The Importance of Being Earnest

Sometimes I find that I don't blog, not because I have nothing to say, but because I have too much and can't seem to narrow it down. Today is such a day, but I'm choosing to blog instead of just letting all this good stuff wander away from me.

Since it's actually 3:30 in the morning right now, I should really say that yesterday is the topic of my entry today.

Why am I awake at 3:30? I just don't know. Other than a niggling cough, probably from my sinuses, I don't know why I can't find sleep right now.

So, for the past hour, I've been wandering around the house, trying to figure out what to do. I don't feel like reading. I don't usually raid the refrigerator at night. I definitely don't want to clean. I sat for a while and looked at the stars and thought about Bo's upcoming birthday (he'll be 39 on Monday) and wondered about what he might like to do. Dinner out? Dinner with friends? Dinner at home with the family? A movie? Roller skating? There's a ballroom dance on Saturday. We've never been ballroom dancing. Maybe that?

My thoughts drifted to the events of yesterday, and I started thinking about all of the interesting things that have been happening in my life that I haven't blogged about, simply because they don't fit into a neat little theme. Within the past two months, I've found myself on the path to some of the best friendships I've ever had, met some of the kindest, friendliest people I've ever met, and found that certain things in my life that have been up-in-the-air have been falling into place. But I haven't blogged about them. I only wish I could tell you why.

I think part of it is The Importance of Being Earnest.

If you're not familiar with the play written by Oscar Wilde in the late 1800s, I'll tell you a bit about it.

See, Jack was given charge of a young woman, Cecely, and it was up to him to be her responsible caretaker. Unfortunately, all work and no play made Jack feel like a dull boy. In order to have a bit of fun without spoiling his reputation and negatively influencing his young charge, he adopted and alter-ego--Ernest.

While Jack was in the country, he was Jack. But while Jack was in the city, he was Ernest.

This was all well-and good until he was found out by his city friend, Algernon.

Algernon. I may mention that I have always suspected you of being a confirmed and secret Bunburyist; and I am quite sure of it now.

Jack. Bunburyist? What on earth do you mean by a Bunburyist?

Algernon. I’ll reveal to you the meaning of that incomparable expression as soon as you are kind enough to inform me why you are Ernest in town and Jack in the country...Now produce your explanation, and pray make it improbable. [Sits on sofa.]

Jack. My dear fellow, there is nothing improbable about my explanation at all. In fact it’s perfectly ordinary. Old Mr. Thomas Cardew, who adopted me when I was a little boy, made me in his will guardian to his grand-daughter, Miss Cecily Cardew. Cecily, who addresses me as her uncle from motives of respect that you could not possibly appreciate, lives at my place in the country under the charge of her admirable governess, Miss Prism.

Algernon. Where is that place in the country, by the way?

Jack. That is nothing to you, dear boy. You are not going to be invited... I may tell you candidly that the place is not in Shropshire.

Algernon. I suspected that, my dear fellow! I have Bunburyed all over Shropshire on two separate occasions. Now, go on. Why are you Ernest in town and Jack in the country?

Jack. My dear Algy, I don’t know whether you will be able to understand my real motives. You are hardly serious enough. When one is placed in the position of guardian, one has to adopt a very high moral tone on all subjects. It’s one’s duty to do so. And as a high moral tone can hardly be said to conduce very much to either one’s health or one’s happiness, in order to get up to town I have always pretended to have a younger brother of the name of Ernest, who lives in the Albany, and gets into the most dreadful scrapes. That, my dear Algy, is the whole truth pure and simple.

Algernon. The truth is rarely pure and never simple. Modern life would be very tedious if it were either, and modern literature a complete impossibility!

Jack. That wouldn’t be at all a bad thing.

Algernon. Literary criticism is not your forte, my dear fellow. Don’t try it. You should leave that to people who haven’t been at a University. They do it so well in the daily papers. What you really are is a Bunburyist. I was quite right in saying you were a Bunburyist. You are one of the most advanced Bunburyists I know.

Jack. What on earth do you mean?

Algernon. You have invented a very useful younger brother called Ernest, in order that you may be able to come up to town as often as you like. I have invented an invaluable permanent invalid called Bunbury, in order that I may be able to go down into the country whenever I choose. Bunbury is perfectly invaluable. If it wasn’t for Bunbury’s extraordinary bad health, for instance, I wouldn’t be able to dine with you at Willis’s to-night, for I have been really engaged to Aunt Augusta for more than a week.

What Jack found, which is what most people find who develop an alter-ego, is that, eventually, the two converge. The world becomes smaller. It becomes impossible to keep the lives separate. All of his comings and goings are brought to light after his city friend, Algernon, discovers "Ernest's" address in the country via evesdropping and decides to pay his friend Jack a visit as that scoundrel, Ernest.

I guess you could say that this blog is my Algernon, the thing that ties all of my Jacks and Ernests together.

It's not that I'm trying to hide anything from anyone. Not intentionally, anyway. But what I find more and more is that I, like most other people, compartmentalize myself according to who I'm with at the time--partly for the reason that I have certain things in common with some people and other certain things in common with others. If I'm with my Christian friends and acquaintances, I feel free to discuss Christian things, like the spiritual meaning of The Chronicles of Narnia and my history of listening to Christian music and the good things that the Lord has done for me, but not to discuss worldly things. When I'm with my non-Christian friends, I feel free to discuss the latest Harry Potter book, or the latest independent film I saw. Of course, there are also the rare friends with whom I can discuss all of these things--these are my Christian friends who share my love of books, movies and music as well as my love of God. Being with these friends is, indeed, refreshing.

This happens in other social circles as well. Family vs friends. Friends vs neighbors. Homeschooling friends vs non-homeschooling friends. Unschooling friends vs school-at-home friends. Environmentally-conscious friends vs non. Pro-life friends (and here, I mean pro-life across the board) vs non. Readers and autodidacts vs non. Folk music lovers vs non. And it goes on and on and on and on. I'm someone more unique with each person I talk to.

But here, thanks to my electronic Algernon, all of these converge. While I would likely not talk to my Unitarian friend about my personal convictions about Biblical translations, neither would I discuss my complex convictions about movie ratings with a non-believer. While I don't feel that a school-at-homer would understand my relaxed approach to family learning and seizing learning opportunities instead of slaving to rigid schedules and textbooks, neither do I feel that a radical unschooler would "get" my insistence on daily handwriting, copywork and piano practice and my feelings about importance of learning self-discipline. Some of these conversational choices come from simply discussing common interests, some from not wanting to offend, and some from the attempt to avoid judgement and rejection.

Here, the world becomes increasingly small. The city me meets the country me. Or, should I say, those in the city meet the country me and and those in the country meet the city me. Jack and Ernest and Lady Bracknell and Algernon and Cecely and Gwendolen are all in the same room. At the same time. And, initially, it makes Jack quite uncomfortable.

One benefit that I've had in blogging over the past three years is that I have had a certain level of anonimity. I've been able, through using pseudonyms and being selective about who I share my blog with, to allow myself to write fairly freely about some of the goings on of my life. But as my world has become smaller, more and more real-life friends learn about my blog. Either I meet someone via my blog who happens to live near-by and becomes a good friend (hi, San!) or someone who lives nearby discovers my blog through other social activities (hi, Irene!), or someone who knows me and loves me wants to share with others what I've been writing (hi, husband!), or I feel compelled to tell someone I know about my blog. I have to admit, I don't do this often. For me, it really reveals who I am, and exposes me to judgement, criticism, and rejection. To consciously allow that is very, very difficult for me.

Tonight--or, last night, I should say, now that it's approaching 4:30--we had a visitor to our home.

Pastor Larry, the pastor of the church we've been attending for the past month, came to join our family for tea. It has been a very, very, very long time since I've had my pastor in my home. I believe the last time that happened was when Bo and I were married in our tiny house over 16 years ago. While Pastor Larry spoke with us, asking us about our family history, our move from Big City to Big Country, something very interesting happened. My dear husband mentioned to Pastor Larry that I am a writer. It turns out that Larry is a writer as well. And, in light of that, my husband felt compelled to share with Larry, upon his asking if I have ever been published, that, indeed, I'm published daily--here, on my blog.

