my witty and interesting husband. We were talking about our future, what we should hope for and start working for. These things take time, but remember, it may be moving faster for me than some of you. When we talked about five years in the future, and more, all of our plans kept coming down to one sticking point: I need to decide what to do when I grow up.

Here's the list of stuff I've done over the years:
Baby wrangler
Wal-Mart drone
Burger joint waitslave
Kentucky Fried Chicken minion
Uptight college dorm RA
International airport security checkpoint thug
Pizza slinger
English language buffoon/teacher
Personal henchman to a world-renowned mathematician.

So, you know, I'm mildly effective at a number of menial pursuits. Somewhere in there, I ended up with a bachelor's degree in Spanish, without the teaching license I started out after and abandoned. Impressive, no? No. My grades were average, at best, and obviously, I had no idea what I wanted to do. I graduated with a son on the way and a sweet gig as a stay-at-home mom stretching out before me.

It wasn't just the harsh reality of repaying student loans for a degree I don't use in any lucrative sense that made me think about the future. As an unattached student, I had little passion for professional goals, and it showed in my GPA and attendance record; but as a mother, I felt it. I felt like sacrificing, working, and dreaming, to make something great. I felt that the result, my family, would reflect on me in a way I never felt about my grades. Now that I have done that for many years, I can't imagine going back to barely tolerating some job and doing it poorly just to pay the bills. I want to continue to live this way, pouring myself into things I love, no matter how hard they are to do. I could have more kids and extend this labor of love, but just typing that made my uterus start scanning the classified ads for a new place to live. It's not going to happen. So, what's next for me?

Turns out I really should have gotten that teachers license, because even though we unschool, I pay a lot of attention to what my kids are and aren't learning. Watching them learn new things and grow has inspired me to work with other peoples' kids too.

  Hi, can I unschool your kid? Just drop him off in his pajamas and I'll set out the chicken feed and art supplies. Don't worry, he'll be a genius in a few years.

J to the K. L to the OL, but really, an idea in my head started to take shape: I felt passionately about tutoring kids in my town who are still in the process of learning English. Many of them come from Mexico. Through connections I made while volunteering at the local elementary school, I started working with such a boy this year, which was very rewarding; but my inability to speak and understand Spanish well inhibited my ability to communicate with his family. We managed, but I really could have used immersion.*

*immersion is what you call going somewhere where they speak the language you are trying to learn, and sounding like a totally confused fool for at least a few weeks, in order to improve skills rapidly. 

Which brings me back to that conversation with the aforementioned witty interesting husband (he's quite photogenic and good at tennis too). At that time, I was less clear on how and what I would do whatever I would do, but I knew one thing for certain: It was time to brush up the bilingualism. My rusty Spanish would not do. I said, tentatively, "I think, in order to do this right, I'm going to need to travel and stay somewhere Spanish-speaking, for a long time, like a month." My encouraging husband nearly cut that sentence off with a supportive "DO IT!" and the rest is bloggery.

 I calculated the cost and started the search for summer work to pay for it. That's how I ended up selling other people's plants and produce at the Tillamook Farmers Market last summer, working for the scrappiest local food supporter on the north coast of Oregon, Food Roots, running their FarmTable.

By fall, I had selected a country: Colombia, and a city: Manizales, and a time: June 2014. Why all of these things? Why not Mexico? Spanish isn't exactly the same from region to region, and there aren't any Colombians living in Tillamook. Well, I figured, if I'm going to save up and plan for a year and go really far away and be gone from my family for several weeks, I would want to accomplish other things as well, like fulfill my long time dream of seeing the country that gave the world cumbia music. It just so happens that a folk music festival takes place in June here, in the small town of Ibague. I was unable to find a good place to stay in Ibague, but a nearby city, Manizales, had lots of good options on a world-wide network of informal house sharers, Airbnb. After choosing a home, paying for my stay, and communicating with the family, I was able to find a good place where I might get some experience in a classroom, with kids. I knew I'd want to volunteer while traveling, because to me, that makes everything more fun. The family hosting me recommended a local kids foundation, where I sent my resume and secured a job as a volunteer.


REAL TALK
Confession time: This all looks like the work of a fearless independent go-getter, but appearances can often be deceiving. Years of staying home, raising kids, changed me, for the better in some ways, for the worse in others. I don't know why, exactly, but about six years ago, I started to experience something like social anxiety. It was a new and worrisome set of physical symptoms that I didn't understand.

