eve of school

harvest time, overload, abundance. the kitchen window sill is full of tomatoes, left to right, two layers deep. there are baskets and boxes of apples and plums on and under the counters and the dehydrater and slowcooker are both working around the clock. We've had a week of rain, a taste of what's to come, but no cold mornings yet. The freezer was found dripping and wet one day, having been unplugged somehow. It was a chance to make decisions about some long term residents in back corners, and I came face to face with the plastic bag full of snappis of my milk. I ended up, ironically, with a surplus a couple years ago, having found that my kid didn't like the taste of the lipase that is a result of freezing milk, and also because he weaned. It was sacred stuff though, and I didn't know what rite or ceremony was fitting for it's disposal. And then the freezer thawed and there it was and that night, it came to me that it needed to go in the creek. Down the creek and to the ocean. And so it did. I sent it on it's way, without telling anyone else, and cried a little, remembering the blood and sweat and fevers and medications and begging and sleep deprivation and tears that milk cost me. Loving that my body had made it, that I had made it through that time. Thinking of how often spilled milk actually IS cried over. I was saddened by the slowly peeling strips of painters tape alongside the milk containers, where I recorded the time and amount, in mills, of how much I had squeezed out of me with each hand pump session. There were some containers that were two thirds cream, thick and whitish yellow, superfood for developing brains. Off it went, down this little rainforest creek, among cedar roots and banks of moss, salmon berries and elders, off to join the next creek and then half a kilometer down, the Salish Sea, the Pacific Ocean. It's a fitting time to say goodbye to those last physical remnants of that time, of the first handful of years of my child's life, as he starts kindergarten this week. I am not more ready for or enthusiastic about public school than I ever have been but this is happening and as my dear neighbour mom friend reminds me, don't fret (it's what I do) and take it a day at a time. There are other options. For me and many others, that option would ideally be village life. Those that are apt, teach those that are young, a mixed age group. Outside, inside, math and skills through the work. Or, if not that, an option where felix's passions are supported, built upon, the restoration, the archaeology, the watches, the fine motor control. Where seasonality and natural rhythms are followed and natural products are used and music and mythology and storytelling are central and art is a big deal and tradition. Oh, right, that's waldorf. Will a gaggle of waldorf enthusiasts and teachers just move up here already?! I could be, 'should' be providing those things, but I am barely holding it all down as it is. My career, the garden, the property maintenance, the domestic work, the childcare, and trying to pursue some of my own passions. A horse ride, a fiddle jam, yoga in the mornings. If I had a real partner, if only, the things I could accomplish. If there were two adults here, both bursting with energy and motivation...; this is a frequent thought, the sky would be the limit. The potential is incredible. But my coparent shows up sometimes, somedays, sometimes all of him, sometimes just some parts are present. And sometimes just for a while before suddenly he's in the grip of something and speeds off, gravel flying, in truck or on motorbike. Felix says, papa shatters our peace. He says I can't let papa see me crying! He says, Papa is like the Earth, and the feelings he can control are like the thin Earth crust and the rest of him is hot molten magma and there are diggers on the crust and they're excavating sometimes and then lava explodes out.