A Curriculum of Compassion

As you may or may not know, we are a family that has chosen to "do" school here at home (and in the car and on the road and in the grass and under trees...). As you also may or may not know, this endeavor has been the source of both great joy and personal angst. 

Throughout this journey (officially seven years but, in reality, twelve) I have struggled with maintaining autonomy in our learning practices, all the while not succumbing to the demon of comparison, approval from others, or a general yet, ginormous, fear of failure.

It is true--homeschooling is not for the faint-hearted. But neither is parenting so I'm not so different from any other person who has chosen to walk with young people.

Oh, how I need these hands to hold.

Additionally, I bring to this educational endeavor all of my mixed up, conflicted selves -- The good girl who likes to please those who are watching as well as the rebel who will do what she wants anyway. I want structured chaos. I want to disciple and detox. I want to set a course and then take the fork when it presents itself. I want to showcase and shelter. I want good behavior and wild abandon.

But most of all?

I pray that my scattered deposits into the lives of these gorgeous people will be my gift to the world. I hope that our journey in loving and learning will be a polestar for my children and that its light will always fall across their paths.

Generally, we are very relaxed and eclectic in the way that we do school. I've always shied away from curriculum in a box and, if pushed, have just let go and handed over the reins to my boys. My oldest son prefers that approach anyway. He has declared, on more than one occasion, that he would rather "just be in charge of [his] own learning", thank you very much. But then time will pass and I will look around me and I will wring my hands over the fact that we haven't mastered times tables or spelling and suddenly I become all business.

It is this hemming and hawing that feeds the angst. This has been the cycle.

And then last October I had a baby and in April my mom died and suddenly I find myself staring down an entire year that has spun wildly off its axis. Navigating the last eleven months has been like stumbling around in the dark and all I want is someone to turn on the light and point the way. But here we are, almost to September, and I need to hunker down and lay down some semblance of a map for us to follow.

Even if all I have are some crumbs.

And then #Ferguson happened and, once again, there is that wild spinning...

And I am forced to lay it all before the One that knows it all. Because, if I know anything at all, it is this:

I cannot, and will not, 

separate our slow steps forward 

from the truth that is #Ferguson.

This "learning" that we do?

If it is to be all that I desire it to be, if it is to leave marks that cannot be rubbed away from the hearts of my little men, if it is to offer anything to the globe upon which we dance--then it must open space for the suffering and lament of others. Because, in the end, all we have is each other, friends and so we must enter into the hard places. Together.

It came to me in the quiet of the morning, in that corner of space that gives birth to light and dew drops and revelation.

From now on, from this day forward, in this spot of a place that houses boys and weeds and love, we will study a curriculum of compassion. It will be the sound of our feet stepping into the suffering of others that will tune our hearts to what changes the world. It will be our willingness to hang everything of value onto the framework of brokenness that will cut open our shuttered hearts and make us open vessels for renewal.

This must be. I know this with a certainty that belies my usual conflicted self. This must be because this is the way to glory.

The truth of my heart doesn't want to walk that way. Not really. But the desire of my heart is to walk in this way and I want my boys to walk this path. I want to grab those hands of theirs, squeeze tight and confess that I have no idea what I am doing--what we are doing--but here we go anyway.

Because to continue on as if #Ferguson was just an anomaly and not indicative of a greater experience for an entire group of people is to purposely choose the garb of privilege. I'm ready to risk my position and call out the Emperor. I will no longer pretend that the clothes fit.

Instead, I want us to choose threads colored by sacrifice and suffering, humility and hospitality, love and loss and weave them into new wineskins.

I want my boys to learn that nothing in the Kingdom is earned. Not a single thing. Life together is about grace upon grace and mercy untold. The value of a person is not based on how forcefully they pull up their boot straps or under whose roof they are born. No, this Kingdom living? It is directed by how well we share our weaknesses, how willing we are to reveal that which we do not know, how empty we are willing to get. This is where we must begin. This is where love is born.

So this weaving we will do? It will begin small.

