Blog #3: Build that Barn!

Mercedes loving the wilderness classroom at Zoar Gap

Though adventures take hours like eagles take site,

Academics appear left and right,

New England timelines with skits to perform,

Ripping through a poem’s skin, counting every grain of corn.

Restless we may be it seems,

For backpacks need completed seams.

We work into chapters of the night,

Hannah’s birthday cake quenches quite.

We wake to greet history,

Of lakes, rivers, ponds and streams.

In inflatable vessels we glide across,

The Connecticut River, in gnus we waft

The air is thick with sewage fair,

For from a plant it drains right there,

What goes through toilets travels here,

Is chlorinated, shifted, and smeared.

We see faces carved in native rock,

Long before the dam or lock.

We welcome Lexington eighth graders,

Teaching them our ways and, later,

Ice cream in our watering mouths,

Liquid dairy sugar shouts.

And so begins adventure two,

Deerfield Expedition Gnu (an inflatable white water vessel)!

Pumpkin pie to start our ride

Connecticut River study guide.

There is no hesitation at all,

Straight to the rapids, ready for fall.

Catching eddies and surfing too,

Nothing forgiving as a gnu.

Flipping will happen: it can’t be uprooted,

If you think otherwise Misha will prove it.

Stopping, devouring bagels on land,

Eating whatever we drop on the sand,

Swallowing grapes that grow along the way,

To relieve the adrenalin of Zor Gap’s blaze (big white water rapids).

The current that’s sucking us in like a hose,

Must mean above water we keep our toes and nose.

We walk to our camp and Misha makes soup,

The sweetest soup you ever could scoop.

Our semester prepares for presentations,

A Connecticut River knowledge compilation.

Sleeping on the forest floor,

Without a tarp, for rain no more.

Joined by Pasha in the night,

The paddler artist to protect us from fright.

For SAL the sea monster rules the waters,

Abide by her rules or you will flip over.

Speed, angle, lean and hope that you’re clean,

Before you reach a rapid class three.

Zoar Gap may have been a success,

But now we turn back to flip on purpose,

Four rescuers save the poor paddlers,

Before they get bruised on the rocks where it’s faster.

We reach the van and begin on home,

But soon the drips of oil roam,

So we must drive as slow we can,

Until we reach Bellows Falls in our van.

There we are dropped to look through a tunnel,

But culture shock sucks us into the funnel.

Though nothing shocks us quite as much,

As scoop shop ice cream for the bunch.

“Ice cream this late in the season and evening,

is proof of climate change.” ~Misha’s revealing.

And again upon arrival it seems,

We’ve been gone much longer than just one evening.

The skits are now ready to perform,

humble scribe thanks parents for their kids being born.

Not a soul here on semester could deny,

Theatric abilities and wisdom inside.

Merrin, the dramatic reader of hunters,

Declan makes the perfect grandmother,

The Isiah Davis shouts in the forest,

Mercedes and Emily reading their chorus.

Hannah’s folks we love you so,

For the cake that you brought us with frosting aglow.

The community gathers to witness slide shows,

Of adventures in New Finland, Ecuador, and, Oh!

Inspiring eyes of semester students,

Cotopaxi seeming so close we can touch it.

A day of rest to manifest

Preparation of Solo flesh,

With lack of dinner in our stomachs,

The deep of the forest touches our buttocks.

We sit as solitary dreamers,

While some are visited by beavers.

Others watch the sky that pass,

From treetops or fallen leaves and grass.

Coyotes are wailing in the night,

Without our headlamps, the stars light our sight.

Now begins a week of structure,

When it ends we will be elsewhere,

South of here to be precise.

So we try to speak Spanish most of the time.

And start construction on the sides of the barn,

Our semester’s tattoo on the Kroka farm.

Power tools spin with noise,

Gouges and chisels, sawing of joys.

We prepare for Parent’s Weekend,

When such surprises await, you’d better attend.

~

“To laugh is to risk appearing the fool,

to weep is to risk appearing sentimental,

to reach out for another is to risk involvement,

to expose feelings is to risk exposing your true self,

to place your ideas, your dreams before groups is to risk their loss,

to love is to risk not being loved in return,

to live is to risk dying,

to hope is to risk despair,

to try is to risk failure,

but risks must be taken, because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing. The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing, and is nothing. He may avoid suffering and sorrow, but he simply cannot learn, feel, change, grow, love, live. Chained by his certitudes, he is a slave, he has forfeited freedom.

