Child of the Earth

Written on the bus leaving Chico for the meeting place of Common Vision's 8th annual Fruit Tree Tour (commonvision.org)

I am a child of the Earth.
I skip lightly, swiftly
Through her dazzling pastures
In vivid greens and sparkling
Dewdrops.

I play with the insects
That hop and buzz and shine
And frolic with me
As I hop and buzz and shine
In the long, tall grass.

I spread my arms
And look to the sky
To see a flock of geese
Do the same.
The breeze catches my hair
And I know we fly
Together.

The blue-gray hills in the distance
Beckon.
I know when I am being called
To move.
And I must.

It is only right
Just, fair
To move when called
When you have received so much
Love,
Abundance,
Warmth,
That it fills you to the brim
And then some.

My cup is full.
Overflowing
With goodness.
The yellow flowers,
The birds, the trees,
The hills
Shout loud and clear:

Be heard!
Do it now!

And I will.
I must.

I am a child,
And a caretaker
Of the Earth.

Childhood Dream Realized: Chapter One Begins

When I was five years old, I vividly remember the day my kindergarten teacher asked us to write down what we wanted to do when we grew up.

I never forgot my answer-- that I wanted to write and illustrate books-- but it never made as much sense in the past 21 years I've been in this body than it did a couple months ago when I decided what I want to do with my life.
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In September I met someone on my bike tour who had been to Guatemala and recommended I visit the site of the NGO Long Way Home's project of building a school out of tires, bottles, cob and trash (longwayhomeinc.org).

Long Way Home's name rested quietly in the back of my mind for my first 2 months of my stay in Guatemala while I worked at Maya Pedal, but I didn't schedule a visit until less than a week before my flight back to California.

Finally, on my way back from an adventure-filled week and a half around San Pedro La Laguna during which my good friend Meagan and I visited a couple of women's natural dye and weaving cooperatives, a commune, an amazing permaculture farm (www.permacultura.org/guatemala.html), and volunteered with the project Paint My Future (paintmyfuture.org) which teaches art classes for kids and helps support poor families, I made it to the tire school in Comalapa.
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The organization's vision for the school, their passion for the cause, and the construction as it now stands are all impressive and beautiful.

But the high I got from the place wasn't so much due to the things they are doing there (lately I've surrounded myself with equally incredible people and visions, and have raised my standards for normal existence), but because of a conversation I had with the director, Matt.

During this conversation, I learned that Long Way Home is looking for an artist to write and illustrate books for the children that will attend its school on topics like green construction, waste and recycling, and inspirational revolutionaries.
Also during this conversation, I realized that part of my purpose in life is to create conscious children's books for organizations like this one.
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A blur of words, wisdom and warnings about intentions, following through, hard work, regrets, what I should expect if I happen to be that person they are looking for to make a book series and live awhile in Comalapa, and the lifestyle and dedication of the ninja-jedi warrior followed, and not long later I was sitting alone in a corn field and asking for answers.
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I watched the dry, brittle leaves of the corn stalks flutter in the breeze, felt the crumbling crust of the Earth I sat upon, and waited for a response.
A corn leaf broke off its stalk and floated for a moment in the air, spiraling in the direction of the tire buildings behind me.

I thought about my uncertain future and the challenges that may come from deciding to be my own boss and making a career from scratch.

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I can see a slide show in my head of directions my path may lead me, the places I might go, people I might meet. What if Long Way Home provides my first real job? What if after my work with them is done, I write books in Nepal for Nepalese children? Then Ghana? Then China?

What if it works out that I am able to do something that meets my needs while helping to enlighten and direct some of the world's future leaders?

I've known for as long as I can recall that I need art in my life. For the last few years it's been clear that I also won't be happy unless I am using my gifts to create positive change.

This is where I've landed.

This is where my values, my passions, and my gifts meet, and where the kind of person I want to be, and the kind of person I could be, align.
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I recently finished a first draft of my first book (about an 8-year-old Guatemalan girl's discovery of where tires come from, where they go, and what she can do with her new found knowledge) and am in communication with the organization to see what can become of our visions for a series.

But if this isn't my "big break" , so be it. There are more amazing projects out there than I can count, more opportunities than I can imagine, and the world just keeps getting smaller.

I've got the tools, I have the vision.

Now I put my intentions into the universe, and watch the rest of my journey unfold magnificently.