The weft and the warp threads will be set through the silent and often unseen actions. We will fill the bird feeders and water the zinnias. We will continue as a family to read aloud books like Wonder and A Long Walk to Water and then sit with the difficult questions that stir up from their truths.

But my prayer is that we will keep walking forward, into the foggy valleys. I want us to hone our vision so that our eyes become keen to the needs of our community. I hope to move closer to an "us" mentality rather than one that hisses "them." May it come to be that we seek to grow smaller so that others can grow taller. We will study History by listening to all of the voices--Bauer, Zinn, Douglass, Steinem, AND Schweickart--no matter how uncomfortable they make us feel.

But most importantly--I need your help. I need your voice. Every last beautiful one of you. Because this course of study is a river and it is fed by many sources. You and your life? Please speak into ours. Let us ripple into each other.

"It is from the numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal or acts to improve the lot of others or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance." 

-- Robert F. Kennedy

For such is the way of peace.


Photo credit: Andrew Hyde

In which I begin the great unwinding

I suppose it has been a bit obvious, has it not?

The fewer blog posts.
Not as many comments at the end of others' pieces, if they manage to get read at all.
A diminishing Klout score.

Less of a presence.

On line, that is.

But, really, it has just been the beginning of a great unwinding. And as these days melt, one into another, and as I approach the day when life turns upside down, once again, I find my heart and mind being drawn elsewhere.

I am very much at home these days.

++++++++++


Ann Voskamp wrote once about how mother ducks "pick feathers from their chests to line their nests" and now I understand.

“How else did you think nests were lined?”

With leftovers.

That’s what I thought.

With feathers discarded, the molted, the not-so-necessary feathers.

I thought mother ducks picked feathers up from what was laying about, scraps, lining nests with what simply could be mustered after the fact.

But no. No, a mother duck plucks each feather out from the heart of her bosom.

She lines the nest with bits of herself — the best of herself.  

A mother cups her brood not with leftovers — but with her own sacrifice.

++++++++++++++

As I have begun preparing for a new baby to enter into my, and my family's, life I am having to let go of some things that I have been holding close.

I need to begin the sacrifice of my online presence.

Saying that out loud is like sounding the death knell to a modern writer. Stop blogging? No more tweets? No more platform building?

But at the end of that line of questioning and after a small but monumental silence, I stand resolute.

When I wash clothes and then hang them on the line to dry, it is a process that takes time. Each piece must be snapped free of wrinkles, clipped on with clothespins and arranged just so. When the task is completed it makes for an impressive sight, colors flapping in the wind, displayed for all to see. Work has been done and now the sun works her magic.
But if I don't hang my clothes on the line and, instead, choose to place them in the dryer, inside of my house, the work is still being done.
It just isn't seen by the whole neighborhood.

That is how things are needing to shift around these parts.

I am slowly bringing the work inside.

My sweet baby has been leading the way already. With each passing day he has been growing and stretching into the space within which he finds himself. And he has been doing it most beautifully.

But soon, his space will spill over into our space and we want to be ready.

So we are moving things from here to there. We are relieving ourselves of things no longer needed. We are welcoming, with open arms, the generosity of family and friends.

We are making room.

++++++++

This slow unwinding has made me aware in ways that I haven't been, for quite some time...

Aware of the way the sun light moves across the floor and walls of my living room, highlighting corners and gilding rough edges and generally making all things beautiful.

Aware of the ticking that comes from the small desk clock upon the shelf, reminding me of every.single.moment.

Aware of how conversations, connected throughout a day, can build bridges of thought and understanding and revelation to everyone involved.

Aware of the power of touch and eye contact and how melting into both provides a balm for heart space that you didn't even realize was rough and hardened.

And, most importantly, aware that every day is full of gifts to unwrap and in order to fully receive that multitude, one must not be looking askance.

So, friends, I am beginning the great unwinding.  I am letting the yarn unravel as it will. It will probably look quite untidy for a bit. Perhaps there will be tangles. But, together, my family and I are letting the colored strands fall into our open hands and, together, we will knit together new garments.

I believe I already like the fit of them.

+++++++

Photo credit: Ben Hosking via Flickr

Again

Unscripted. Unedited. Real.