I felt like a sick, achy, sack of tired all throughout  my last pregnancy, and George began to exhibit behavior that had his school teachers concerned, which made me concerned. As rewarding as this job was, the pressure of being a mom to many was slowing killing my desire to do anything but stay home and focus on my family. With few exceptions, if my phone rang, or if there was a knock at the door, or if I had to walk down a street full of people, or go to a room full of people, my heart would start to race and I would feel nauseous. I used to be a proud and loud extrovert, spending all of my time with friends, feeling lonely and bored alone without that interaction, but I changed into a reclusive homebody. This new me was unrecognizable, and depressing.

The dream of traveling forced me to work through a lot of that. The mere thought of looking at the classifieds for a job would make my heart race, but I just swallowed hard, took a deep breath or two, and did it anyway. When I got a job interview, I felt like a dumpy mommy, crawling out from under a rock after a decade underground; but I picked the feathers and food out of my hair and did it anyway. I ended up with a job in which I talked to about 100 people a day, which I enjoyed very much, even though I started each Saturday morning with a certainty that I would vomit all over the FarmTable as soon as I got it set up. As I pushed myself through each step, I asked myself, "If this is so hard for you, how hard do you think Colombia will be?" and I would feel less daunted.

After completing all the money-earning and plan-making, I started to look forward to my trip, even though every time I thought of it I felt a bit dizzy. I wondered when this horrible fearfulness would be cured, and then I read this Georgia O'Keefe quote.

" I have been absolutely terrified my entire life, and I never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do."

Probably never. Okay.

As I have worked toward this goal, I have learned to discredit and ignore that part of my brain that always felt so freaked out. I took it out of the driver's seat because I knew if I didn't, I'd end up in a dark room, wearing only pajamas, watching my toenails grow - instead of here.

 And here is so beautiful.

The Garden Dirt: Getting Ready for the World

Did you know May is unschooling month?

While it may seem counterintuitive to dedicate something as restrictive as a month to the free-form hippie spin that is unschooling, there's a good reason to spend a little time talking about it. And that is because, almost nobody knows what exactly unschooling is. We who school in the unfashion find ourselves describing what unschooling isn't as often, if not more. Does an unschooled student use workbooks? Have to do things she doesn't want to do?  Tend to her personal hygiene? Consider the feelings of others? Or are the little drop-outs all feral id, abandoning promising projects to hone Minecraft skills, only taking a break to go swear at elderly people in public?

The answer, of course, is D) All of the above, except for swearing at old people in public. Because some things should be done only in private.

The term "unschooling" is so undefined that it becomes a blank screen onto which people project their best or worst assumptions. Most discussions on educational styles tend to describe their merits and faults, because these styles have been defined for many years, by the pedagogical . Unschooling is...un. It's hard to say what it is. Each of us is making it up as we go along.

And that's kind of the point.

This is where I usually insert a garden metaphor. For this family, unschooling is much like hardening off.

Wait, what?

Here, on this very blog, I have covered how to germinate seeds, but I haven't gotten to what to do with them before putting them outside.

In order to have your tender little sprouts all ready to grow in the big bright outdoors, they will need to be hardened off, or exposed to the sunlight in small, indirect doses, in order to acclimate them to full-time sunshine gradually. Otherwise, the sun's rays will bleach them white and kill them within an afternoon. Not that that ever happened to me or anything.

A good way to start is on cloudy days, or in the shade, letting about-to-be-transplants be uncovered for only a couple of hours at a time, for a couple of days. The rest of the time, they should be indoors, or under cover.

These barrel halves let light through to the salad seedlings hiding under them.

Increase their time in the sun in the days to come, and in about a week, the world won't be such a lethal place to the delicate plantlings. If you are successful at the art of knowing when to shelter them, and when to expose them, they will be as strong and healthy as they need to be for the rest of their days. They become tough and sure, strong from within and tempered from without.

This is where I usually insert a learning metaphor. I think hardening off needs to happen to people too, to help them grow in the world. Only, instead of UV radiation, we must learn to weather the opinions, criticism, and scrutiny of others. I feel we flourish when we find a small but adequate space in our mind, where our intuition calls the shots, and we come to care very little about what the people around us think of us.

 This can be accomplished in school too.