On Fuego

I squinted through the hair whipping my face and the dust blowing in my eyes and watched my companions as they disappeared from view in a swirl of high-elevation debris. This was the last, steep, barren stretch of the path to the peak of the active volcano Volcan Fuego in Southern Guatemala, and I couldn't go any further.

As I sat clutching the sand and loose gravel so as not to lose my balance on the incline, I took a moment to view my expansive peripheral. I looked up at Fuego, often puffing small clouds of volcanic smoke, and down at the path I had traveled to get there. I tried to see where we had come from when the three of us--Bruce, Will and I-- got off the chicken bus at 7:30 the night before, and hiked through the night with headlamps and backpacks. I looked East and West and everywhere in between, scanning with my eyes the mountains and distant cities below that had twinkled brightly like broken glow sticks the night before.

I thought about the 10 hours of hiking we had already done, through rough sandy banks and slippery mud, the hiking stick I relied on to lift my body, and the branches and roots I gratefully grasped to keep my worn-down sneakers from sliding me backwards. I thought about the deep emotional journey of such a demanding trek, and whether my body would hold up during the rest of it, despite the physical strain and lack of rest.

I thought about the last leg of trip to the main destination point where we cooked tostadas on a found machete on a camp fire while we watched the sunrise. I thought about the exhaustion that had accompanied this last slope, and how I would collapse after five steps, get up, and do it all over again. I thought about how much I wanted to just get there, and to sleep, and then realize that the only person who could carry me to the top was myself.

And still, I sat on that windy, isolated gravel mountainside, already having completed "the hike" to Fuego, and felt weak for not being able to make it to the absolute highest point possible. Why can't I take just a few more steps, and a few more after that? Why can't I just muster up a little more energy, and prove I am as strong as the men I am traveling with? Why can't I...?

I took a deep breath and tried to remember what my college yoga professor had taught me. I tried to feel grounded. And then I had a thought:

This mentality-- that in which the Earth is an object to be conquered, that mountains can be bought and sold, that nature can and should be enslaved to make WE the humans more powerful-- is the one that my ancestors used to justify their treatment of the environment, and which humans today continue to believe.
It isn't my job to conquer this mountain, to prove my own strength, to prove anything. It is my job to appreciate, protect and nurture that which is dear to me.

I breathed again and felt my tiny body on this magnificent natural wonder, and smiled.
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It would still be another 5 hours of solid hiking, many rest breaks and swigs of water, and a couple of near-breakdowns before we re-entered the "civilized" world.
But for the time-being, I could let go of my worries.

The Earth is my home; feeling grounded is just a mindful moment away.

Peace.

Reflections from a Chicken Bus

Note: the following was written ages ago a week or two before I left Guatemala.

Sometimes I think I'm going to die on a chicken bus.

Because these ancient, elaborately-painted American school buses are private, for-profit businesses, their "ayudantes" are extremely motivated to get 'there' as quickly as possible with as many people (or chickens, or geese, or loud and passionate preaching pastors, or men selling bottles of pills...) as can be squished into the bus.

There is nothing quite like speeding around the sharp curves of winding mountain highways and being slammed against the window or into your plump Mayan seatmates for reflecting on a journey.

It took me far longer than I expected to adapt to life in Guatemala, but as my return flight draws closer, I find the thought of leaving bittersweet.

I love it here, right down to death-defying bus rides and the roosters that crow at 3AM.

Sometime during the 2 months that I have spent in Guatemala, San Andres Itzapa became "home".

And because it is home, I have learned to take it for what it is: an average, imperfect, and intriguing Guatemalan pueblo.

I enjoy (or at least tolerate) things here that I wouldn't normally be so fond of, solely because I have an unconditional love for this country.

Because I love Itzapa, even the litter (at home in the States I was once an avid practitioner of the Zero Waste lifestyle)doesn't bother me much; I now barely notice the creeks and fields strewn with empty chip and candy wrappers, and when I do think about them, it is no longer with so much judgment. I look at this, and most every situation, as a fact of life, and part of a larger and longer story consequent of Guatemala's industrialization.

I sometimes give tours to new Maya Pedal volunteers interested in seeing one of the most prominent local garbage-dumping points- a once-beautiful ravine splitting the city. When I look out over the bridge and watch the vultures watching me from eye-level branches, I wonder what will become of this waste and this place.

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I love the donkeys packed with firewood coming down the street from the farmland and rural towns above.