Writing for five minutes.

A sort of writing flash mob.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Again, it happens.

First, his words.

Then, my inward wince and the inevitable tug on the one loose thread that dangles in my periphery.

I struggle to keep it steady, that thread. I will it to stay connected in all the right places, feeling its pulsing connection with the garment wrapped tightly round my heart. Knowing that one good pull will begin a great unraveling and soon my heart won't be the only thing naked on the floor.

And, again, I choose wrongly.

For some days, no amount of teeth clenching or deep-breath-taking or willing.it.away... can stop the torrent of vitriol that spills from my mouth. And in a blink, the thread lies in a pool and its shapeless form mirrors my heart space.

Again, I have failed him.

Again.

Again.

Again.

And eyes become shimmering pools and faces blur and why can't I err more on the side of grace and less on that of spoil?

And everyone just wants a do over.

Again.

Gathering beauty

That boy I love? He and I have been talking about space these last few days.

In a twinkling, we've seen how the leaves on the maples have begun to glow like embers and we want to take it all in before they fall away. And to do that, to gather up all the beauty of that dripping gold and scarlet, to really take it all in..all the while, knowing, they won't stay that way...that is hard.

We realize that, so many days, our lives are just like that.  Full of moments that slip away, sand through a glass. And we shudder at only catching the beauty from a slant. We want to see these moments, in all of their fleeting glory, squarely, with eyes wide open. We want to have known and lived these moments despite their promised departure. We don't want our memories to be only the backsides of joy. We want to have walked those moments to the gate.

So we've started examining our steps and the myriad ways that we walk confusing circles around our days. We've discovered how easy it has become to stumble blindly and to walk heavy. And we're learning that to turn a ship around takes great discernment and patience and love.

My first step towards intention came with doing the dishes. I remembered reading Tonia and the idea of doing small things with great care and so I quietly filled my sink with prism-edged bubbles and lit a candle and I washed our Sunday lunch dishes the old fashioned way. How often have I tried to fast forward this chore, letting the tap run continuously? More than just water is wasted in that rushed action. I let myself rest in the comfort of warm water and I whispered thanks for just this moment.

And it wasn't just me, over-spiritualizing a dreaded task in order to elevate it to some higher something or other.

No, it was me, recognizing what my hands were doing, for once.

And that, my friends, was a miracle.

And, it seems to me, to us, that once you decide to tilt your head towards all of the glory, the moments tumble in upon themselves.

There we are, sitting around our table, eating dinner. And it is not lost on me that every night that we do this, this gathering around bread, we are choosing to turn towards one another. The edges of the table, in all their worn roundness, center our hearts and eyes and stomachs and we can't help but see each other.

There we are, gathered on the couch and the big blue chair that stinks like dog and we are all listening. Hearing the part of the story where Frodo has been rescued by the Elves and Gandalf and all is right in the world, for the moment, and we feel the joy and the relief and the thanksgiving.

There we are, stretched out on the bed, listening to our seven year old talk about how fast childhood passes by and how soon he will be a teenager and we are frightened by how right he is. Me and that boy I love, together we gaze at this one who still seems so fresh from God and we marvel at his old soul.  We soak up his aspect and burnish his shiny cheeks with our love for him and know that this moment, like the dripping leaves, will soon fall away.

There we are, lips sweet and supple, ripe with goodness and grace, fumbling in the dark. The closeness presses so deep that my eyes spill joy on the pillow and I am falling, over and over, more in love with you. And I know that these moments are like holy paste, fastening my heart to yours, so that together we can continue to see in the same direction.

So, we intentionally decide to make more space. We pray to cushion our moments with margin and to allow Spirit winds to blow around the edges. And maybe, this season, we can catch the glory just long enough before it slips between our fingers and floats gracefully to the earth.

Linking with L.L. Barkat today

 

Making magic

How can my heart not swell to its seams when I watch him these days? This boy, for whom so much of life can be a struggle, he has discovered a space where he soars.

There he stands, cards fanned out in his hand like a peacock's tail, eyes shining, with a smile daring to escape his lips. He is a new creation.

