May 5, 2010 at 7:31 pm
Learning machines.
by Mike
(This post refers to the time we spent with the Catholic back-to-the-land family in southwest France).
I killed my first fowl on this trip, it was a guinea fowl, practically a chicken. I didn’t actually kill it, rather I held its legs and wings while Gabriel put a knife through its jugular, but I was a pretty-involved accomplice, so it counts in my book. As the blood drained I expected it to squawk or kick or something, to freak out, you know?, but it didn’t react, even as the knife went in. The bird only convulsed after it was already dead, and it was so strong I thought I’d hurt my hand. The bright red blood, which drained into the slop bucket, was fed to the pigs. (read more)
The most unexpected part of holding the fowl was that it was warm. I guess I don’t know what I expected, but the feet felt like human fingers. It’s kinda like when you imagine kissing a person, but you forget to imagine saliva, and it totally changes everything.
City boys have written about killing their first chickens before, so I won’t go into it. It wasn’t an emotional experience for me. But as we were plucking the feathers I told Didier how amazing it was that I’d only killed my first fowl after 30 years.
“I got a good education in high school and college, I’m happy about what I learned and it was relevant for what it was… but it wasn’t…”
“…essential.” He offered.
“Yes.”
“The root of the word ‘essential’ is ‘essence’ or ‘truth.’ You weren’t educated about the truth…”
“… of how our bodies mix with the earth.” I said.
“Exactly.”
Didier and I were on the same page a lot, some of his rants could have come from my mouth. The ones about how companies have a stake in keeping their employees powerless, how it’s good for capitalism that people be vaguely afraid about the future, and so on.
When he taught us about the medicinal herbs in the garden I took tons of notes, but I had a hard time accessing what I’d been taught. I’d look at a plant and look closer at its leaves and compare it to my notes and would be too unsure to declare it Citronelle! or Lemon Pepper! or whatever. I said this time and again, and I’ll repeat it here:
“Learning to identify plants is like learning to read for the first time.”
People ask us often, “So, the kids could leave school at 15? How did he educate them?”
I was curious about this too. One day we went for a ride with Didier and his oldest son. They sat in the front seat, we sat in the back. As they drove, Didier pointed to the sky and talked about the movement of the clouds. He pointed to the hills and talked about the rock formations and the fossils. He talked about the fields that the neighbors were sowing. His son pointed to a sea gull that was out of place here. His son talked about the history of some old structures on their land. His son talked about planting by the moon and how it was a good guide but not the last word. His son talked about finding fennel by looking for a larger reed, because fennel grows at its feet.
Azure with her wild salad.
In other words, Didier taught his children about the land and the plants and the weather and the animals and natural systems and Catholicism. He taught them the things that he considered essential.
They might not know a lot of the academic stuff we consider foundations of knowledge, but they’ve learned how to have a relationship with the earth, and I think that’s fundamentally healthy.