I love the long, slow "buenas taaaardes," and the slap-slip-slap of of chapin women making fresh corn tortillas.

I love sleeping on the roof at Maya Pedal, and wrapping myself in layers and blankets, burrito-style , to keep the cold and sounds of late-night explosives at bay. I love getting up in the morning and peering out through the wall of bike rims to watch Itzapa start its day, a blanket of smoky wood-fire-stove haze atop the concrete.

I love shopping at the market, and ducking under the low-hung ropes and sheets that keep the vendors out of the sun while they sell their goods, and makes a game of limbo for my nearly 6' tall self.

I love seeing what ever-changing and always-odd assortment of items will grace the surface of a booth's blanket: firecrackers? a sculpture of the baby Jesus? huge blocks of chalk? grannie panties?, or finding the perfect pineapple, a good deal on papaya, or the last dozen mini-bananas.

I love the sound of my name ("Mee-shell! Que estas haciendo, Mee-shell!")coming from the neighbor's roof, or from a small voice in a doorway, or from waist-height walking past me on the cobbled street. I love getting hugs from little chicas who want to know when we're going to play art school with my crayons next, or if I can spin them around like a helicopter. "Dame vueltas!" they squeal.

I love the bike shop, and I love Maya Pedal.

I love how terrified and proud I feel with the power tools, the most nerve-wracking being the hand-grinder with the spinning blade and and subsequent cascade of hot sparks shooting half-way across the shop. I love the grease that accumulates on my hands, which makes its way to my work apron, my pants, my face, my food... and the occasional battle scars I acquire from doing the wrong thing with the wrong tool. And I love the satisfaction of finally, finally, figuring out how to true a wheel, or overhaul a headset, or weld a piece of bicimaquina.

There are more things I love about Itzapa and Guatemala than can be listed, just as can be said of anywhere one calls 'home'.

In Spanish, there are two verbs that mean 'to know': one is 'saber' (yo se= I know) for knowledge of information, and the other is 'conocer' (yo conozco= I know)for knowledge of people or places.

In American English, we generally say things like "Oh, I've been there before," or "I like that place" because Americans commonly live in or travel to many cities in their lifetimes. In Guatemala, the phrasing translates to "I know that town".

It makes sense to me that the word that means 'to know a place' in Latin America is the same as 'to know a person' because the sense of familiarity is so strong.

In fact, it seems the only time anyone ever leaves the town they grew up in is for work (rare though even that is)as family is extremely important culturally and logistically (families are large so that aging members are well looked after, and so that farmland can be cultivated), and children seldom stray far from their parents as they do in the States.

Just as I have learned not to hold so much judgement of people, I have come to see places in a similar way.

The wonderful (and heart-wrenching) thing about living abroad in one place for an extending time period, is that you are able to get to know that place and people. And even though I'll miss it here, I am so glad that I "conozco" at least a small part of this beautiful- albeit troubled- country.

It just makes it extremely difficult to leave.

Buenas Tardes from Itzapa

“Buenas tardes” they call out from the short steps of tiendas down the cobbled main street of San Andres Itzapa, Chimaltenango, Guatemala.

“Buenas tardes” I reply with a polite nod.

I walk about five minutes to the center of town where buses to the tourist hotspot, Antigua pick up and drop off passengers, and the daily farmers’ market takes place, and where one can purchase a choco-banana for 1Q (1 Quetzal (local currency)= $0.12 US).

Daily farmers' market in San Andres Itzapa

Everywhere I walk I find grinning muchachos, smiling abuelas and giggling chicas who know in a glance that I’m not from around here.

In fact, just about the only people in this ciudad of some 30,000 people who aren’t from around here are the 8 of us volunteers at Maya Pedal (www.mayapedal.org), a bicycle repair shop that makes bike machines (“bicimaquinas”) as well as pumps up the occasional soccer ball or sharpens a dull machete or two.

Maya Pedal was founded in 1997 with the help of the Canadian organization PEDAL, and has since been enriched and operated by mechanical engineering genius Carlos Marroquin and the countless volunteers who live above the shop during their stay.

Many bicimaquinas have been designed and produced in this shop, including pedal-powered water pumps (“bicibombas”), bike blenders (“bicilicuadoras”), and bike nut-shellers (bicidescascaderos).

