Going Natural

I sit with the children by the woodstove, gold and red lighting up their faces. A blanket is spread before us with the empty shells of filberts and white paper skins of garlic. They crack nuts to grind into hazelnut butter while I break the last heads of garlic to be planted. We sit for hours talking, cracking, peeling. Bliss.

It is Sunday morning. The flour mill has arrived by mail. We take it apart, wash it lovingly, and begin to grind our first batch of flour. It is an effort. The boys can barely turn the handle while standing on a stool. We are making our traditional Sunday morning breakfast, and we are hungry. The flour is coaxed slowly from the cast iron disks that grind it, 1/4 teaspoon at a time.

We are having fun. We are taking turns. We are severely denting our only kitchen table because I did not remember to cushion the clamp with a cutting board. One hour later, I am the last Mohican at the grind, sweating and turning the crank nearly naked, huffing and puffing. The children are barking at each other and threatening war. It is nearly noon, and I have a few cups of flour ground. "Use the electric thing," says Sam. And I do.

Wednesday night. The soup is made from our own squash and potatoes, carrots and tomatoes. The greens came from the plot where they still grow out back. I am, in mid-December, beginning to get thin on what I can offer our family from the garden. Next year, as every year, I will dedicate more space to winter crops. I believe my family is fed in spirit by eating local.

And there is a price. Year round, the time taken to bring in the leaf mulch, plant, harvest, weed and water is time my children want me at their side. I have hoped that they will grow into the rhythm of farming their own food. I have hoped that the organic shape of this part of our lives would nurture. At times, I mourn that they are often inside playing with the Tamagotchi and calling to me while I work our urban farm. I can't imagine trying to run a full-scale production.

A friend tells me that my children would benefit from a cleaner house. "Keep a distinction between outdoors and in," she tells me, essentially. She is steeped in the Waldorf tradition. There, the fields are represented by puffy green bushes with buff colored wheat, all riding a pink sunrise. The mud does not come in the kitchen door. The leaves do not migrate to the hearth. There is somehow time in this soft pastel landscape for mothers to ground themselves indoors where they remove their dear ones clothing to hang by the fire and serve herbal tea in a spotless kitchen.

It is a beautiful vision. But where is my family in this? Where is the sweat, the conflict, the stretching periodically through the day to consider the needs of all, the exhaustion and the letting go?

My world is not Waldorf portrait material. To be honest, most of us Colliers would rather live in a barn. Perhaps that is an indication of our station in evolution. We ask also for a cozy fire and access to hot water, a good friend to lean on, and food from the garden (no matter how warm), and we will eat it, grow, bicker, doubt, love and be grateful for what is ours.