You see, most days, he does not stand this straight. Most days, he would rather gaze at words on a page or at the clouds oozing across the sky than at someone's face. Connection is something he holds close and private. Only the special few are let into his world and, some days, even I am not special enough.

So, when I see him look at people the way he looks at them when he has transmogrified into this new character, well, I can't help but embrace the contradiction:

a world of illusion can be a safe and nurturing place. 

I suppose that's why they call it magic.

This sleight of hand that he has developed has given him power--power over circumstances, over assumptions, over expectations. For a boy who wilts when faced with the reality of any one of those things, this new ability of his is a game changer. In the moments when he has drawn in his audience, you can see this metamorphosis in progress. Yes, it is just a card trick but this mama heart knows that this, all of this? It is the breaking open of a chrysalis.

And I know that he feels it, too. He knows what life as a caterpillar is like.

I remember when we fostered monarchs, all those years ago. We studied their every move. Their ravenous appetites. Their efficiency in translating food to growth. Then their masterful weaving skills that shrouded them in mystery. The days when they were cloaked in shadow stretched out endlessly and we began to doubt their existence inside. I remember that even in those long days of waiting, my eye kept finding that gilded thread that sealed them in. Like beads of gold wound round the top, they were sealed in by something not of this world.

And then came the transformation. When all that was hidden began to be seen. The shadow that had kept them obscured began to lighten. Suddenly, it was as if they were behind glass and what we began to see was not what had entered into that hallowed space. Things had most definitely changed.

So, I watch him, now. This boy-caterpillar-turned-beautiful. And I am reminded that all is not as it seems. That even a boy who usually chooses the cocoon can be transformed. That grace is gilding his seams and he can become

the boy who lived.

Go West Older Lady!

Go West Young Older Man Lady!

One more day.

That is all that remains before my family embarks on an epic trip to Colorado. 

Today will be full of hustling and bustling, list making and organizing, packing and planning. We will drop our dog off at the kennel that makes her smell stinky and clinical but where she is well-loved.  We will load up the family truckster with all the necessary accoutrements, fill fuel tanks and tires, clean windshields and seat cushions.

And tomorrow, when the sun peeks over the edge of the world, we will be driving away from it, headed West.

You see, we are making this trip with my parents.  

They were supposed to go to Italy, those two.  That was their dream and something that they carefully researched for quite some time. It was going to be beautiful. They were going to cruise the Mediterranean, eat themselves plump and take in the beauty of that boot shaped land. 

But, in the interim, my dad's hip and back and feet decided to betray him and my mom's leukemia got a little riotous and so Italy was put on the back burner.  First, indefinitely. Then, permanently.  

And there was a sadness.

So, for a time, they attended to their health and garnered up their strength. And then, being the amazing people that they are, my parents pitched an alternative.  Why don't we take a trip together instead?

And the dream for this trip was born.

Tomorrow, when we back out of the driveway and turn that loaded van towards the West, there will be a lot riding on those wheels.

There will be two boys who will take their schooling on the road.  The rugged landscape, the strange geological formations, the ancient homes built into the side of cliffs, the hundreds of thousands of acres of unspoiled land filled with elk and bear and mountain goats...all of it will become their classroom.  

There will be me and my husband.  And we will find ourselves in the unique position of traveling as parents and as the parented, navigating decisions with another set of opinions and perspectives, summoning patience for the young and the old, and loving each other through it all.

And there will be my parents, whose generosity of head and heart knows no bounds.  This time around, they will be passengers rather than navigators.  Their job will be to look wide-eyed at the beauty, to soak up the laughter of their grandchildren and to marvel at a length of days that is beyond a gift and is, quite remarkably, a miracle.

++++++

For the next ten days I am going offline.  This space will be quiet as I travel with my family and focus on being fully with them and in the moment.  It will feel very strange to not immediately share my experiences with you as I have become quite accustomed to chronicling my days and my heart in this space.  But I believe that this time away will grow something new in me.  I need to unplug and slow down and be present.  It will be good for me to have conversations with the people who are most important to me and wait for their comments, rather than virtual ones.  And it will be soul stretching to be still and quiet and listen for the sounds of the spheres.  Thank you for your patience and understanding.  