You see, I wouldn't be anythingschooling if I let the words and thoughts of those close to me influence me very much. Years ago, our decision to stray from conventional public school for everyone all the time solicited many an unsolicited opinion. Not feeling like slaying misconceptions about unschooling, I would say we had decided to home school a kid or two, and suddenly it was story time. Some of the people in my life felt the fact that they would choose differently for their family was relevant to what my family was doing. It really wasn't. I knew it and that was good enough. I thanked them for their advice and made my plans anyway.

Like most mothers, what I've taught my kids has largely been about treating others with respect. It's what we parents do: tell them to share, use their words, solve their problems, and treat others as they would like to be treated. All of that still stands. Nevertheless, along this little path, I've unlearned preoccupation with what others think about my decisions. Such concerns are unimportant, often inaccurate, and ultimately completely impossible to resolve.

 How can you please everyone? There are songs about how impossible that is.

The process of raising these people, whateverschooling we're using, has been a gradual process of finding what motivates and going with that. I have come to trust that thing inside that tells me what to do next, more completely than the notions of somebody who is not living my life. I have come to trust us to define these things for ourselves as we go along. So, even though George, working his way through a science workbook, looks very schooly, or Henry's clarineting literally happens at a school; unschoolings are afoot. Being an autodidact doesn't mean you can't elect to use resources at your disposal to learn things and have experiences of your choosing.

 Unschoolers can, and often do, choose to be taught.

My  self-led learners are also expected to practice delayed gratification and impulse control out the a. Ain't nothing school about that.That's just the natural result of living in a big messy house full of animals. Obligation, responsibility, and concern for others get a daily workout.

There is no shortage of reasons why you will not get what you want as soon as you want it in our home. So go outside and play.You've been HARDENED OFF!

 See? Our fence is just like the one on the BU background!

These Little Gem Lettuces are ready for the big time. All acclimated and everything, my once-sprouts are now standing on their own in the sun. The soil under them is a vast place for deep roots, the sun above shines intensely at times, the sky brings wind and rain; and they're ready for all of it. Those bright leaves know what's up. Inherently perfect (even when the bugs show up later this summer) this whole robust arrangement has had the right mix of tough love and tender care, and will tick through the clock of its life, inspiring many a photograph, I'm sure.

Kind of like these people I'm growing, except I won't eat them.
Probably.

The Garden Dirt: Potatoes: A Personal Voyage

Even the potatoes know what time it is.

This has become a familiar March sight: Potatoes, telling me they are ready to spring into action. That they want to nestle into the earth and convert sunlight and the elements into soft starchy spuds of all colors. Yes, once again, I will be nervous, muddy and tired, but most likely rewarded beyond measure.

Harvesting and eating potatoes from my garden kickstarts an ego trip like no other. Impressively heavy, and substantially filling, they do what a salad can't: convince you that you really could feed yourself from a sunny patch of dirt.

I started collecting these little babies last fall, from the CSA we joined. All the littlest spuds, and some of the biguns went into a paper sleeping bag for the winter. I love to peek at them for the first time months later, surprised by the length and forceful nature of their vines. It's as though they're saying, "It's time to get going again, Lassie!"

 Don't all potatoes have an Irish accent? They do in my wee head.

Credit where it's due, I first heard "It's time to get going again." from Neil DeGrasse Tyson, as he kicked off the recently revived televised spacetime odyssey, Cosmos. Of course, he wasn't talking 'taters, he was picking up where this guy left off.

He and his wife wrote the original TV series, back when I was a little kid. Then, he was just a weird guy in a turtleneck, who wasn't The Electric Company, much to my dismay. Now, he is Carl Sagan, and he will always have a special place in our family's collective heart.

In making Cosmos: A Personal Voyage, Carl sought to discuss everything that is or was or will be. Not bad for thirteen episodes of a show from the eighties.  It dances brightly from spectacular space photos to lively earthy snapshots of city street life on the coast of the Mediterranean. Watched all over the world for decades, Cosmos spoke the universal language of all of us, and what we know about our world; sharing all the knowledge and always making a case for learning more.

I find this beautiful, sure, but also very useful. Compiling and sharing knowledge isn't just a noble pursuit for future humans, it's how I go about trying to be more successful at the stuff I try to do, more of the time. Which brings me back to my paper bag of potatoes. I grew them wrong for the first few years, charmed by online claims that they do well in vertical situations. Plant them in a barrel! In a cardboard box! In a straw-filled mesh cylinder! In a cowboy hat! Well, that may work for some zones, and some varieties of potatoes, but I found, year after year, that my potato production was paltry, and was happening at or just above the roots. No golden rosy purple orbs growing all the way up the vine.