I have to admit that I was very, very hesitant to share my blog address with Larry. Not because I doubt your integrity, Larry. But because it's just another occurence of Jack meeting Ernest. Of worlds converging. And it comes at a most interesting time in my blogging life. Just this week, I had decided to stop being so worried about being judged by others...

...and just *write*.

You see, I know for a fact that there are people in my life who have judged me harshly and maybe even unfairly and often inaccurately by what they've read on my blog. I know because they've told me outright. And when they haven't told me outright, others have told me for them (be careful who you gossip to--your words don't fall upon deaf ears). There have been people who have been very unkind about the words I've written here, either publicly or behind my back, and I have to admit that those responses have hurt me. Discussion, I can handle. Disagreements, I can handle. Blanket judgements and disdain, being demeaned and rejected--that's hard for me. No, even more than that. It tears me apart. It haunts me. I have a very hard time recovering from those kinds of careless actions.

So I've been cautious about who I share this blog with. More and more, it's like baring my soul.

After Pastor Larry left, Bo asked me how I felt about him sharing my blog.

"It scares me," I admitted.

"Why does it scare you?"

"Because I'm afraid of being judged..."

"Your writing, or yourself?"

"My self," I answered.

Bo thought for a moment, and then he said, "Well, I thought about that, and I thought about your blog, and there is nothing you've written that is inappropriate. There is nothing on your blog that I would be ashamed to have someone read. And besides, don't you think it's good to just start with the ending?"

"Yes," I said. "Yes, I suppose it is."

But it's hard for me, because I hold out such hope for my relationships, and I've been hurt so many times. I've been called cheeky, and manipulative, and ridiculed for "telling my troubles to the world." I've been accused of living in a dream world, not facing reality, thinking myself superior, not seeing my own faults. I've been condemned for being proud of my children, worrying about my children, overprotecting my children. I've been accused of being houseproud, obsessive-compulsive, hyper-sensitive, a self-important upstart. I've been told that I'm too bold, that my husband should "tighten his reign" on me, that I share my convictions too freely.

And so I'm leery. I'm afraid. I don't want to come under fire anymore.

But I simply can't. stop. writing.

And, really, I don't want to. That's what the two-week blogging hiatus was all about. Trying to discover if I really wanted to write. And I do.

To be completely honest with you and, more importantly, with myself, the people who have made the above judgements on me really have nothing to do with my life now--most of them spouted their opinions and have, for the most part, disappeared. They don't know me day-to-day, don't have a relationship with me. How could they? They're the kind of people who vomit their opinions and judgements upon others and then walk away, wiping their shoes before they go, wondering why they still carry that stench with them as they move on to destroy the next human spirit. I know that these people are unhappy with themselves, unsettled, maybe even jealous. At the very least, they're quick to pass judgement and don't really care to be understanding, don't really take the time to find common ground, haven't made a commitment to find out who I really am. I'm sure I'm not the only one they've hurt.

But to be completely fair, too, how could they find out who I really am? I don't even know who I really am! That's part of the reason I write--this blog or anything else; as a means of self-discovery.

And that's a fun subplot of The Importance of Being Earnest. In the course of wooing his true love, Gwendolen, Ernest/Jack is questioned by the young lady's mother in order that she may verify his worthiness of the young lady.

Lady Bracknell. Are your parents living?

Jack. I have lost both my parents.

Lady Bracknell. To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness. Who was your father? He was evidently a man of some wealth. Was he born in what the Radical papers call the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the ranks of the aristocracy?

Jack. I am afraid I really don’t know. The fact is, Lady Bracknell, I said I had lost my parents. It would be nearer the truth to say that my parents seem to have lost me... I don’t actually know who I am by birth. I was... well, I was found.

Lady Bracknell. Found!

Jack. The late Mr. Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman of a very charitable and kindly disposition, found me, and gave me the name of Worthing, because he happened to have a first-class ticket for Worthing in his pocket at the time. Worthing is a place in Sussex. It is a seaside resort.

Lady Bracknell. Where did the charitable gentleman who had a first-class ticket for this seaside resort find you?

Jack. [Gravely.] In a hand-bag.

Lady Bracknell. A hand-bag?
Jack. [Very seriously.] Yes, Lady Bracknell. I was in a hand-bag - a somewhat large, black leather hand-bag, with handles to it - an ordinary hand-bag in fact.

From there, Lady Bracknell shows the proper indignance at such a thing and expresses the utmost curiosity in Jack's unusual beginnings.

Lady Bracknell. In what locality did this Mr. James, or Thomas, Cardew come across this ordinary hand-bag?

Jack. In the cloak-room at Victoria Station. It was given to him in mistake for his own.

Lady Bracknell. The cloak-room at Victoria Station?

Jack. Yes. The Brighton line.

Lady Bracknell. The line is immaterial. Mr. Worthing, I confess I feel somewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. To be born, or at any rate bred, in a hand-bag, whether it had handles or not, seems to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life that reminds one of the worst excesses of the French Revolution. And I presume you know what that unfortunate movement led to? As for the particular locality in which the hand-bag was found, a cloak-room at a railway station might serve to conceal a social indiscretion - has probably, indeed, been used for that purpose before now-but it could hardly be regarded as an assured basis for a recognised position in good society.

Jack. May I ask you then what you would advise me to do? I need hardly say I would do anything in the world to ensure Gwendolen’s happiness.

Lady Bracknell. I would strongly advise you, Mr. Worthing, to try and acquire some relations as soon as possible, and to make a definite effort to produce at any rate one parent, of either sex, before the season is quite over.

Jack. Well, I don’t see how I could possibly manage to do that. I can produce the hand-bag at any moment. It is in my dressing-room at home. I really think that should satisfy you, Lady Bracknell.

Lady Bracknell. Me, sir! What has it to do with me? You can hardly imagine that I and Lord Bracknell would dream of allowing our only daughter - a girl brought up with the utmost care - to marry into a cloak-room, and form an alliance with a parcel? Good morning, Mr. Worthing!

And so, Jack/Ernest, inspired and motivated by his love for the fair Gwendolen, goes on a search to discover who he truly is. In the end, after all of his searching and confusion and pain, he uncovers the truth. He is, and has always been, just as he has said, Ernest.

And, ultimately, that is my goal. Not to go Brunburying about the countryside in search of trouble and attempting to avoid scrapes, but to help to uncover who God would have me be. In this journey of self-discovery, in my writing and through the organizing of thoughts into semi-coherent essays, while I wish that I could avoid judgement, I know that such a wish is unrealistic. Therefore, in my writing, as in my life, I strive for a higher goal.

I hope to always find the vital importance of being earnest.

Sixteen Candles!

 

If I Had a Magazine...

Thanks to the people over at Flagrant Disregard, you can make fun things like this magazine cover. What fun! If you have a few minutes to waste (or an evening, if you're a perfectionist), go make one of your own! 

An Unschooling Day

While the kids did have to do a modicum of lessons, like handwriting and copywork, I spent the good part of the day dusting and organizing and beginning my spring cleaning projects. That pretty much left the kids to their own devices. I can't pretend to know everything they did, but here are some of the things I know:

The Baby and Sweetheart dressed up in their prettiest dresses and danced around the Gathering Room. When they tired of that, they pulled out the Polly Pockets. After that, they made a domino rally.

While this was going on, Sweetheart put in On the Banks of Plum Creek on CD and we listened to that while I dusted and put up my spring decor. After that was over, they listened to part of Madeleine L'Engle reading A Wrinkle in Time.

The boys and Sweetheart have been working on a project of creating a Viking village. Houdin collected about fifty pizza box lids after his choir's pizza party which he is making into shields. They hope to make viking costumes, too, and a bunch of other viking-y things. If you can suggest any good viking books, let me know.

Houdin cleaned his room, the hallway and the kids' bathroom. Big, big thanks to Houdin for doing a good job on that.

