Taller Colibri Rocking the Permaculture

It's been half a year since we started our alternative school project, Taller Colibri. I've learned so much from my children, the other children in the project, the parents, the people we have met on the weekly field trips, and our inspirational maestra Suzanna.

The key epiphany I have had has been about momentum. Once the children understood that they owned the school and the curriculum, they stepped up. They run in with projects already in their minds, sometimes with supplies they have brought from home. They tend to the garden, they check the supply closet for art materials, they turn on the light and music for quiet time, they cook food for meals.

Some of the smaller aspects of the school have also made a deep impression on me. For example, our start time of 9:30. I can't tell you how incredible it is to not wake up my children, to allow them to get up naturally and not be tired. In the morning, we have time to eat, play, read, visit the cat, clean, whatever. Not having homework has also been so liberating. No longer do we have to chop off a significant part of the afternoon, or break it up inconveniently. We sometimes do far more educational and inspirational things than homework--play at the park, hike, cook together, read at the library, see an art show, visit friends, go to drum class--and we sometimes just hang out at the house or the zocalo. This gift of time has been powerful, even if it means sometimes wondering what to do with it when the kids are fighting or I'm not feeling like interacting.

Creating units based on the children's interests was fascinating. To look back on it makes me realize how far we have come: Force and Motion, Caves and Prehistory, Story boarding and Clay Animation, and Building with Natural Materials. Field trips to archaeological ruins, caves, swimming pools, the organic market, libraries, parks, farms, villages, history museums, art galleries. What a life.

Last week, when Maestra Suzanna suggested that Taller Colibri head up the Oaxaca mountains above Huayapam, to see a farm with permaculture farming practices, I sensed we were in for something different. The little ones had to stumble along the steep trails, but it was worth it. They delved into worm compost bins (we honestly had to pull them out of them), wandered greenhouses, looked for fish and turtles in ponds, walked through buildings framed in local carrizo, and cooked lunch on a mud and sand stove, una estufa Lorena.

That's when I realized how they already understood the place. They had mixed their own adobe at the river to create mud dwellings. They had used carrizo to frame their playhouse in the backyard. They had caught tadpoles in the river and spread compost in the garden, digging up worms to show each other. For them, permaculture was the only culture, as they had only gardened organically and built sustainably. I found they had learned more than I could have imagined, and I believe these are lessons they will carry with them.

beginnings of stories

I worry about losing Jenny, still, seven years after she died. I want to remember that feeling of having her in my life, and the luxury of taking it all for granted. She was so fiercely loyal to those she loved, and would expect the same.

What was it like, having my sister with me? She made me laugh a lot, and sing and dance at unexpected times, in unexpected places, because she really, truly wanted everyday life to feel like an episode of "Fame." Why can't we all just jump up on tables and do a show-stopping number?

So I thought of you today, Jenny, and tried to carry you with me as I danced hip hop in the park, tossed sparkly rocks into the river, walked the trails of the sustainable agriculture farm that you would have loved, and kissed my children goodnight.

It's not a fair world, this world without you. I want to rail against something, or fix something, or do something that would make these past seven years just a really touching scene from "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." A movie you would have loved.

Genevieve, who never knew you, has taken to looking at pictures of you and saying, "My auntie." Maybe there's a way to slip through the cracks and find you again, make it more than just something she says.

So I'll keep trying to evoke you.

I remember your reading Clo the cow bulletin boards on the drive to Santa Rosa.
You loved going to restaurants.
You turned down the corners of pages in catalogs, and we would laugh because you'd turn down so many, and never buy anything. Or was that me?
You sneaked into a bulldozer.
You practically sat on my feet when we did abdominal crunches.
Your love for certain products perplexed me, particularly Dryel. But I understood loving the drain catcher.
No coffee, not after the Seattle incident. Except birthday lattes.
Having the art postcard was almost as good as seeing the painting.
Bags full of envelopes, to-do lists, receipts, and the beginnings of stories.

Ah, too many stories left untold! How did we run out of time?
xoxo