Surely, Carl Sagan has something helpful to say on the matter.

 "It seems to me what is called for is an exquisite balance between two conflicting needs: the most skeptical scrutiny of all hypotheses that are served up to us and at the same time a great openness to new ideas."

Bingo. For whatever reason, I needed to ignore what worked for so many others and find out what worked for me. So, I dispensed with the gimmicky containers and returned to the ground under my feet, digging up a wide deep loose bed, edged with big stones.

More online digging got me thinking that I should also adjust the soil pH. Spuds love soil that has more than your average amount of free floating hydrogen ions. (aka alkaline, or basic) Where I live the soil is notoriously acidic.(aka the opposite of alkaline) Blueberries, azaleas, and rhododendrons love it, but it's bad news for potatoes.   There are a few ways to amend acidic soil. I went with bone meal, mixed in with the soil in which the potatoes were planted, and to any soil mounded on the vines throughout the growing season.

mmmm, boney

What happened next was nothing short of scientific.

 Only twice as many taters as before, that's what. So, I repeated the successful method last year and had an even higher yield. I was able to feed my family and had even some extras to sell at the farmer's market. I guess I sort of figured out this little corner of the cosmos.

I've encountered these truths before, so there must be something to them: That it's your job to learn from your mistakes when something isn't working; and that there is probably a path to success as you define it, as long as you're skeptical and open, humble and hard-working. This view makes mistakes into lessons. The story of your path becomes a helpful map for people you'll never meet; as long as you share it, and as long as they know when to ignore it and forge their own way.

 Stay tuned to the BU Facebook page to see how we're going about things this year. I'll be planting my potatoes today and will post pictures of our grand new set-up!

The Garden Dirt: Magic Beans

Like many homeschooling parents, I watched the Creationism v. Evolution debate between Ken Ham and Bill Nye two weeks ago. As one might predict, both men spoke respectfully from a place deep inside themselves, and returned to their corners, declared the "winner" by each of their respective sides.

Like some homeschooling parents, I spent most of it wondering why on earth they were having this discussion, and calling it a debate. What were they trying to accomplish? How many minds were changed? Is there an absolute truth there that one of them nailed and the other missed?

Unexpectedly, Joe Coffey, an Ohio pastor who appears in the HBO documentary, Questioning Darwin, cleared this up for me when he said, "If that's the way the world works...if it's just this mechanical thing... then you believe in a God that doesn't intervene in nature, That takes away any possibility of miracles, any possibility of answered prayer..."

He's right!

The scientific method doesn't require a "prayer" step, nor does it contend with miracles in any way but to dissect and explain them.

While human history (and the present) is full of scientists who pray, in all kinds of ways, when it gets down to the real sciencing, publishing "God did it." in lieu of research just won't do. I kind of thought that was pretty obvious back when Galileo's life was threatened by his own church for supporting heliocentrism, the radical notion that we live in a solar system rather than an earth-centric planetary system. He recanted. The dude with the telescope.

JKLOL Please, don't kill me.

Many devout believers have pursued the sciences since then, able to reconcile faith and fact. That's why we have the very technology I am using to publish this very blog at this very moment. (Hallelujah for that, amirite?) Maybe they understand that, rather than try to eliminate our beliefs, the whole point of the the scientific method, is to take them into account. To address the fact that our culture, background, beliefs, or just good old-fashioned fear of being burned at the stake, could possibly influence how we form answers to our questions about the world around us, in a way that renders us less-than-objective.

So, to me, debating evolution v. creationism is like saying, "Who is right? Combustion engines or People who love Disney movies?" I don't see how they're on opposite sides of the same point, except, maybe when it comes to the issue of miracles. A miracle is a funny thing, because, by its very definition, it is supposed to defy all that we know to be true; all that we seek to understand using the scientific method. Growing up, I was taught that believing in miracles requires faith, but most scientists just want to take out their scalpels and figure out exactly what makes the miracle tick.  Does this make them faithless, or curious?

As I have lived, year after year, I have found truer definitions for words I learned as a child;  "faith" and "miracle" are the two biggest ones.