Houdin and Bard went to their youth fellowship tonight. They were to take their favorite snack. They took some great big containers of strawberries from Sam's Club along with sour cream and brown sugar. Ever tried that? My MIL turned us on to this treat. Dip the strawberries in the sour cream and then the brown sugar. Delish!

Ironically, Monet and Sweetheart are now watching a DVD of Good Eats, a gift to us from Impromptu-Mom (Thanks, IM!) and it happens to be about strawberries! Since the older kids whisked all the strawberries away, Sweetheart prepared a fruit dish of grapes, orange and apple slices. She has made a declaration today that she wants to skip the "other stuff" and eat healthy food from now on.

Bard spent part of her day blogging about her birthday event. Houdin spent part of his preparing a persuasive speech about fast food. I've been reading some of his materials and I'm learning quite a bit.

Overall, it was a pretty good, relaxing day. Did I forget anything, Bard?

The Barmy Blogger: In Which I Am a Moron

My daughter, Bard, wrote a post about her surprise sixteenth birthday. If you haven't done so, go over and read it and give her some words of advice. :-)

Feeling Better

Today is better. I've been taking advantage of a burst of energy in order to get some cleaning done. I cancelled my appointment with the young lady who was supposed to come today to do an interview, photograph me in my kitchen and take two recipes from me, all to print in a column she writes for a local newspaper. I rescheduled for next Wednesday. Bard and I plan to feed her to the gills; Bard will make manicotti and I will make bread and Houdin will make NY style milk chocolate cheesecake with oreo crust. Decadent, all.

Impromptu-Mom called me this morning, which was a wonderful treat. I was able to get a few things off my chest while I listened to her little Peanut keep her mama running. It felt very, very nice to get a phone call from a friend. All too often, I'm the one doing the calling.

And then PeacefulLady called me and invited me to breakfast tomorrow morning. Hurray!

So now, I'll get back to work cleaning my cupboards and taking down the last of my winter decorations. Spring is on the way!

Reality Check

I've been thinking about this for a while, this meme that does what other memes don't dare to do. Most memes are so happy-happy-feel-good things that really do serve a purpose. But one day, while reading this blog entry, I realized that I rarely admit what a flawed person I am. And believe me, I'm very, very flawed.

So, in an effort to show Allison and all others how very flawed I am, here, for your horrified enlightenment, is the Reality Check meme. Feel free to fill it out and pass it on or merely delight in my inferiority. If you brave the meme, make sure you leave me a comment to let me know where to find your post.

How many overdue library books do you currently have? None, but I have an $18.00 fine for the last ones I returned. And I just paid my previous fine off in November.

When was the last time you changed your cat's litter box? I actually have four litter boxes. Two are in the garage, and two are in the house. The two in the house have been changed this week. The two in the garage are about two weeks old.

How many things do you currently have in your house that you borrowed more than a week ago and have not returned? At least eleven, that I can count off the top of my head.

How many checks have you bounced this month? Four. They didn't actually bounce, because we have overdraft privileges with our bank (read: we don't have any money so they charge us more of it), but I had at least four checks this month that overdrew my account. Money sucks, basically.

When was the last time you said something unkind to someone? Uh...less than two hours ago.

How many people are you holding a grudge against? Nine.

How many loads of laundry are waiting to be done? At least eight.

When was the last time you changed your sheets? Three days ago.

When was your last mammogram? I've never had one.

How many days' worth of dishes are in your sink? Suprisingly, about half a day. Normally there are at least two items that have been sitting dirty for two days or more.

How many articles of clothing are laying on your bedroom floor? At least fifty. Too many to count.

How many of your bills are currently past due? Four. Five if you count the library fine.
When was your last dental appointment? Over four years ago.

How many points do you have on your driver's license? Four. I've had two speeding tickets in twelve months in which I was traveling 15 miles over the limit.

When was the last time you scrubbed your toilet? At least a week ago. I'll do it tomorrow. I promise.

Have you ever said you'd pray for someone but knew you wouldn't? Yep. I hope to change that, though, since I've created a prayer basket for our mealtimes.

What's the oldest thing in your fridge and how old is it? There's a bowl in the fridge that has a lid on it, and I have no idea what's in it. It's a fairly large bowl, but I'm afraid to look inside. I'd say it's at least two months old.

When was the last time you read your Bible? Sunday in church.

When was the last time you backed up your important files and photos? Um...I don't think I even remember when I last did this.

How many bags/containers of snack foods do you have in your house? A billion. But 95% of them are organic corn chips. Is that okay? They were given to me by a friend for Bard's dance.

Do you know where your keys are? Normally, I do. But right now, they've gone AWOL.

In which I vehemently hate money

We just returned home from the library's science and storytime programs. Monet and Sweetheart have been enjoying the "wacky science" class put on by M. for about a year now. I was so encouraged to find that this winter they have had so much of a response from homeschoolers that they created a new class just for us. I, of course, missed out on signing my darlings up for the class, so we participate in the regular class instead. I hope to get signed up for the homeschool class next session.

I still don't know why today is such a fog of a day. Honestly, I just feel like I work and work and work and work and I can't get ahead.

And a very big part of it has to do with money.

There are so many things I want to provide for my family, and I feel like most of it takes money. Joining the local gym. Taking field trips. Going on vacation (which we haven't done in about a gazillion years). Making nice meals. Taking fiddle/banjo/dulcimer lessons. It all costs so doggone much money, and right now, I'm piece-mealing my dinners together because money's so tight from week to week that I can't make a full-blown shopping trip.

I think the thing that really set me off today was step dancing.

I'd just come home from driving an Amish neighbor. It's not really something I enjoy doing, but I feel right now that it's the only way I can justify piano lessons, algebra classes and extra-curriculars. I had driven one woman at oh-too-early in the morning and then had another woman to pick up from the birthing center--she had a baby girl yesterday. When I arrived, she asked me if I could take her to the neighboring town for a "quick" doctor visit because the baby had a rash. I really didn't want to do it because I was due home to make cookies and soup for a homeschooling family who had a very serious car accident two weeks ago, but because I felt like I could use the few (and they were very few) extra dollars, I said yes. "Quick" turned into a half-hour, and I began to feel taken advantage of, yet when the new mama came out of the office and told me that the doc had looked at her newborn baby girl for about three minutes of that half-hour, announced there was nothing wrong with her and the rash would go away on its own, charged her $75.00 and told her she'd see her in two weeks, my heart went out to her.

When I arrived back home, the house was well on its way to shambles. I knew that Bo was expecting a guitar student, so I encouraged everyone to clean as much as they could for about a half-hour to prepare while I made the soup (the cookies, miraculously, were provided by the family of the new baby. I decided to give them to the car-accident family instead of keeping them myself. We certainly don't need them). As always, Bard was the productive one, even though she had several Algebra lessons to do in preparation for her class later in the day. She cleaned while I cooked. By the time I was done, I felt that things were shaping up fairly well.

And then a good friend called and asked a favor. They had misprinted some fliers for their business and needed them all unfolded and stacked so they could be sent through the printer again. "There are about ten boxes," she said, "and we'll pay you $XXX to do the job." Of course I'd help, I said, but the amount she was offering seemed too much, and I told her so. "It's a mundane job," she said, "and that's what we can afford to pay. R. will bring the boxes over shortly."

As I was cooking, Bo came into the room and I told him about the little venture. "They don't need to pay us to do that," he said. R and P have done some wonderful things for us, and were very instrumental in our moving to this neighborhood.

"That's what I told her," I said, "but she insisted." Bo went back into his office and I continued to cook.

As I was stirring the lentil soup, I came up with an idea. I'd recently signed myself and four of the children up for Irish step dancing classes in our community and had been ferreting away money to try to pay for them. Since Bo had been willing to do the task for free, or at least volunteer the kids and I to do it for free, he certainly shouldn't mind if I allocate the funds for the class. I knew the budget was very tight, especially with the output for Bard's birthday dance, but this was windfall money! Unexpected blessing! Surely this is what the money was *meant* for.