The Joy Thief

It sneaks in under the cloak of admiration.  Through eyes made wide with wonder, that insidious ingrate moves in with stealth and purpose.  It oozes into all that is good and alive and sets out to make its home in my depths.  From here, it can graft itself to my vision and begin to blur what is true.  It wants what it doesn't have.  It is that simple.

And I hate the way it wants to bring me along for the ride.  It is not content to ravage alone and it is fueled by the weakening of resolve.  When I sigh or swallow hard, it swells.  This power...this principality... is most active when I am most open.  When I look around me and desire to embrace the joy and the wonder, it is then that it most betrays.

It's that time of year again.  Thoughts turn to books and papers and rainbow colors and core knowledge and living ideas and Triviums and new math and, one day into it, I am left spinning.  I become like a spectator at a tennis match, watching the exchange, from one side to the next, one serve answered by a volley here and then a focused swing there and suddenly the points are adding up faster than I can count.

And I look at these lovelies on either side of my heart and its as if I've lost the rule book and I'm competing against an opponent who doesn't even seem to know that I'm in the game.  I want to grab my littles by the hand and run into the quiet of the woods where there is no ceiling and there is a presence that muffles the chattering voices that run amuck in my head.  I realize that the noise has moved in and I need to make room for the hushing.  

For when there is quiet, there is more room for truth to bloom.

Sometimes it is so hard to extricate the things I would like to be from the things that I can never be and the Thief's goal is to forever blur the line.  But the quiet, that beautifully orchestrated nothing, it is a clarifier.  And when I wrap myself in its silence, slowly, another voice emerges.  

That voice sings the song of my heart, not that of another.  That voice weaves a tapestry from my own homespun yarn, not that of another.  And that voice doesn't care whether there is anyone else in the room.  This is the voice that I must memorize, that I must let burn tunnels in my ears, that I must let fashion and mold me.

When I drink in the quiet, when I fashion margin on the edges of my person, I am protected from thieving hands.  And protection is what I need because my heart, it is a delicate thing, you see.  I want good things for my boys, yes, but I also want clear vision.  Because that Thief, well he takes innocence and wonder and the slow glow of a life well lived and he mutates it.  He will bastardize my legitimate hopes if given any space to live and move and have His being.

So I am spreading wide my cloak...to the fullest breadth of my reach...so that my boys and I, well we'll be protected from behind.  Like a line in the sand, I will stand my ground and I will not be moved.  And I know.  I cannot, will not, shade them from it all.  Because, to do so would be to cut them off from all that lies in front of them.  There is beauty and joy and hope in that view. There is scariness and disappointment and pain, in that view, too.  But, together, we can confront those things full on, with our capes flapping wildly behind us as the wind ruffles our hair.

stringing pearls

This week has been...difficult.
I have felt the push and pull of parenting...the stretching and tightening that comes with growing...the painful ache of humility settling into deep crevices...in what has seemed like every.waking.moment.
It has been tiring, among other things.

Interesting, too, as I consciously started the week with a renewed commitment to mindful and gentle parenting.  My reasons for said resolutions were multitude, many of which I'll have to explore in later posts, but my overreaching desire was to consciously, intentionally, and wholeheartedly be fully present in each moment.

“Respond; don't react. 
Listen; don't talk. 
Think; don't assume.” 
― Raji Lukkoor 

I really thought that mentally preparing for such a mind shift would have won me half the battle.

It appears that I might have been mistaken.

Parenting is weird and wild stuff, I tell you.  It's crazy enough that my sweet love and I could bind together so powerfully and magically that new life spilled forth.  Twice.

And then, that "those so fresh from God, would love us" (Dickens) and we, in turn, would love them...well, it's quite lovely, really.

And even though, at times, love can trump the foulest mood or turn something unbearable into something else entirely, loving is still really hard work.

And you have to get up and do it every day.

So, for me to have this desire to do all of this loving and responding and listening and thinking and to do it while present and aware..well, I feel like I kind of set myself up.

For failure, that is.

