I swung the pick-axe a second time, and a third, a fourth.
I tried the pointed tip of the shovel again. Similar results.
I looked around me at the community garden where Common Vision's volunteer crew and a few Long Beach community members were tirelessly working to plant a "fruit tree library" in the middle of the city.
As I glanced around I noticed that some in our work party were pulling slabs of concrete from the holes, others gravel or unidentifiable industrial left-overs. I saw colors and textures in the dirt that no earthworm would choose to live in if given the choice.
I returned my focus back to the hole below me, and the hard black debris I was trying to cut through.
This isn't soil, I thought. This isn't even dirt.
But we pressed on, and at the end of the day left an orchard in our wake.
Just about everything we do on Fruit Tree Tour is a test of patience and a test of dedication.
Our days are long with our daily morning circle around 8AM, our performances around 10AM, three half-hour to hour-long sessions with groups of school children either planting fruit trees or painting inspirational signs, and landscaping and mulching until as late as 4 in the afternoon. After we return to our basecamp (currently an intentional artist community in LA), we often have chores to complete, choreography to rehearse, props to fix, or personal business to attend to.
Often the volunteers can be found napping wherever they fall, trying to meditate and yoga the muscle cramps away, or participating in long massage trains after a long day in the sun.
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But at the end of the day, tired as I am, I can't really complain. I may be exhausted and say so, but I have no regrets in being part of this endeavor.
Nearly every day for the past 3 weeks I have been part of a beautiful community of 18 remarkable individuals whose talents range from music to art to performance to healing, and all are passionate about helping children reconnect with the Earth.
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Some days are easier than others.
Some days I have more energy than others.
Some children want nothing to do with you, or are so excited to be out of the classroom that they won't sit still or pay attention. Some will prod and tease each other, or bring up topics like guns or drugs. Others just don't want to get their hands in the dirt or participate at all (although I seem to have a knack for converting the ones who don't like dirt).
And then there are the kids whose light shines so bright you can almost see it, feel it. They talk about the Earth as if they really do care about what happens to species other than their own, and about pollution and waste. They care about growing their own food, about having clean air to play in and about using fewer resources.
And when I meet those kids, no matter how tired I was before, it doesn't matter.
I could stay there all day, talking about what I know and feel, and asking them what they know and they feel. Because really, nobody wants to feel inferior; everyone wants to shine.
I sometimes feel very sorry for the kids we meet, because I see that they are held in a system that herds and numbers them like cattle and teaches them to obey, conform and live within a short range of what is acceptable. I don't have enough time with any of my groups to convey all the messages I wish I could. I want to tell them they can do anything they want to, that they don't have to be afraid, that they don't have to settle for the bare minimum. I want to tell them they can find all the answers in Nature and in themselves and in their elders. I want to tell them anything, anything is possible.
But there isn't enough time. All I can be is an example, and use the time as best as I can.
And I can wait for the sparks, and add a handful of dry leaves.
Peace.