So I announced my plan to Bo assertively, because I've been trying hard to work on stating my needs outright instead of beating around the bush or begrudgingly doing things myself.

"Well, let's pay off debts first," was his response.

Now, I know that his intentions were to use the money for immediate financial need and to give me the money for the step-dancing classes before it was due, but I just didn't know how to handle his response, so I didn't handle it well at all. I shut down. I blew up.

I did go to him and apologize, but I still feel frustrated and out of control of my life. I want to beautify my home, educate my children, improve our quality of life, *live* a little, and I feel like I have no way of doing these things because of this cursed thing called MONEY! And because I'm supposed to be a stay-at-home mom, I have no real way of contributing, other than cutting back. But I have. I've cut back about as much as I can on household expenses, short of using the Sears and Roebucks Catalog for T.P. Because things were so tight, we were forced to increase the rent for our friends who are living in our cabin, even though I know they're trying to make a financial peace plan, too. But their rent doesn't even cover the yearly taxes on our property, not to mention maintenance of the road (we have to pay the township to resurface the road) or our personal lane (which turns as muddy as can be in the Spring). Dreaded, dastardly MONEY!

Even after I apologized to Bo, tension remained. "why are you so angry with me?" he implored. I don't know. I really don't. But something deep within me is very angry with him, with my dad, and with myself.

I left to deliver Bard to her algebra class and the soup to our friends and my dad to the library. when I returned, the house had basically erupted. There were dirty dishes all over the counter, in the sink and on the stove. There was half-eaten bowls of soup--three of them--dotting the countertop. And what's worse, the huge pot of soup that I'd made which was intended not only for lunch today but for tomorrow as well, when a young lady from a local newspaper will be coming to--get this--photograph me in my kitchen and print it along with two of my favorite recipes. The lentil soup was to be one of them. And since I'm flat broke, I can't afford more ingredients.

And the kids hadn't practiced piano, even though I'm busting my butt to pay for their weekly lessons.

And the house had been a disaster area when the guitar student had been there.

And Houdin announced that one of his turtles is missing.

So, yeah. There you have it. That's why I couldn't single one thing out. It's just snowballing.

And that's my pukefest for the day.

A snag

For a month now, I've overcome a bad habit of mine. Nailbiting. I don't know if it's a nervous habit or if it's taking my perfectionism the the nth degree by obliterating anything untidy, but for the past month, I've let them grow. Daily, I look at my nails and evaluate them. This one is still too short. This one's awfully squarish. They need to be a bit longer, but not so long as to accidentally scratch a child while we're at play.

Nine out of my ten nails show no sign of having ever been gnawed. One has been a refuge, a nail-biting outlet, but even that one is on its way to greater lengths.

But today, as I was getting out of the van, I knocked a finger into the door and gouged a dent in one of my longer fingernails.

A snag.

My snagged fingernail makes me want to give up growing my nails long. I don't know why, but it just does. I've ruined the good thing. I've tainted something. And now it seems like there's no use.

That's how I feel today. There's no use, I think. I can't get it completely perfect, so why try at all? And if I'm the only one who really cares, what does it matter? And if I can't identify the problem, is there really a problem to begin with?

I've hit a snag today.


*****************

A great sadness is upon me. I have many reasons but none worth singling out.

Overall, I feel mechanical, unlovable, angry. There is a spirit of futility and failure, a lack of passion and a temptation to simply toss my arms up and say, "I quit."

I know that my feelings are affecting my family, but their unloving actions are affecting me. Do they love me? Well, yes. But in their humanity, they do things that invade my soul; their actions sometimes insist that they don't care.

On days like today,I feel like I'm spiraling downward. There is no right answer, no right action. I feel like Ebeneezer Scrooge, haunted by past, present and future, trying to figure out if my spirits are brought on by an undigested morsel of cheese. Or am I overtired? Or am I feeling without purpose? Or am I truly, honestly and completely affected by the members of this household who refuse to simply make a bed, clean a room, take out the trash, feed their animals, put their dishes in the proper side of the sink, practice their piano, oversee the child, teach a lesson, make a meal.

Ah, but I said there were no issues worth singling out. I suppose that these issues aren't single, though. They're multiplying. And just when I think my head's above water, just when I've come up for air and I'm about to gasp deeply, a tidal wave comes and pulls me to the depths again.


*************************

I want to wrap this up tidily, but there's no way to do it. I don't have an answer. I haven't been given a revelation. There are no trite words or inspiring phrases to pull me from my funk.

It's simply a snag, and I either have to gnaw it down and forget about it or clean it up and let it grow healthy again.

Happy Sixteenth Birthday, Bard

For about a month, Bo and I and a community of friends kept a great big secret. Now that it's over, we can talk about it.

Recently, in the process of explaining to people why we were doing what we were doing, I almost apologized by saying, "We don't make a big deal out of birthdays." I don't know why I do this, try to gauge what people think is frivolous and undermine my own life to suit their opinions, but I often do it.

The truth is, we do make a big deal out of birthdays. We may not spend a whole lot of money or buy extravagant gifts, and we may not decorate with balloons and streamers. But, regardless, birthdays are a very big deal to us. Everyone in the family celebrates, almost as if we're each having a birthday. Each person has their own favorite cake or meal they like to have for their special day. Each person has a personality that lends itself to certain types of gifts, and each birthday holds it's own special sentiments.

For example, six is a landmark. It's the year when the birthday child gets his or her own copy of A.A. Milne's Now We Are Six.

Eight is another landmark. It's when they can have their first sleepover party.

Ten is another. That's the year they enter double digits. A special meal is in order.

At twelve, they get a dozen birthdays. Twelve days of doing small things to make the special day last for almost two weeks. Plus, the gifts, while they may be small, come in dozens. A dozen flowers. A dozen postcards from all over the country. A dozen packs of gum. A dozen dollars.

Thirteen is the next one. Magical things begin to happen after a child turns 13. On that day, the child can choose a special friend to accompany them (usually the child's best friend) and they join Mom and Dad, everyone dressed in their finest clothing, and they all enjoy a meal at the finest restaurant of their choice. At this age, a young lady can choose, if she so desires, to pierce her ears.

Then there are a few years to wait. It's not that the fourteenth and fifteenth birthdays aren't meaningful. They certainly are. It's just that they aren't landmarks, so they don't have some unique significance to them.

But then, there's sixteen.

Bard, being the oldest, is always the first to experience the birthday traditions-in-the-making. This year was a new experience for everyone.

As many of you who know us or read this blog regularly know, we have been enjoying folk dancing for about a year and a half now. For you who are shaking your head and wondering why we would ever enjoy such a thing, you've likely never tried it. If you have, it was in fourth grade when the opposite gender had cooties and you danced to a scratched record in your school gymnasium.

Folk dancing now is different. It's aerobic. It's fun. It's a way to meet new people and get away from the television/computer/video games. Imagine music like in Oh Brother,Where Art Thou. Imagine the kind of stuff Nickel Creek cut their teeth on. If that doesn't suit your fancy, imagine elegant English Country music and gliding along a'la the dance scenes in Pride and Prejudice. Still not convinced? How about some Celtic stuff? How about finding a pretty girl swinging into your arms? Or on the converse, how about seeing young men kindly ask young ladies to dance simply because they want to dance and they both need a partner? Still not sure? Well, all I can tell you is that you need to try it. Once you get on the floor, you'll likely be hooked.

So, for this sixteenth birthday that Bard just experienced, we did a combination of the things that we love best. We rented an old grange hall, hired a caller, gathered up a band, sent out invitations for a good old-fashioned folk dance complete with a carry-in dinner and after-dinner music jam.

And then we lied our weasley black guts out.

Bard, Houdin, Monet, Sweetheart and The Baby were left completely in the dark. We didn't even tell my dad about the plans. Behind everyone's backs, we persuaded families into participating in our evil scheme, and before you know it, we had almost 100 accomplices. And we couldn't have done it without them.