 Faith is building a trellis for beans I haven't planted yet. 

The sheer hours of squatting, cutting, and tying to make a couple of simple bamboo teepees will have you wondering if it will all be in vain. If the seeds will be bunk, or get sick quickly, or be invaded by predators, or grow to a stumpy height, leaving the top of the trellis to mock you with its bareness.

 Faith doesn't mean I believe none of those things will happen, it just means I act as though they won't.

It means I am counting on the well-worn miracles of germination, iron phosphate, and photosynthesis to make all that work worthwhile. Sure, those things I call miracles can be explained, but that does not make them less profound to me. I am filled with wonder when those green leaves pop up for the first time every year.

  And I am a grateful primate indeed when my act of faith is rewarded so fruitfully.

Marveling at the magic of science is something I love to share with my li'l miracles. To see our study on germinating runner beans, check out these photos on the Backyard University Facebook page.

The Muddy Kitchen: It's About Thyme

It's weird when you have a blog. Life gets full, time becomes tight, and you notice you haven't been writing much on it. But then, you think, what should I write? At the switch-over from 2013 to 2014, I don't want to waste anyone's time with a top ten list of crunchy cute things they'll never get around to doing. I don't want to wax nostalgic about how grand the last twelve months was, even though it was pretty great at times.

I will probably want to stick a recipe in here somewhere.  Especially since New Year's Day typically presents an opportunity to eat a particular something, with the belief that it will influence your luck throughout the next year. For those of us who grew up in Midwestern/ Southern U.S., black-eyed peas would be that magic dish that will hopefully ensure some good times in the next twelve months. Whatever. You don't need to give me a reason to eat black-eyed peas, I love them. Tell me it'll bring me good luck, and I might end up eating seconds or thirds. You know. Just to hedge the ole' bets.

The time is upon us for such a dish, but instead of going to my favorite black eyed peas recipes, I decide I want to switch things up. Do something different this time. To the internet! All of my searching left my mouth watering and my brain noticing that one word kept popping up again and again: Thyme.

 Whoa. I think mama just got her blog back.

Did you get a chill? Because I did. I put on a hat and it went away. Anyway, thyme, it seems, goes with the timely little bean. Every recipe I found called for thyme. You get it right? Time, thyme? Homophones, yo. What a perfect dish for me to make today and eat tomorrow, because, on New Year's Eve, I can't help but be contemplative about this time marker, and how it seems to arrive sooner each time.

Here's a little tale from way back when. When I was about 7, I got my first invitation to a slumber party. I clearly remember the date printed on the little card and that it was three days away, which seemed like FOREVER.  Eons passed as I clutched that little card and compared it to the calendar, looking at what seemed to be a frozen clock. Time didn't just drag, it sagged and stretched tortuously.  I don't even recall anything about that slumber party, just the agonizing wait that preceded it.

Now, as I anticipate putting the household Christmas decorations away, when three days feels like the blink of an eye, I am somewhat comforted by the fact that time flies more and more, the older you get. Celebrations of next year will arrive faster than they did last year. And no, this is not because I am a Time Lord.

See, forget gray hair and wrinkles. You know you're getting older when it feels like time is speeding up. What used to feel like forever is nothing. A year? That's nothing. <-Not something I would have said ten years ago, when a year was a larger percentage of the time I've been walking this earth.

Time, for us peoples, is relative. That means a day is not a day and a year is not a year. As far as we're concerned, these things exist in a relationship with us, because we obey the laws of time ourselves. When we are first born, a day is equal to our whole life. At the end of your first year, 365 days = 100 % of your time here. All the living you've ever known.

A year later, 365 days drops down to only half of your life span, but that still feels like a significant chunk of time. Like half an eternity.

 As the years go by, each one diminishes in comparison to your time here, which really does alter how you perceive that span of days. It feels like something you're seeing from farther and farther away. It never changes size, even though to you, it appears to be shrinking.

This can make us good elders for generations behind us, as we age; because we become capable of thinking more realistically about five years from now, ten years from now, generations away. These notions are less abstract, and more approachable.  It's like seeing more and more of a mountain range with every day. I, personally, find this journey calming, even though I already don't feel like there are enough hours in the day.  I have so much living in the moment to do before the rapidly approaching Christmas 2014.

Like eat these delicious, lucky Stewed Black-eyed Peas.