Bicilicuadora in action, photo courtesy of Maya Pedal

The living space in the shop is communal and a fee is paid monthly by volunteers to keep up with expenses such as internet and necessities like sponges and soap.  We keep tabs on who bought the last bag of fresh pan dulce (sweet bread) or pina on a notebook in the kitchen, and eat most of our meals together.

It is exciting to live with, and to some extent, live like, the people of Itzapa.  While Maya Pedal has contributed immensely to rural agricultural communities in the area with its machines (especially the bicimaquinas which increase the efficiency of processing corn, assist in making tiles for rooftops, or which pump water uphill for drinking and irrigation), the building itself is not what a typical American would call “fancy”.

The cots we sleep in look like they’re reaching the three-decade mark, sometimes the water refuses to leave the spigot, we’re lacking a sink in one bathroom and a working shower in the other, and as I write this, my housemates are trying to figure out why the lights upstairs aren’t working.

But believe me, this is no complaint.  This is a “hallelujah!”.

View from the roof ("techo") of Maya Pedal.

I grew up in a middle class family in a 2-story house in a quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of town. I never had to worry about having “enough” of anything.  Christmas and birthdays were excessive when I was a child, and the same mess of strewn wrapping paper and mangled boxes that filled the scene in my adolescence remains the norm for my young nieces today.  As soon as one gift has been opened, it is briefly inspected, then literally tossed into a pile to open the next.

Young children can’t be blamed for their reactions; it is a family’s job to teach children respect for materials, and gratitude for them. This is the price of too much wealth.

This year, I won’t be around for the holidays.  I won’t be there to watch feigned appreciation or forced smiles over the wrong gift, or hear the common tune of, “Wow.  How nice. Didn’t you get me one of these last year?  I think I have three already.”

Rather, this year I will be celebrating simply with Carlos and the other volunteers at his home with his family.  “Nadie esta solo en la Navidad” (No one is alone on Christmas) Carlos told me when I inquired about his family’s tradition.

In fact, family is much of the focus in Guatemala, especially for Christmas.

On my way back from hiking Volcan Fuego with a couple of other voluntarios last weekend, I had a conversation about this with a local man in the back of the speeding pickup bed more than half a dozen people were crammed into.

“It’s a religious holiday for us”, he said in Spanish over the revving engine and clashing of the truck’s wheels against the uneven dirt road. “It’s a day to spend with family”.

I fumbled for the words to explain how much different it is in the States, what with the glaring advertisements and holiday decorations towering ominously over the sales racks of Halloween, but I gave up and settled on, “I like it your way better”.

People are always more fun to talk to on public transportation.

This year, there will be no Christmas tree.  There will be no family within a half hour bike ride. There will be no hugs from my parents, my siblings, my nieces and nephew, or even the smell of my mom’s infamous nut bread or lemon squares.

But that’s okay.

My Escape is meant to be a learning experience. You never learn quite so much as when you’re far away from everything familiar, and you’ve up to your neck in avacadoes.

Or something like that.

This year, it’s “feliz navidad” for me, and I hope for you as well.

Simplify, simplify.  Hallelujah.

Thanksgiving with Carlos, Alan (the shop's one employee) and the volunteers.

Fear

"I'm going to be okay, right?," Maggie asked for the tenth time as she paused from packing her bike.

"The answer is always 'yes'," I replied, referencing an inside joke that had been a continuous source of giggles during the week we spent as room mates, work partners and newly-aquainted friends during our stay at Camp and Sons, a WWOOF (www.wwoofusa.org) farm fifteen miles East of Willits, CA.

But Maggie, an eighteen-year-old bike racer-turned-tourist, is on her own now to explore the coast, and she's both excited and nervous about it.

As the automatic gate closed between us, and I watched gravity pull her swiftly down the steep gravel road, I hoped I was right.
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What is it that allows educated, logical, capable, and otherwise-confident women to hold onto so much doubt and fear? I see in Maggie what I see in myself and other female friends who dream big, but need truckloads of encouragement and reassurance to even get out the front door.  Thing is, they, and we, are told the world is not safe for women on their own.
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Months before I left on this trip, I told everyone I knew that I was going to take a year off of school to get an education, and that it would begin with a solo bicycle tour.  I was afraid that if I didn't announce it with gusto, I would back out and watch the dream slip away.

Many told me not to go alone because there are "bad people" out there.  Many asked what kind of weapons I would carry, and would I have a cell phone at all times, "just in case"?  

