Farm School, Part 2

Of course, besides all the growing plants at Farm School, there are the growing children. This past week's group included 6th, 7th and 8th graders.

Unless your memory is much better than mine, by my age it is hard to recall the differences between those three school years, but they are massive. Between the ages of 11 and 14, children start becoming young adults, and the process is scary and lovely to behold.

One of the very best aspects of Synergy Farm School is that everyone who attends (including parents, teachers and the kids) is encouraged during a closing ceremony to describe what they learned about themselves by spending this extraordinary week in the country.

Since 95% or more of the people in attendance are city-bred, many of the lessons are environmental in nature. My 11-year-old Dylan, for example, said he learned during the "night hike" that he doesn't have to be afraid of the dark, or of being alone in the dark.
But a remarkable number of kids said they found out new things about their classmates, and they felt closer than ever before, even though many of these guys have been in the same classrooms for years.

That's how it is out in nature. We all discover new sides of ourselves.

When a friend of mine is depressed, for any number of reasons, I often advise her to take a long walk on the beach. There, you can once again regain that sense of how small and insignificant we and our problems are.

It doesn't have to be a beach. It can be a mountain trail, a desert path, the side of a river through the forest, or even a large urban park.
My theory, and experience, is based on the idea that we are, after all, animals. We need to feed our bodies more than food and drink. We need to allow them to stretch and walk, breathe in fresh air, and allow our ears to hear and our eyes to see.

The textures of life in the outdoors barely resemble that inside our houses and offices and gathering places.

In the outdoors, in nature, you can feel yourself reverting to an earlier state, a way of being that has become layered with confusion in our modern era, as we congregate in large urban centers, wear clothes that express our identity, and surround ourselves with the familiar cultural artifacts of our "civilized" lives.

Me, I far prefer to be free. Free as a bird. The first night at farm school, I walked back out to where my car was parked, to get a few items for my first night in my extremely small tent.

As I approached my car, quite a while after sunset, it was dark except for a slender slice of silver sky, illuminated by the moon and stars overhead.

Suddenly, from overhead, the silhouette of a hawk dove into view. What was striking were its claws, hanging low and empty, probably not for long.

I imagined the mouse in the field nearby, not yet aware of the predator headed its way.

Maybe I heard a death scream (more like a squeak) a moment later, or maybe I imagined that.

You know, I'm really not sure.

The difference between fantasy and reality out in nature is even more dramatic than in the city. As an animal, roaming free, I find myself extremely sensitive to form, color, structure, movement.

I can feel my heart beat and my salival glands excreting some sort of anticipatory chemical.



So, you may ask, what did I learn about myself at Farm School. The answer is not as much about learning new lessons as recovering old ones.

I have always been happiest when I have easy access to the out of doors. I think offices, bureaucracies, and jobs of most types often make me feel claustrophobic.




I want to be free, free as a bird.



If it turns out (to my surprise) that there is an afterlife, I'd love to come back as a bird. Imagine me, and my spirit, soaring high above, looking down on you not as food but with love and affection. Rather like an angel. Yes, that's it. I would like to be your angel.

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