Summer of free play

This summer I conducted a little social experiment. Other than vacations, I scheduled myself and the ball of fire to do nothing! That's right, not one camp, class, sport or volunteer activity. Zero scheduling. 

Things did not go quite as planned.

First some back ground. Since my son was four we have partook in some form of extra activity. Soccer, swimming, lego classes, art classes, volunteering for Harvesters, vision therapy, tutoring and Sylvan. All had their time and purpose to enrich, engage or advance skills. But it also resulted in very little time at home in the evenings, soccer tournaments all weekend on Mother's Day weekend and many late night crying sessions because there was still cleaning, laundry and chores to be done. (Yes, that was me.) 

Everyone of those activities had value. I'm glad we did them. Eventually we will do them all again in some form. But not this summer. 

I was reading a great article recently on overbooked Americans. The author boldly suggested that being "busy" was being a "lazy" person. How is that possible? Busy seems the antonym of lazy. He suggested that it was lazy in the fact that you spent no time developing yourself, meditating, spending time in silence, reading, relaxing. Basically you were on autopilot so often that your brain was becoming lazy. 

This spoke to me. It was exactly the feeling that predicated the summer of free play. We had days and days of summer to do nothing but run in the sprinker (me) or wade in the creek (ball of fire.) 

Now, where we went awry is that we are one of the FEW families on the planet who don't schedule. Many attempts at pool days with friends or sleep overs were thwarted by baseball, swim team, birthday parties or soccer camp. More often than not, it was me and the BOF rambling around the yard or watching movies. Often he would play outside alone, imagining some quest that ended in an epic battle with dragons. 

But I stuck to my guns. No scheduling. He vacationed with me, his dad and spent his customary week on the farm with my parents. He had a schedule, it was just very loose and generous. 

This week I asked him if he had a good summer, as school is looming just a mere three weeks away. He looked at me, smiled and said "Mom, it was one of the best summers yet!"

Maybe this social experiement can be called a success after all. 

I like the smell of compost … and other strange facts

Fact: I like the smell of my compost bin. I cannot accurately describe the smell. Despite years of honing my professional writing skills, one cannot completely convey the smell of organic decay. And really, most normal people don’t even try.

Not author's actual bin

Let me back up and explain. For Christmas, my dad bought me the coolest little compost bin so I could start degrading my left-over vegetable matter into rich organic fertilizer for my flower beds and garden.

 

Yes. We are garden, compost, rain barrel, solar lighting, wind turbine people. It happens. Accept and move on.

 

When the summer months finally arrived, my compost experiment began. First, I am not doing it correctly. Of this I am sure.

 

My dad will open his little magic compost door and this amazing black soil will come out that is then transferred to his tomatoes, which are the most red, plump and juicy, which he then creates cans and cans of juice and sauce and salsa. Voila.

 

I open my little magic compost door and the grass clippings I dropped in there in May poke out. No black magic.

 

But as the summer warmed up, as the moisture worked and the coffee grounds, egg shells and vegetable tops melded, they created this sweet earthy love note that I will occasionally lift the lid just to enjoy.

 

I grew up in a rural spec of Missouri just outside of St. Louis. That earthy smell reminds me so much of home but at different moments in time. Like in the summer after it rains and the small pond in the back field is full again and that organic stew at the bottom rises to the top. Or in the winter when the cows are huddled in the barn, chewing hay, switching their tails and warming the barn with their solid bodies and warm breath. Or the musty damp smell of the cellar when you bounce down to get some of last year’s potatoes from the bin.

 

When I was a kid, all I wanted to do was move to the city. Now I live in the city and bring back small pieces of the farm to my suburb. And occasionally smell the compost, and reminisce.