This past Saturday afternoon, while Bard spent the night and morning with her good friend Ash on trumped-up charges of going to a college book discussion group, we told the other kids about the plan, packed two vehicles full of provisions and headed to the hall.

while the kids put together a banner, I hung photos of Bard all over the dining area. Photos of her on the day she was born all the way up to the day she blew out the candles on her sixteenth birthday cake. And I panicked, too, because that's just how I am. What if no one came? What if they all backed out? What if the caller got sick? What if Bard and Ash got in an accident on the way to the hall? What if there wasn't enough food?

But, as usual, I worried in vain. There was PLENTY of food. And delicious food, too! Yes, there were people who didn't come, and that was a bummer because I kept a guest list and limited the number of attendants to 85, so I had to turn a few away. Aside from that, every time a person RSVP'd, I added the funds that would generate to my tally; we asked people not to bring gifts, but to contribute $15 per family to the band instead. So we did end up about $75 short because people either responded that they'd come to the dance and only came for dinner without paying the $15.00 or didn't show up at all without letting me know that I could fill their spot. Note to those of you dear readers who do this type of thing to your hostess: DON'T!

But in spite of that, it was absolutely wonderful. Bard was completely surprised, the caller was fantastic, the band was just perfect, and some family friends who have four very talented boys performed a few songs during the band break, including a special birthday song just for Bard. It was completely and totally delightful. The same family stayed after dinner and led others in a music jam on the stage while the younger kids ran around, the older kids laughed, danced and played games, and the parents visited and cleaned up the hall (though there was very little to clean!).

Everyone who participated expressed their thanks and gushed about how much fun they had. And if you look at the pictures, you can see that they certainly weren't lying about that.

I only wish I could do this every month--could afford it, get the participation necessary, have the funds to make it work and, of course, the energy to do it.

But I'll just have to settle for the fact that I have four more (at least) sixteen year-olds on the way.

Details of the event will be given from the daughter's perspective. Soon. Right daughter?

Gravity

Quote of the Day: "I could be more imaginative if there were no gravity." ~My ten-year-old son, Monet.

I'm breaking my blogging fast with this quote from our drive home from choir this evening, primarily because it shows the quirkiness of my life and my children, and I thought it would be a fun way to fall back into blogging.

But after thinking about it, I find that it's highly applicable.

For the past year or so, I've had quite a difficult time blogging. Every bloggable thought or moment that enters my head is met by opposition. "That's not funny. Who would ever be interested in that? What if so-and-so reads it--what would s/he think? If you blog that, you'll hurt your child's/husband's/friend's feelings. If you blog that, you'll come across as unspiritual. If you blog that, you'll come across as too spiritual. Why would you blog something so whiny? Are you starving for attention or something?" And, finally, the kiss of death, "You don't blog often enough, so you've lost all interest anyway, even if you did blog about something interesting. There's nobody here but us crickets." ::chirp chirp::

(It doesn't help that in the four minutes since I've been up here and asked for privacy that each of my kids has come in at least once--the baby twice--and I feel like an ogre for being impatient with them. Is it really all that wrong to expect private time?)

Writing is catharsis for me. I have written through some really nasty times in my life. I began writing as a way of coping with my mother's chronic illness. When I was five years old, I wrote and illustrated my first story. "It was a sad day. My mom went to the hospital. We went up the elevator. I got to see her. The end." And there was a little stick figure me, with my terribly unruly curly hair, standing beside a stick figure Mom in her hospital bed, the elevator standing open in the background.

I wrote through the discovery of her death after our seven-year estrangement. I literally cried on my keyboard as I processed what was happening to me.

Oh. My. Gosh. My mother is dead. My name is there. She had a funeral. FOUR MONTHS AGO she had a funeral. My heart was sick. I just held my head in my hands. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it. I don’t know how to process this.

But I did know how to process it. I word-processed it, writing down every detail, ever feeling, at the exact moment I was having it. The words saved me, comforted me.

When I started this blog, it was a way to keep track of what my children did, a way to journal our lives for the sake of home learning assessments. But it got away from that, and became essays about life, and that's what my readers enjoyed most, the life essays, and I felt safe writing them, especially the humorous ones. And why not? After all, that's what I enjoy the most when I read. Why shouldn't others enjoy my humorous essays?

The trouble, of course, is that real life isn't always fun, and it isn't always interest and it isn't always fit to print. The argument I had with someone I thought had cared about me, or the victimization I felt about a certain treatment I received, or the nit-picky frustration I experienced when people would let me down. Those things aren't fun to read. And the fact that the other party just may recognize themselves in my words...well, I found that I could be less and less genuine in my writing. And who wants that?

These past two weeks, I've thought a lot about blogging. Is it worth doing, worth fighting for the time to do? Does it serve a purpose? Not just for others, but for me? Is it just a whiny, self-absorbed trend that will embarrass me someday, like legwarmers and feathered hair? Or is this a place where I can be safe to express myself, Devil may care?

"I could be more imaginative if there were no gravity."

grav·i·ty ( P ) Pronunciation Key (grv-t)
n.
Physics.
The natural force of attraction exerted by a celestial body, such as Earth, upon objects at or near its surface, tending to draw them toward the center of the body.
The natural force of attraction between any two massive bodies, which is directly proportional to the product of their masses and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them.
Gravitation.
Grave consequence; seriousness or importance: They are still quite unaware of the gravity of their problems.
Solemnity or dignity of manner.

If my writing carried with it less grave consequences, less seriousness or importance, I could be free to be more imaginative, more . But is that what I want? Would my writing have any meaning if I eliminated the gravity? Or would it simply float away with no real weight to keep it grounded?

But gravity is a natural force of attraction exerted by a celestial body upon objects, tending to draw them toward the center of the body.

Therein lies my dilemma. I want to be attracted by natural force to center of that celestial body, I want to have weight, to accept that weight, to document my circumstances and let gravity--whether pull or seriousness--have its way. I want to follow that natural law. I want to be honest, real, and dignified.

Yet I also want to be interesting, attractive, appealing, imaginative.

I'm still thinking about all this, you see, trying to find a balance. Balance. That, too, is all about gravity.

So I break my fast with these introspective thoughts, and I ask those of you who still continue to read to bear with me. I'm working on myself, here.

I'm feeling my own weight.

Taking a Break

I'll be taking a two-week hiatus from blogging. I will still be reading blogs when I have time, but I'm finding that I have less time right now to devote to creating posts worthy of publishing. After my two-weeks, I'll reassess my position to see if I really want to continue blogging.

In the meantime, blessings to you all. May your February be filled with peace, love and Truth.

Bono's Remarks at the National Prayer Breakfast

From SojoNet: If you're wondering what I'm doing here, at a prayer breakfast, well, so am I. I'm certainly not here as a man of the cloth, unless that cloth is leather. It's certainly not because I'm a rock star. Which leaves one possible explanation: I'm here because I've got a messianic complex.


Yes, it's true. And for anyone who knows me, it's hardly a revelation.


Well, I'm the first to admit that there's something unnatural...something unseemly...about rock stars mounting the pulpit and preaching at presidents, and then disappearing to their villas in the south of France. Talk about a fish out of water. It was weird enough when Jesse Helms showed up at a U2 concert...but this is really weird, isn't it?


You know, one of the things I love about this country is its separation of church and state. Although I have to say: in inviting me here, both church and state have been separated from something else completely: their mind.


Mr. President, are you sure about this?


It's very humbling and I will try to keep my homily brief. But be warned - I'm Irish.


I'd like to talk about the laws of man, here in this city where those laws are written. And I'd like to talk about higher laws. It would be great to assume that the one serves the other; that the laws of man serve these higher laws...but of course, they don't always. And I presume that, in a sense, is why you're here.


I presume the reason for this gathering is that all of us here - Muslims, Jews, Christians - all are searching our souls for how to better serve our family, our community, our nation, our God.


I know I am. Searching, I mean. And that, I suppose, is what led me here, too.


Yes, it's odd, having a rock star here - but maybe it's odder for me than for you. You see, I avoided religious people most of my life. Maybe it had something to do with having a father who was Protestant and a mother who was Catholic in a country where the line between the two was, quite literally, a battle line. Where the line between church and state was...well, a little blurry, and hard to see.