Only a person who risks is free.”

~Seneca (nobody knows my name)

Misha explains the ways of the river.

Jamie and Zander paddle the green gnu

Emily balances on the railroad track

Are those rubber duckies or students preparing to paddle the Amazon?

Dan and Declan working with the river

Merrin and Grace paddling the gnu

Declan helping split wood with Davicho for next winter

Zander becoming a seasoned bike mechanic

Students enjoying English class

Declan and Ella presenting the story of Johnny Appleseed

Isiah shares his musical talents

Grace drills into a column for the barn

Lydia using the handsaw

Jacob learning alongside Roberto and Bill

Blog #2: Bikes & Farms

On clouded days in haze in daze

Humidity penetrates fluently

“It all began with ice erosion flame,”

says Emily Turner.

“Rocks are the earth’s skeleton, mountains are its skin, and humans are the cosmetics.”

And so we tread earth’s flesh of dread on double-wheeled machines,

The breeze that brushes Connecticut River blows us swiftly in between.

The miles pass, sun doesn’t last, the mountain state of green,

Though tires pop, we cannot stop until we reach Harlow Farm.

With beefalos we sleep and insect fleets but first the man named Paul,

Will tell the stories of his farm organic certification and all.

1000 meat birds and hundreds of acres,

Jamaicans harvesting beets and tomatoes.

Grossing nearly two million a year,

Organic was not always seen as sincere.

There is sweet corn and eggplants galore,

The size of the place means there are lots to explore.

In times like these people must be fed,

Regardless the amount of love it can get. 

Now hills begin to slope and lift,

And sweat remains on face and lip.

Soon we reach one of twelve tribes,

Basin they call themselves, faith leads their lives,

A community where no one leaves,

And everyone lives for another it seems.

Codes for living and dances in circles,

Songs of their savior and welcoming smiles.

No change we can make since the fall of man more,

“is this empty vein life what I was created for?”

Barefoot in their gardens fair, squash does fill the field,

As long as they are happy in community they are free.

“Self love is a paradox…

“Love is like a gun, you can only point it in one direction.”

~Lemuel, an elder of Basin

Their mate is the sweetest gem,

They will not let us do dishes for them.

And as we part we realize,

How lucky we are to be born with individuality and freedom in our lives.

So begins an epic adventure much longer than we planned.

Over the mountain, through the rain, terrain of rock and sand.

Instead of left on Heller Rd,

Biked up hills of doom with loads,

Only to loop around back to Heller,

Mike, Jesse, and Tashi wait patiently with well-earned dinner.

The night is such a festive one,

Singing and strumming guitars with our thumbs.

Couches are foreign as goose-cherry pie,

But cuddles we welcome with chocolate chip cookies and milk, oh my!

God, the night is the holder of casualties,

Restlessness, sick, and encounters with trees,

And so upon waking semester decides,

That we will make tinctures and stay one more night.

Michael shows plans for seaworthy vessels,

And then we all sleep like boulders and pebbles.

But early to rise at 5 o’clock sharp,

Peanut butter jelly wraps, taking down tarps.

Instead of semester’s guide masterful Dan,

Mayah leads us and our bikes to Fairwinds.

Breakfast of oatmeal, yogurt, and tea,

Horse powered hay lifting at warp speed. 

Harvesting squashes and pumpkins and such,

While Jamie and Emily prepare the lunch.

Now we travel to Brattleboro,

To watch and enjoy a festival.

Paper and cardboard political messages,

Bread and aioli with bits of violence.

U.S. made bombs dropping in clusters,

In Yemen they say with body part dancers.

After brief surrealist pageant Bread and Puppet,

We head on to Hobbit land faster than rockets.

Though vigor is grand with apple filled stomachs,

We bike till the sun dies over mountainous buttocks.

Literally. Directly. Up.

And as we wake and hit the road,

Like rabbits run from foxy wolves.

And as we arrive we realize,

It feels like home more than time flies.

Heading out!

Lydia and Mayah doing bike maintenance

Bathing in the Connecticut River

Lydia preparing lunch with the Earth's bounty

Spunhungen cooking dinner

Declan feeding the fire

Learning from Michael's handmade bows

Fairwinds Farm

Jacob and Emily in the hayloft 

Pumpkin Harvest!