I let people tell me horror stories and exaggerated statistics.  I let them instill in me a mountain of worry, larger than any mountain I would physically climb, and I projected all of my fear onto one lonely road that to me represented all remote mountain roads I had never ridden: Highway 36.

The 36 is a 140-mile winding road that connects Red Bluff and Eureka, crossing the mighty Coast Ranges.  There are very few towns from Red Bluff until the coast, limited cell phone reception, and few cars.

No cars?  Sounds perfect, right?

Unfortunately, fear is a powerful driving force in my life, and I associate more traffic with safety; where there are people, there is help.  When I am alone, it is just me. If I need help, there is no one.

Just me, only me.  Alone.

And so, I did not ride across the Coast Ranges, and instead hitchhiked from Redding, which some might consider the riskier option.

Slightly defeated, and a little disappointed in myself, I continued on my journey, sometimes on roads with generous shoulders, and a few times on badly-paved narrow ones, the constant being a reliably heavy flow of traffic.

On the worst of them (a long stretch of 101 South of Crescent City, for example), I would hug what remained of the decaying white line and whisper-chant, "One revolution, revolution at a time," a mantra and reminder that every turn of the wheel is a step and a moment in a positive direction.  As I braced for the impact of every passing truck, I would try to reassure myself that I was getting closer to safety with every downward push on the pedals.

On what was scheduled to be my last night in Arcata, a local cyclist told me about a  short-cut to Bridgeville (and Stone Lake Farm, my next destination after Arcata) that would save me 15 miles, an extra day, and the hassle and danger of cars on the 36: Kneeland Road, the extreme opposite of the roads I have become accustomed to.

Kneeland is one of the most beautiful roads I have ever ridden, but it is by far the most challenging road I have ever ridden as well.

It wasn't the steep, winding hills that got to me, but rather the unexpected gravel which made up about half of the 45-mile country road.  After many miles and hours of dipping and weaving through foothills, I was totally surrounded by mountains, and very much alone.  Only one car passed me after the road officially turned to gravel, and because I have road, not mountain bike tires, and 90 pounds of bike and gear, I resorted to pushing (or more accurately, dragging and heaving) Salsa up just about every incline. 

After more miles, and more hills, and more hours distanced me from the last human I had seen, I grew increasingly aware of my frailty.  What began as a physical struggle to move my bike and my self, soon morphed into a struggle not to panic.

Kneeland Road

Between the dozens of prominent "NO TRESPASSING" signs and posted declarations that this area is patrolled by the local gun club, I did not feel very welcome on Kneeland. Adding to my worry was my concern that if I ran out of water, there might not be anywhere to refill for many miles. In addition, I needed quick, wholesome energy, and had not packed any fresh fruit because I knew I was headed to a farm where such a staple would be plentiful. Furthermore, I had changed my plans last-minute, and only two people knew where I was, and without cell reception, I couldn't call anyone anyway.

Just me. And Kneeland.

By six o' clock, it was clear that I needed to find a place to camp.  The road began to curve again, and I came across a small herd of cows.  "Follow the cows..." I thought to myself, glad to see another mammal.  A minute later, the road straightened out, and there on my left, just a little way down the hill, was my five-star luxury suite for the night: a weathered but sturdy-looking barn.
I checked that no one was around to see me scrambling down the hill in barn's direction (I was not terribly surprised to find myself still very much alone in the middle of nowhere) and surveyed my hideout.

The barn was nearly full of hay and it would have been pointless to try and open the door, so I climbed up the outer logs of the perimeter, then slid onto the neatly stacked bales. Yes.

Luxurious barn

While I cannot truthfully say that the sound of animals creeping about in the night didn't alarm me, or that I didn't clutch my machete like a teddy bear, that barn was the best place I could have slept that night. I also won't pretend that the following morning's bike-hiking was without the previous day's doubt and worry, or that when I finally reached that bright green beacon ("Bridgeville, 7 miles") I wasn't tempted to fall to my knees and weep, I am glad that I chose the route. 

Praise be.

In fact, I hope to ride Kneeland again, and again.  I hope to ride Kneeland Roads all over the world until I come to terms with the fact that sometimes it will just be me on my own, and I can take care of myself.  As Chico musician John Staedler sings, "There's nothing to be afraid of/ You are in control".

In the end, by the time I left Humboldt County, I had ridden almost exactly half of the 36-- the half I am told is the more important part to avoid when cycling-- and wasn't phased by it.
I am not cured, but I am getting closer.