I remember how my mother would bring us to chapel on Sundays... and my father used to wait outside. One of the things that I picked up from my father and my mother was the sense that religion often gets in the way of God.


For me, at least, it got in the way. Seeing what religious people, in the name of God, did to my native land...and in this country, seeing God's second-hand car salesmen on the cable TV channels, offering indulgences for cash...in fact, all over the world, seeing the self-righteousness roll down like a mighty stream from certain corners of the religious establishment...


I must confess, I changed the channel. I wanted my MTV.


Even though I was a believer.


Perhaps because I was a believer.


I was cynical...not about God, but about God's politics.


Then, in 1997, a couple of eccentric, septuagenarian British Christians went and ruined my shtick - my reproachfulness. They did it by describing the millennium, the year 2000, as a Jubilee year, as an opportunity to cancel the chronic debts of the world's poorest people. They had the audacity to renew the Lord's call - and were joined by Pope John Paul II, who, from an Irish half-Catholic's point of view, may have had a more direct line to the Almighty.


'Jubilee' - why 'Jubilee'?


What was this year of Jubilee, this year of our Lord's favor?


I'd always read the scriptures, even the obscure stuff. There it was in Leviticus (25:35)...


'If your brother becomes poor,' the scriptures say, 'and cannot maintain himself...you shall maintain him.... You shall not lend him your money at interest, not give him your food for profit.'


It is such an important idea, Jubilee, that Jesus begins his ministry with this. Jesus is a young man, he's met with the rabbis, impressed everyone, people are talking. The elders say, he's a clever guy, this Jesus, but he hasn't done much...yet. He hasn't spoken in public before...



When he does, is first words are from Isaiah: 'The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,' he says, 'because He has anointed me to preach good news to the poor.' And Jesus proclaims the year of the Lord's favour, the year of Jubilee (Luke 4:18).


What he was really talking about was an era of grace - and we're still in it.


So fast-forward 2,000 years. That same thought, grace, was made incarnate - in a movement of all kinds of people. It wasn't a bless-me club... it wasn't a holy huddle. These religious guys were willing to get out in the streets, get their boots dirty, wave the placards, follow their convictions with actions...making it really hard for people like me to keep their distance. It was amazing. I almost started to like these church people.


But then my cynicism got another helping hand.


It was what Colin Powell, a five-star general, called the greatest W.M.D. of them all: a tiny little virus called AIDS. And the religious community, in large part, missed it. The ones that didn't miss it could only see it as divine retribution for bad behaviour. Even on children...even [though the] fastest growing group of HIV infections were married, faithful women.


Aha, there they go again! I thought to myself judgmentalism is back!


But in truth, I was wrong again. The church was slow but the church got busy on this the leprosy of our age.


Love was on the move.


Mercy was on the move.


God was on the move.


Moving people of all kinds to work with others they had never met, never would have cared to meet...conservative church groups hanging out with spokesmen for the gay community, all singing off the same hymn sheet on AIDS...soccer moms and quarterbacks...hip-hop stars and country stars. This is what happens when God gets on the move: crazy stuff happens!


Popes were seen wearing sunglasses!


Jesse Helms was seen with a ghetto blaster!


Crazy stuff. Evidence of the spirit.


It was breathtaking. Literally. It stopped the world in its tracks.



When churches started demonstrating on debt, governments listened - and acted. When churches starting organising, petitioning, and even - that most unholy of acts today, God forbid, lobbying...on AIDS and global health, governments listened - and acted.


I'm here today in all humility to say: you changed minds; you changed policy; you changed the world.


Look, whatever thoughts you have about God, who He is or if He exists, most will agree that if there is a God, He has a special place for the poor. In fact, the poor are where God lives.


Check Judaism. Check Islam. Check pretty much anyone.


I mean, God may well be with us in our mansions on the hill. I hope so. He may well be with us as in all manner of controversial stuff. Maybe, maybe not. But the one thing we can all agree, all faiths and ideologies, is that God is with the vulnerable and poor.


God is in the slums, in the cardboard boxes where the poor play house. God is in the silence of a mother who has infected her child with a virus that will end both their lives. God is in the cries heard under the rubble of war. God is in the debris of wasted opportunity and lives, and God is with us if we are with them. "If you remove the yoke from your midst, the pointing of the finger and speaking wickedness, and if you give yourself to the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted, then your light will rise in darkness and your gloom with become like midday and the Lord will continually guide you and satisfy your desire in scorched places."


It's not a coincidence that in the scriptures, poverty is mentioned more than 2,100 times. It's not an accident. That's a lot of air time, 2,100 mentions. 'As you have done it unto the least of these my brethren, you have done it unto me' (Matthew 25:40). As I say, good news to the poor.


Here's some good news for the president. After 9/11 we were told America would have no time for the world's poor. America would be taken up with its own problems of safety. And it's true these are dangerous times, but America has not drawn the blinds and double-locked the doors.


In fact, you have doubled aid to Africa. You have tripled funding for global health. Mr. President, your emergency plan for AIDS relief and support for the Global Fund - you and Congress - have put 700,000 people onto life-saving anti-retroviral drugs and provided 8 million bed nets to protect children from malaria.


Outstanding human achievements. Counterintuitive. Historic. Be very, very proud.


But here's the bad news. From charity to justice, the good news is yet to come. There is much more to do. There's a gigantic chasm between the scale of the emergency and the scale of the response.


And finally, it's not about charity after all, is it? It's about justice.


Let me repeat that: It's not about charity, it's about justice.


And that's too bad.


Because you're good at charity. Americans, like the Irish, are good at it. We like to give, and we give a lot, even those who can't afford it.


But justice is a higher standard. Africa makes a fool of our idea of justice; it makes a farce of our idea of equality. It mocks our pieties, it doubts our concern, it questions our commitment.


Sixty-five hundred Africans are still dying every day of a preventable, treatable disease, for lack of drugs we can buy at any drug store. This is not about charity, this is about justice and equality.

Because there's no way we can look at what's happening in Africa and, if we're honest, conclude that deep down, we really accept that Africans are equal to us. Anywhere else in the world, we wouldn't accept it. Look at what happened in South East Asia with the tsunami. 150,000 lives lost to that misnomer of all misnomers, "mother nature." In Africa, 150,000 lives are lost every month. A tsunami every month. And it's a completely avoidable catastrophe.


It's annoying but justice and equality are mates. Aren't they? Justice always wants to hang out with equality. And equality is a real pain.

You know, think of those Jewish sheep-herders going to meet the Pharaoh, mud on their shoes, and the Pharaoh says, "Equal?" A preposterous idea: rich and poor are equal? And they say, "Yeah, 'equal,' that's what it says here in this book. We're all made in the image of God."


And eventually the Pharaoh says, "OK, I can accept that. I can accept the Jews - but not the blacks."


"Not the women. Not the gays. Not the Irish. No way, man."


So on we go with our journey of equality.


On we go in the pursuit of justice.


We hear that call in the ONE Campaign, a growing movement of more than 2 million Americans...Left and Right together... united in the belief that where you live should no longer determine whether you live.



We hear that call even more powerfully today, as we mourn the loss of Coretta Scott King - mother of a movement for equality, one that changed the world but is only just getting started. These issues are as alive as they ever were; they just change shape and cross the seas.


Preventing the poorest of the poor from selling their products while we sing the virtues of the free market...that's a justice issue. Holding children to ransom for the debts of their grandparents...that's a justice issue. Withholding life-saving medicines out of deference to the Office of Patents...that's a justice issue.


And while the law is what we say it is, God is not silent on the subject.


That's why I say there's the law of the land¿. And then there is a higher standard. There's the law of the land, and we can hire experts to write them so they benefit us, so the laws say it's OK to protect our agriculture but it's not OK for African farmers to do the same, to earn a living?


As the laws of man are written, that's what they say.


God will not accept that.


Mine won't, at least. Will yours?


[ pause]


I close this morning on...very...thin...ice.