Bread and Puppet

Returning home to Kroka

Blog #1: First Week at Kroka

Ladies, gentlemen and children of all shapes and sizes, we are the Kroka Ecuador Semester 2015. 

I, your humble scribe, am here to let you know that your kids are all still in one piece, parents.

Your siblings are partying harder than you with chickens and kasha, brothers and sisters.

Your friends are blessed and burdened by living in Hobbit land.

Though legs may ache and infections pus, fear not,

for we sing before meals, touch fingers in circles,

wake before sunrise, ukulele rehearsals.

Though mornings are chilly we work up a sweat

Or yoga in boathouses we never regret.

It’s the candlelight in the center of our circle, surrounded by darkness and stars.

Though only first week semester agrees

It feels like we’ve been here since 2013.

Pedaling to ponds and bakeries, we revel and rejoice and we sing,

            “tierra mi cuerpo,

             aire mi aliento,

             agua mi sangre,

             y fuego mi espiritu,”

Instead of store-bought overpriced sadness,

we thread the machine and sew our own backpacks.

Prussik, figure 8, trucker hitch, bowline,

knots we must tie or we can’t fly an airline.

Mountains call louder than roosters at dawn,

yet peaceful as walks to Beaver Pond.

We all have big jobs fulfill these coming months:

Dan – the Navigator

Declan – the Bureaucrat

Jamie – the Shaman

Emily – the Kitchen Queen and Food Processor

Mayah – the Home Mama and Camp Manager

Ella – the Food Manager

Isiah – the Historian

Merin – the Energy and Fire Manager

Lily – the Farm and Garden Manager

Mercedes – the Craft Manager

Zander – the Gear Manager

Jacob – your Humble Scribe

Grace – the Hygiene Queen

Lydia – the Maestro Mayor and Bike Manager

Basil and ginger fill our nostrils in the kitchen while the morning dew dampens our bare toes.

We take English and Permaculture in the big yurt

and Jupiter nights of wisdom to burst.

            “I am lost in creation, I am found in confusion.”  

~Isiah

Perhaps the reason it feels like we’ve been here so long

is in one day the growth and awareness we've received in our minds;

has been intricately woven through our heads

by our teachers, animals, garden and breath.

We’ve bounded with organisms, poems and horses,

wood splitting, fire licking dance of the forest.

Diving off rock faces, chaga in bowls,

cayenne in everything keeping us full.

Koru the baby may break glass,

But his smile sings in the hearts in our class.

Que hora es?

Have I rambled or dangled? Was I not perfectly clear?

Do you have the slightest idea what we are doing here?

I hope you do for it is my job to make it so, you see.

We miss you, we love you, dearly indeed…

Send us chocolate please.

Sincerely,

your Humble Scribe, Jacob

                                                             

~

A Poem for the Sun

From far up in the blue,

My love’s light does rain down

and wherever I step,

the sun’s shine falls around.

Each and every new day

I awake without light

Fresh from my dreams

of a long ago night.

And as I arise

and I go for a run,

I watch for a glimmer

Of fresh morning sun.

And although the warm light

Remains (for now) far away

I smile, and greet him,

and welcome the day.

“May you kiss the sun and turn from it,

certain that it will love your back.”

~ by Mayah

Badger Balm Bill’s Quotations

“As a carpenter, my fingers would dry and crack in the winter. I would cover them in olive oil and beeswax under plastic bags at night in bed. One night Katie turns to me and says, ‘That’s pathetic, you can do better than that.’ ‘’

“An atomic bomb has a start and a finish. The invisible powers we can’t measure, locate or weigh like love, compassion and beauty are infinite.”

“When I was young, I was freakin fascinated by herbs.”

PHOTOS

(simply click photo to see the full size image)

Zander and Lynne working with Brita at morning chores

Schedule for the week

Ella working joyfully on the expedition backpacks

Jacob focused on the perfect stitch

View of the Kroka teepee from a thirsty lawn

Evening reading in the Big Yurt

Lydia and Grace writing reflections in the field with laundry drying on the rack

 

Marcela teaching

Students working with Bill Whyte, founder of the W.S. Badger Co.

Grace, Zander, and Jamie stacking wood together

Marcela showing Lydia and Declan something magical

Emily enjoying meaningful work