To grain your own flour

We were gifted a grain mill last week, my in-laws brought it from Germany. Such a wonderful surprise, after we've spent weeks of cleaning and getting rid of much of the stuff our modern lives have accumulated. I’m only just realizing the difference between meaningless crap and a delightful materialism. I can grind my own flour! I can bake my own bread! All I really want, besides writing and performing my poetry, is life. You know? Life. Not the abstract, meaningless repetition we call society. Life. To use the body I’ve been given, to relearn curiosity from my children. To pick them berries and grow them potatoes. And grind my own flour! Revolution, of the slow and beautiful kind.

But here I am, in front of my computer. Elia, my oldest, has his second day at school today. Lean is in kindergarten. I’m grateful, so grateful, for the Steiner schools where we live, for the amazing teachers and their warm, warm hearts. We need them, and their hearts.

And yet, something in me growls and aches, something wants soil and trees and joy and roots, something wants hard, hard work, something wants the village and the fire and the sore back you only get from chopping wood. Something in me is tired of talk. And ready to ... walk. 

It’s almost like my intellect has come to an understanding with its own uselessness. Sure, it can be fun to be a really good thinker. But as a strategy for life? For a family? For society? Isn’t that what we’ve tried for the last millenia?

Life, not the abstract, meaningless repetition we call society. Life. With bodies and nature. Rhythmic movements. Blueberry fingers, fresh goat milk, the sound of a morning sun rising. Children laughing. 

I say yes to this and I say yes to that. Step by sweet, present step. Here we are, and a loaf of  bread with freshly ground buckwheat, emmer and spelt.


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