This is a dangerous idea I've put on the table: my God vs. your God, their God vs. our God...vs. no God. It is very easy, in these times, to see religion as a force for division rather than unity.


And this is a town - Washington - that knows something of division.


But the reason I am here, and the reason I keep coming back to Washington, is because this is a town that is proving it can come together on behalf of what the scriptures call the least of these.


This is not a Republican idea. It is not a Democratic idea. It is not even, with all due respect, an American idea. Nor it is unique to any one faith.


'Do to others as you would have them do to you' (Luke 6:30). Jesus says that.


'Righteousness is this: that one should...give away wealth out of love for him to the near of kin and the orphans and the needy and the wayfarer and the beggars and for the emancipation of the captives.' The Koran says that (2.177).



Thus sayeth the Lord: 'Bring the homeless poor into the house, when you see the naked, cover him, then your light will break out like the dawn and your recovery will speedily spring fourth, then your Lord will be your rear guard.' The Jewish scripture says that. Isaiah 58 again.


That is a powerful incentive: 'The Lord will watch your back.' Sounds like a good deal to me, right now.


A number of years ago, I met a wise man who changed my life. In countless ways, large and small, I was always seeking the Lord's blessing. I was saying, you know, I have a new song, look after it¿. I have a family, please look after them¿. I have this crazy idea...


And this wise man said: stop.


He said, stop asking God to bless what you're doing.


Get involved in what God is doing - because it's already blessed.


Well, God, as I said, is with the poor. That, I believe, is what God is doing.


And that is what he's calling us to do.


I was amazed when I first got to this country and I learned how much some churchgoers tithe. Up to 10% of the family budget. Well, how does that compare with the federal budget, the budget for the entire American family? How much of that goes to the poorest people in the world? Less than 1%.


Mr. President, Congress, people of faith, people of America:



I want to suggest to you today that you see the flow of effective foreign assistance as tithing.... Which, to be truly meaningful, will mean an additional 1% of the federal budget tithed to the poor.


What is 1%?


1% is not merely a number on a balance sheet.


1% is the girl in Africa who gets to go to school, thanks to you. 1% is the AIDS patient who gets her medicine, thanks to you. 1% is the African entrepreneur who can start a small family business thanks to you. 1% is not redecorating presidential palaces or money flowing down a rat hole. This 1% is digging waterholes to provide clean water.




1% is a new partnership with Africa, not paternalism toward Africa, where increased assistance flows toward improved governance and initiatives with proven track records and away from boondoggles and white elephants of every description.


America gives less than 1% now. We're asking for an extra 1% to change the world. to transform millions of lives - but not just that and I say this to the military men now - to transform the way that they see us.


1% is national security, enlightened economic self-interest, and a better, safer world rolled into one. Sounds to me that in this town of deals and compromises, 1% is the best bargain around.


These goals - clean water for all; school for every child; medicine for the afflicted, an end to extreme and senseless poverty - these are not just any goals; they are the Millennium Development goals, which this country supports. And they are more than that. They are the Beatitudes for a globalised world.


Now, I'm very lucky. I don't have to sit on any budget committees. And I certainly don't have to sit where you do, Mr. President. I don't have to make the tough choices.


But I can tell you this:


To give 1% more is right. It's smart. And it's blessed.


There is a continent - Africa - being consumed by flames.


I truly believe that when the history books are written, our age will be remembered for three things: the war on terror, the digital revolution, and what we did - or did not to - to put the fire out in Africa.


History, like God, is watching what we do.

Some Questions about Friendship

I've been thinking a lot about friendship lately, and I was just wondering what the rest of the world thinks about friendship. So, I give you these questions:

How would you describe the perfect friend?

Is there anything about you that you're afraid your friend(s) will discover and will no longer be friends with you?

What would cause you to discontinue a friendship with someone?

Do you have any friends to whom you have committed your loyalty and will not turn your back on them, regardless of what they do?

Do you have any friends who have committed their loyalty to you, and you know they will not forsake you, regardless of what you do?

Do you have any friends who have stopped talking to you, but you don't know why? What have you done about it?

Do you have any friends who you've stopped talking to and they don't know why? What can you do about it?

Do you ever feel like your friendships are tenuous and easily dissolvable? If so, why do you think that is?

Looking forward to hearing your answers.

A Delightful Morning!

I just had a wonderful, encouraging and inspiring breakfast with PeacefulLady, and I am so blessed to have her as a new friend in my life. I feel like to Lord is placing people in my path who are just exactly the kinds of people I need right now. Thank you, God, for your provision in my life!

PeacefulLady and I spent three hours discussing parenting, performance anxieties, discipline, nurturing and affirmation, expectations, struggles, and so much more. It was SO GOOD to connect with someone on these levels, to talk to someone who wasn't there to prove herself better (or worse!), or to challenge, or to have a one-upmanship match, or to make me feel inadequate, or to puff me up with insincerities, or to fill the time with platitudes, but someone who was there to SHARE and ENCOURAGE and BE REAL. Wow. What a refreshing experience! Thank you, PeacefulLady, for choosing to be REAL!

And when we were leaving, she thanked me for our gathering by paying for my breakfast! What a blessing on this day when I'm trying to prepare a modest birthday celebration for The Baby on a shoestring budget. :-)

It was such a truly nourishing time. I hope to do it again soon.

The parting was just as lovely--she gave me a Really Good Hug, and her compassion and honesty just oozed out of that hug and saturated me.

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Blessed and Challenged

I called a friend on the phone one day, and when he heard my voice asking how he was doing, he sighed a big sigh.

His response was normally "Blessed!" because...well, because that's just the way he is. He always gives credit to God for his life, his beautiful family and what he's learning about being alive. Such an inspiration to me.

On this day, after that big sigh, he said, "Blessed...and challenged."

Apparently, the chickens I had given him the week before had been attacked by raccoons and he'd awoken to a veritable chicken masacre, chicken parts and feather strewn everywhere. His children were sobbing, his wife was freaked out, and he was just plain angry.

If you were to call me today and ask me how I'm doing, likely my answer would be "Blessed...and challenged."

I'm blessed because that's truly what I am--blessed. God is so very good to me, even when I'm a complete and total moron. He provides for me, even when I complain about how little provision I have. He loves me, even when I am completely and totally unlovable. I'm very, very blessed.

But I'm also challenged. Money has never been as tight in my life as it feels right now. Note that I didn't say money has never been this tight, because it has. I have had many times where they only way I would get a meal was to search the couch cushions for change and walk to the store (because I had no gas, or my truck was broken down) to buy eggs, which I would scramble and eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

I've been poor enough in the past that I decided to stop buying razor blades and buy, instead, a disposable razor, which I then used until it ripped the skin off my legs and armpits. When I realized how utterly ridiculous this was, I simply stopped shaving my legs and armpits. Hey, I didn't put that stuff there. I'm not giving over my milk money to clean it up!

But, what I'm saying now, is that I FEEL poor. I have a lovely house, two (barely) working vehicles, five gallons of milk in the fridge, and enough food to feed my family for at least four days. More, if I were to get very resourceful.

I'm truly blessed.

But there is no extra money. And I don't just mean I can't afford a cruise or a trip to Disney World. I mean I can't afford a trip to the next state to visit my relatives. I mean I can't afford to take field trips this month. I mean that if one of my vehicles broke down today, I'd be out of luck. There's no way we could afford to replace it.

If there were a tragedy in our home, and the doctor bills exceeded, say, $50, that would be a problem. Our insurance won't even cover The Baby's vitamin prescription. I guess it's more profitable to collect from sick people than it is to see them stay healthy. Sigh.

I'm challenged.

Challenged because this pot-bellied pig isn't working out. Just before I came in to write this, I was on my hands and knees cleaning pig poo off the bathroom floor because someone thought it would be fun to see just how much food a pot-bellied pig could hold. Apparently they can hold a lot--and then propel it out the other end all at once. Unfortunately, no one thought it would be fun to get on their hands and knees and clean up the outcome (pun intended) of the experiment.

