One with nature
Last week I took the compost out to the compost bin. I hate this job: the sight of decomposing food is not pleasant. However, I love putting food scraps in the compost bin instead of the trash, so I suffer through the unpleasant visuals. One this particular morning, I wanted to take my chore one step further: turning the compost over so that it could more evenly decompose. I locked the door and prepared to spin.
I wouldn't say I'm extremely fit and strong, so it took a couple big pushes to get the bin rolling, just as I was really putting my back into it, really getting excited that I was going to roll this sucker one complete rotation, the faulty lock swung open and the compost dumped at my feet. Weeks of decomposing food piled before me, steam rising from its core, I cursed myself. The only way to get through this was to imagine myself a farmer. I went in search of a shovel.
As I shoveled slop back into the bin, I thought about farmers who work all day on the land. Is their life better than mine? I wouldn't choose to live on a farm; I'm a city girl through and through. Yet there's something I idealize about farm life. They are closer to the earth, they use their bodies to work all day, they produce food, raise livestock, they are out in the elements. Meanwhile I shoveled eggshells, orange rinds, coffee grounds, and bread crusts. My stomach turned.
I could hear birds chirping and the morning dew made my feet slightly chilled. My house shoes - a clearance item find at REI's garage sale last year - are frat boy boat shoes. Nothing is farther from being "one with the land" than a city girl wearing boat shoes shoveling her compost.
I could hear crying coming from inside the house, but I ignored it. The children would need to figure this one out on their own. Or they could continue fighting with each other and I could imagine myself a mediator when I get back in. For now, I'm farming. Pretend farming.
The shovel was caked with brown and green slime from rotting herbs, and my stomach acid considered sending a delivery straight to my mouth. I pushed through the disgust thinking, "I'm enjoying the morning air, the birds chirping, I'm one with nature." Then a loud siren sounded two blocks away and my game of pretend vanished.
Who am I kidding? I'm not now and will never be a farmer, but there is one way in which I'm bringing a sense of farm to our family's life. Knowing that public pools might be closed this summer, I floated the idea to Tom that we should get a pool for our small, urban backyard. I wanted to get the same thing I had when I was a child: a tin pool. Do you know what the retail stores call my long-remembered tin pool? A stock tank - it's a horse's trough for drinking water. So I'll continue to think of our backyard as being one with nature as my children swim around the livestock watering station.
I wouldn't say I'm extremely fit and strong, so it took a couple big pushes to get the bin rolling, just as I was really putting my back into it, really getting excited that I was going to roll this sucker one complete rotation, the faulty lock swung open and the compost dumped at my feet. Weeks of decomposing food piled before me, steam rising from its core, I cursed myself. The only way to get through this was to imagine myself a farmer. I went in search of a shovel.
As I shoveled slop back into the bin, I thought about farmers who work all day on the land. Is their life better than mine? I wouldn't choose to live on a farm; I'm a city girl through and through. Yet there's something I idealize about farm life. They are closer to the earth, they use their bodies to work all day, they produce food, raise livestock, they are out in the elements. Meanwhile I shoveled eggshells, orange rinds, coffee grounds, and bread crusts. My stomach turned.
I could hear birds chirping and the morning dew made my feet slightly chilled. My house shoes - a clearance item find at REI's garage sale last year - are frat boy boat shoes. Nothing is farther from being "one with the land" than a city girl wearing boat shoes shoveling her compost.
I could hear crying coming from inside the house, but I ignored it. The children would need to figure this one out on their own. Or they could continue fighting with each other and I could imagine myself a mediator when I get back in. For now, I'm farming. Pretend farming.
The shovel was caked with brown and green slime from rotting herbs, and my stomach acid considered sending a delivery straight to my mouth. I pushed through the disgust thinking, "I'm enjoying the morning air, the birds chirping, I'm one with nature." Then a loud siren sounded two blocks away and my game of pretend vanished.
Who am I kidding? I'm not now and will never be a farmer, but there is one way in which I'm bringing a sense of farm to our family's life. Knowing that public pools might be closed this summer, I floated the idea to Tom that we should get a pool for our small, urban backyard. I wanted to get the same thing I had when I was a child: a tin pool. Do you know what the retail stores call my long-remembered tin pool? A stock tank - it's a horse's trough for drinking water. So I'll continue to think of our backyard as being one with nature as my children swim around the livestock watering station.
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