But that's okay.  Because I've learned this week that my failings, my weaknesses, my brokenness, even, can be used for good.

Actually, I've seen this week that what I am really doing is stringing pearls.

Miraculously, I have been given this fibrous parenting strand, this "complex of fibers that have been twisted together" and, each day, I pick it up and hold it in my hands.  And as the shafts of sunlight parade across my floor, marking time with shadows and silhouettes, I have a choice.  

Again and again, I am handed moments, wrought from the Source of all time and entrusted to me to round out with my patience, my presence, my personhood.  One at a time, they are gifted to me and, one at a time, I either receive or reject them.  

When I receive these gifts, these moments, they are made complete and they reflect the beauty of their Maker.  And as I hold these lustrous orbs I am reminded that pearls begin first as grains of sand...as irritants inside the shells of oysters...and I rejoice that 

pearls are actually shimmering drops of grace

and, thus, 

there is hope yet for me.

And that brokenness that I spoke of...that I experienced with such depth this week...it, too, has a place on this strand.  When I am not able to receive the gift of each moment, when I am closed off or tuned out, or when I flat out reject the opportunity...a knot is formed on the strand instead.  Because nothing goes unnoticed and all of our actions have an equal and opposite reaction..and all of this is reflected on the strand.

So I find myself looking back at my week, at all of the times when I had to make a choice between receiving and rejecting and I pause.  Because although there are a fair amount of knots circling my neck, symbols of my brokenness, my weakness, my failures...they are outnumbered by the pearls. 

So much so that I am literally 

     dripping 

           with 

                grace.

It's the end of the year as we know it...{Part two}

...Part Two of a rambling I began here

Relationships...

This focus, in my opinion, falls deeply and intimately under homeschooling but I have chosen to tease it out and reflect on it separately.  I don't think that the relationship between my two boys--its health or its continual development--would have taken as much precedence in their, or our, daily lives if they attended public school.  From my observations of friends and neighbors whose children are not homeschooled, once the children are spending the majority of their day away at school, there seems to be a significant shift of focus onto each individual child's relationships with other kids.  This phenomenon is really just a natural outcome of the "socialization" that occurs when you separate children by grade/age level and keep them together for the majority of the day.  And although this is the reality that most of us experienced and that still informs the way we view childhood, it by no means is the only or best experience.

My two boys spend an extraordinary amount of time together.  They even share a room and a bed so the togetherness is at a ridiculous level.  Ridiculous and wonderful.  I believe wholeheartedly that my boys are learning the fine art of socialization through every interaction they have with each other.

According to The Encyclopedia Britannica,  "socialization essentially represents the whole process of learning throughout the life course and is a central influence on the behaviour, beliefs, and actions of adults as well as of children."


As my boys navigate each and every conversation, quarrel, explanation, narration, aggravation...they are learning how to be real people in a world of real situations.  We wake up each morning with the crazy idea that simply by living our lives together we are learning important lessons about life, love, loss and longing.  This is our "life course" and, according to Britannica, it is the central influence on making us who we are in society.  By choosing to be together more often than apart, we are intentionally being the central influence on each other.  I think that is a good thing.


Because all this togetherness is not always butterflies and rainbows and unicorns dancing.  Oh no... far from it.  There are moments when anger fills the room and threatens to become king and commander.  Words fly off handles at break-neck speed and not everyone ducks in time to avoid the blow.  People disappoint and forget and hurt.  At the most basic level, people are people.  


And I don't believe that happens in the same way outside of the home.  Yes, there are mean girls and bullies and Queen bees in schools.  From personal experience, we know, all too well, the power of cliques and how quickly ugly words speed through a school.  But I don't believe those happenings are examples of people being people.  At least not real people.  Those are instances of people finding themselves threatened and afraid and in an attempt to not be done in by the crisis, put on a persona that will protect them and their perceived status.  They are not being real, in either their response or their continued putting on.  And this is the cycle that is perpetuated, year after year, ad nauseum.