Whatever it is that holds us back, keeps us down and whispers, "it isn't safe out there," there is something equally strong pushing us forward, lifting us up, and telling us to do it anyway.

To all women of all ages: What are your dreams, and what keeps you from reaching for them?

 All it takes is one revolution at a time.

Stone Lake Farm

There's nothing quite like the sound of a shovel scraping goat droppings from the packed dirt floor of a barn. There's also nothing quite as soothing as making this activity part of your daily routine.

I lived and worked at Stone Lake Farm for two weeks. On my second day, I told Francis, the man who runs this homestead, that I didn't feel like I was earning my keep with the simple chores I had been asked to do.

"Just wait til tomorrow.  We'll be hauling logs off the mountain for firewood" he said after his usual long, contemplative pause.

Yet despite the sometimes smelly, sometimes messy, sometimes physically demanding work it takes to keep a piece of land self-sufficient, my weeks on this WWOOF (World Wide Oppurtunities on Organic Farms www.wwoofusa.org) farm were far more enjoyable than anything.

My day typically began around 8AM when I woke naturally, turned off my alarm before the unbearable screeching could start, and shuffled through the shelves of dry goods (beans, rice, flour, spices) that were provided as part of my work-trade, and made pancakes and eggs from the farm chickens. A cup of fresh herb tea, tahini, goat cheese and garden greens completed the meal as I gazed out one of the many large windows in the Octagon, a solar-powered log cabin available to interns there.

From 10AM-2PM I worked on the day's project. This could be stacking wood for the winter, painting signs, making a scare crow, coring and peeling apples and pears for sauce, or gathering herbs for drying.

Earth and moon decorations for hanging in trees on.  Made of salvaged oil drum tops.

 

Lunch was an all-you-can-eat buffet from the garden: all kinds of greens, tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, carrots, beets, potatoes, apples, rasberries, strawberries and herbs, and something hot and filling cooked in a carboard and aluminum foil solar oven, which requires a little change of positioning and a few hours of afternoon sun to cook.  You can literally cook and bake anything in it besides twinkies (only because twinkies aren't food)and it will never burn. One day's meal was kamut-cornbread and chili and a nice strawberry goat-cheese cake for dessert!

Mmm! Salad!

Rice and beans, heated by the sun!

At 5:30, I fed the chickens, refilled the goats' water, cleaned up after them, and sent them to pasture by luring them out of their pen with tempting greens or apples. 

At sunset, Francis and I would watch the sky turn pink over the mountains of the Coast Range, and make a fire when it got dark.  Even though it was just the two of us, and neither of us really left the farm, it was hard to miss the city (the closest is a 2-hour drive) and all of its conveniences, bustle and noise.

There, I could simply relax, carve a spoon, write down my thoughts, take my time, paint, hug goats, and harvest the bounty of the garden. I adored carrying my bok choy and rosemary, an egg, a handful of basil, an apple or two back to the Octagon.  I took pleasure in slicing my carrots and seeing progress in the solar oven.  Living [mainly] off what the land provides is how people have always lived (until recently) and will have to live again.

I picked up Ernest Callenbach's Ecotopia (1975) from the bookshelf in the cabin during the first week, and was barely able to set it down until I finished it. 

It's a fictional account of a future in which Northern California, Oregon and Washington secede from the United States and form a seperate country called Ecotopia, from the perspective of an American journalist who visits to report on whether rumors of barbarianism and squallor are true.

The story quickly reveals Ecotopia's history- the demolition and reconstrucition of government, businesses and cities, the abolition of petrochemicals, plastic and cars, the restoration of forests and waterways, and the establishment of train networks, small towns and communes.

Reading this book and living on this farm got me thinking about the future again, and the paradigm shift that has to happen sooner or later (and wondering why it can't be now).  

If only people were like the goats at Stone Lake; just wave a rotting apple and some cumphrey leaves, and they come running.  They'll follow you anywhere for the promise of something sweet or something crunchy.

For now, I'll be content to shovel manure and pick chard and learn what I can, both at the farm and on the road.  I could have happily lived there for months, but I really must keep walking (and biking) this path until I am ready to lead with confidence.

First, become educated.

Then, educate others.

Tell them how sweet those apples are, then toss them as far as you can , and watch them dash into the open field with the breathtaking view of the Earth.