As a family, we have decided to step out of that crazy house and, instead, face each other as we are.  It's risky, for sure, because someone might not like who we are at any given moment.  But it's real.  And I believe that this focus on being real is the most important work we are doing.  If my boys feel free to be who they really are, think of the potential.  When they are struck with an idea or a desire, they don't have to check to see if it is acceptable or popular.  They can simply run with it.  They will have the freedom to try on different hats in an environment that won't chastise them for their individuality.  They can become who they were created to be.  I believe this is one of the greatest gifts that we can give to each other.


Extract from The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams (1881-1944)

‘What is REAL?’ asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. ‘Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?’ ‘Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When someone loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.’ ‘Does it hurt? Asked the Rabbit. ‘Sometimes,’ said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. ‘When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.’ ‘Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,’ he asked, ‘or bit by bit?’ It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.’ ‘I suppose you are real?’ said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse only smiled. ‘Someone made me Real,’ he said. ‘That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can’t become unreal again. It lasts for always.’


Finding the gifts...

This has been the other theme of my year.  I've been inspired by Ann Voskamp, through her website and her book, and I have found that it has had a profound impact on my life.  


Life is a crazy, wonderful, difficult ride and without a lightning rod to help me take it all in, well...I don't do a very good job.  I'm a mess, actually.  
But I have found that when I intentionally look for God's fingerprints on everything, the discipline truly grounds me and protects me from destruction.  For on my own, I am vulnerable and weak and pretty much destined to mess up.  Royally.  But when I stop, even in front of the boiled-over oatmeal, and breathe in perspective and humility, the situation does not have power over me.  And that shifting of power, off the things of this world and onto the Giver of all things, radically transforms...both the moment and my heart.


And boy do I need transforming.


The discipline is simple enough, yet so foreign to the patterns of this world.  The instinct, the habit is to whine...complain...tread water in pools of pity.  The habit is to look for the why when really we should be looking for the because.  


Because He loved us first.
Because in Him, and through Him, love dwells among us.
Because, only when I embrace my weakness can His strength be fully manifested.


He is the Great because.  

And when we start looking and begin to actually count the gifts, the glimpses of His love, the evidence of His constant presence...well...
it is then that we can begin to really live.


I don't know about you but I want to be fully alive.

Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life.
It turns what we have into enough, and more. 
It turns denial into acceptance,
chaos to order, confusion to clarity. 
It can turn a meal into a feast,
a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. 
Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today,
and creates a vision for tomorrow.

-Melody Beattie

So, as we wind up 2011, I look with wild anticipation at all that is in store for 2012.  I know that it won't be all good, I'm not that naive.  But I believe that entering into the freshness of a new year feels pretty good.  It has been written that His mercies are new every morning.  The gift of a new year is one example of God's mercy and grace and love.  Let's accept the gift and get on with the living it out.

Happy New Year!

It's the end of the year as we know it... {Part One}

Well, December found me very much preoccupied with everything but writing on my own blog.  I read a gazillion other blogs, mainly for Christmas inspiration, whether that be in the form of decorating or gifting or baking.  And I spent entirely too much time on Pinterest (how can you not get sucked down that rabbit hole?) But what I didn't do much of was write.  This little piece of cyberspace, the one that I decorate with photos and word pictures and quotes that I like and links to people far more amazing then me... well, it remained in the shadows.  The truth of the matter goes something like this... sitting down and gathering my thoughts and then pouring them through my fingers in a way that is somewhat coherent, well, it takes time and energy and focus.  And as much as I LOVE doing it, the fact that I learn so very much about myself when I read back over what I've written...well, it is work.  Good work.  Mindful work.  Life-giving work.

But work, nonetheless.

And this Christmas season I simply chose to expend that energy in places other than here.  I guess in the blogosphere that makes me a simple wannabe blogger.

Darn it.

And now I find myself at the end of the year and Christmas is over (well, not liturgically, but in the commercial, way-of-the-world sort of way) and I feel spaces opening up all over the place.  Literally and figuratively.

As I've begun to disassemble some of the Christmas cheer that has bedecked our halls this season I have been refreshed by the new spaces created. (I must pause here for one moment to say that I have never been more pleased with the way our little house was decorated this year...just the right mixture of homemade whimsy, quaint vintage pieces and the miscellaneous other things that John and I have managed to gather over the years..I loved being in my house this Christmas, especially when the lights were low and everything shimmered in the Christmas lights...)   The last few days have found me riding a wave of momentum and I have found myself inspired to prepare for a fresh new year.

But because "every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end" I wanted to take the time to reflect on this year that will soon be ending so as to go into 2012 with a feeling of closure and contentment.

Being outside...

It's something that has always been important to me and one of the things that I have made happen just as much for me as for my boys.  And this past year provided some very good outdoor opportunities:

*Eagle watching on the Missouri River
*The ThunderBlizzardApocolypse in February that my boys will be talking about for the rest of their lives
*Several hikes in the woods and fields around our house, the Spring ones being among the best because of the hope and joy they bring after a winter full of weather phenomena (see aforementioned weather event)
*Taking turns guiding paddles boats and kayaks around our neighborhood lake...many an afternoon was whiled away in this manner.  I highly recommend this activity.
*Finding new trails and Conservation Areas in the state to explore and discover color in forms that are never old or tiresome.

But despite the many pictures to indicate otherwise, we didn't spend as much time outside this year as we have in the past. I'm not sure why.  It is always good for us.  Always.  I want my boys to be connected to the natural world through experience, especially when so much of the world is connected by way of electronic and artificial means.  This is one of those items that I will be tweaking in the coming year (that will be a different blog post).

The Learning Rooms...

This has been an interesting year, homeschooling-wise.  Even though we have always homeschooled, it still amazes me how much I continue to think/analyze/critique/tweak/completely reconfigure/start over/try on new styles/abandon said new styles to return to what we were doing to begin with/question/question again/oh, and, once more, question...EVERYTHING.  It can be exhausting...if I let it.  But as I close out this year and look to dance into the next, I'm beginning to feel a little more comfortable in my skin.  I am continuing to learn that what sounds and looks good for another family may or may not sound or look good in our family.  I have been spending more time quietly and unobtrusively observing my kids, watching for the things that make them shine and, conversely, what dulls and diminishes them.  I'm tired of trying to fit my round shaped kids into other people's square shaped spaces.  We've spent more time "off" than "on" so far this year and I'm okay with that.  My kids have still managed to grow and learn and expand in unique and awesome ways.  One decision we made this year was to stop participating in the larger homeschool group's Co-Op and, instead, gather with a few close friends for our own "Mini Co-Op" twice a month.  It has proven to be a good move for us.  Friendships have been strengthened (between the kids and the moms!) and we've been able to do some things that we wouldn't have done on our own (frog dissection!).  I have some new ideas about how we might spend our time together in the coming year and I'm excited to try on some new outfits, again.

More posts to come...

{ A Month of Thanks } Poetry

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth

There is no happiness like mine.

I have been eating poetry.

~Mark Strand, "Eating Poetry," Reasons for Moving, 1968

I am so thankful for this new ritual of ours.  

The heating of the kettle, the clinking spoons in the mugs, the sweet crumbs on our lips and the delightful belly laugh as we read another nonsense poem...it is all so wonderful.   I doubted its power, this "tea-time and poetry," especially with two boys, but I am overjoyed to be so very wrong.  Sure, the warm drinks and sweet confections did their magical wooing but the word plays and rhymes kept them at the table.  And now there are favorite poems and there are recitations of verses, delivered at just the right moment and it

is. all. so. wonderful.

I will let the poems do the rest of the talking.

Soliloquy of a Tortoise

on Revisiting

the Lettuce Beds

After an Interval of One Hour

While Supposed

to Be

Sleeping

in a Clump

of Blue Hollyhocks

One cannot have enough

of this delicious stuff!

-E.V. Rieu

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Chocolate

Chocolate

                                                                                                 i

                                                                love 

                                                                                       you so

                                                                                                 i

                                                                 want

                                                                         to

                                                                  marry

                                                                         you

                                                                          and

                                                            live

                                                                forever

                                                                            in the

                                                                            flavor

                                                             of your

                                                               brown

-Arnold Adoff

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