Challenged because I just found out that an upcoming purchase that's completely necessary was misquoted to me; the actual price is double what was originally stated, and it's too late to back out.

Challenged because gnats have taken over my home. I don't know why, but they snuck in somewhere, probably on the overripe bananas I insist on buying because they're cheap and will make excellent banana bread and then they turn into brown soup-in-a-peel while I'm cleaning pig poo off the bathroom floor. And now they've (the gnats, that is, not the bananas) infested my beloved potted plants that hang from the tops of my kitchen cupboards.

I'm blessed, though, because I've been asked to speak at a couple of different events that are near and dear to my heart. Given my current track record, I feel like any speaking I would do would lead people to believe that I have some kind of answer to their burning questions. That, my friends, would be very disingenuous.

I'm blessed, too, because, after five years of raising rabbits and always getting "bad" ones who didn't want to have babies, we finally had OUR FIRST litter of bunnies, which was a wonderful thing to wake up to.

I'm challenged, though, because the mother decided that it would be so much better to eat them than nurse them, so now she's only down to two, and I'm still not sure whether she's going to nurse them or save them for dessert.

See, I'm not saying that things are bad, because I do know that they aren't. Things could be so, so, so much worse, and God is doing a very good job at duct-taping my life together, no matter how quickly I need patching.

I'm just saying that I can see both sides of the coin today. It's pretty exhausting.

So, your prayers would be appreciated.

So, lemme ask you...how are YOU doing today?

Welcome, Clover

Our home seems to have become somewhat of a boarding house for wayward animals. Except that they aren't really wayward. They're just sort of...displaced. Sometimes things go very well with the adoptee (like our blue parakeet, Daba Dee, who is sitting above my singing as I write) and sometimes, they don't go so well (like with our dearly departed, Snoopy, the bassett hound who met her untimely demise under the wheels of my father's van). In addition to these, we've been given rabbits, a black lab, a one-eyed chameleon (who also recently passed away, but she was three years old and had health problems when we received her), cats, turtles, zebra finches, and, very soon, ponies.

Yesterday, we were greeted by a new family member, Clover. Clover is a young pot-bellied pig, and she came to us from our friend David M., who seems to have quite an affinity for animals, much like my children and I do.

clover is pretty amazing. She's very smart, potty trained, and enjoys being scratched on the belly. I've been warned not to allow her to sleep in my bed (as IF!) because I might be sleeping on the floor before long, so I've insisted that the advice holds true for the kids as well. Unlike me, they DO want the pig to sleep with them. Okay, okay. I'll admit it. It would be kinda neat. But I won't give in to such farcical behavior. I wouldn't tell YOU about it, anyway.

If you have any experience with pot-bellied pigs and would like to share tricks, tips, advice, warnings, uproarious laughter, whatever, feel free to bring it on.

I must be insane.

But isn't she CUTE?

Wordsworth...an unschooler at heart?

I've only recently begun reading the poems of William Wordsworth. What a delight! I think I've exhausted my poor family from reading them poems aloud. But I keep finding pieces that speak right to my heart! That echo my sentiments. These two, particularly, earn my fondness because, to me, they speak to the interest-led learner.

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY

"WHY, William, on that old grey stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?

"Where are your books?--that light bequeathed
To Beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.

"You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply:

"The eye--it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will.

"Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.

"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?

"--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old grey stone,
And dream my time away,"
1798.


THE TABLES TURNED
AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT

UP! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun, above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless--
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:--
We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.
1798.

Growing UP!

People have mentioned recently that my photo on the right of The Baby doesn't really look like The Baby anymore, since she's now almost three years old. This Saturday, we will celebrate her third birthday, and she's getting more Three-Like every day. She's smart, articulate, funny, sweet, challenging, adventurous, cuddly, beautiful, loving, thoughtful, polite (most of the time), creative, and playful. I so enjoy my time with her.

For her birthday, she has requested a PINK cake, and she'll get one. I found this recipe on AllRecipes.Com and I'm going to give it a whirl.

INGREDIENTS:
2 1/4 cups cake flour
2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup shortening
1 1/3 cups white sugar
3 egg whites
2/3 cup milk
1 (10 ounce) jar maraschino cherries
1/2 cup chopped pecans
3/4 cup butter
6 cups confectioners' sugar
1/3 cup milk
6 drops red food coloring
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 (4 ounce) jar maraschino cherries

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

DIRECTIONS:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Grease and lightly flour two 8 or 9 inch round cake pans or one 9x13 inch cake pan. Reserve 1/4 cup maraschino cherry juice. Coarsely chop the cherries to make 1/2 cup. Set aside.
Combine flour, baking powder, and 1/4 teaspoon of the salt in a small bowl and set aside.
Beat shortening in a large bowl with an electric mixer on medium high speed for 30 seconds. Add the 1 1/3 cups white sugar and beat until well combined. Add the egg whites, one at a time, beating well after each.
Combine 2/3 cup milk and 1/4 cup cherry juice. Add the flour and milk mixture alternately to the shortening mixture, beating on low speed after each addition until just combined. Stir in the chopped cherries and nuts. Pour batter into prepared pans.
Bake in a 350 degrees F (175 degrees C) for 25 to 30 minutes for two 8 or 9 inch round cakes or for 30 to 35 minutes for a 9x13 inch pan. Cool cakes in pans on a wire rack for 10 minutes, remove from pans and allow to them to cool fully before frosting.
To Make Butter Frosting: Beat 3/4 cups butter in a large bowl till fluffy. Gradually add 3 cups sifted confectioners' sugar, beat well. Slowly beat in 1/3 cup milk, 1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla and 1/4 teaspoon salt. Gradually beat in the remaining 3 cups sifted confectioners' sugar. Beat in additional milk (1 to 2 tablespoons) if needed, to make frosting of spreading consistency. If desired tint the frosting pink by adding 6 drops of red food coloring.
Once cake is completely cool frost with butter frosting and decorate with maraschino cherries with stems.

Homeschooling is Interesting

I was asked to share about my areas of special interest at a homeschool mothers' luncheon tomorrow morning. This is what I have prepared:

One morning, Monet, the middle child of our five children, came down to the computer room where I was observing the very beginning stages of a monarch butterfly emerging from her chrysalis. I knew that she would be breaking forth at any moment, because all of her monarch colors were very visible through the casing, and it was the time of the day when monarchs typically emerge. We'd been raising butterflies through the summer, after a fellow homeschooling mom had given us a bouquet of milkweed hosting a half-dozen tiny caterpillars. Though we'd watched the other stages of metamorphosis, the growing caterpillar, the shedding of their caterpillar skins, and the change into a chrysalis, he'd not yet seen the amazing moment when the transformation comes to completion. In the kitchen, a list of the day's goals were sitting on the table--chores, lessons, piano practice, etc. Even though I was standing there watching a miracle about to take place, my mind was on that list of goals. I knew that if we got distracted for too long, the day would run away with us. "Come on, Monet," I said, "let's start our day." He protested, of course, but it wasn't a disrespectful thing. He just really wanted to make sure he didn't miss that moment. "We'll keep checking," I assured him. "We'll only be in the next room." He hesitated, but followed me into the kitchen.

Earlier this week, when a homeschool mother asked me if I would share at Saturday morning's homeschool mothers' luncheon, I was both pleased and surprised; pleased because I'm an attention hog--I love to talk. Surprised because I wasn't really sure what I had to share that would be of interest. The attention-hog me won out, and I told her "yes." Then I did what I normally do under these circumstances--panic. How could I bring all of my thoughts of fifteen years of homeschooling, into focus, and keep it under fifteen minutes? "Talk about your specialty areas, your special interests," she said. Huh. What are my special interests, I wondered. I mean, philosophically speaking, our educational style is all over the map. Homeschooling in the Thicket Dweller household is quite eclectic and, if nothing else, very interesting. At any given time, you might find us looking for formaldehyde to preserve the eyeball of a cat that had been run over by a car, or smearing shaving cream all over the kitchen table to beat the boredom of practicing our letter formations on paper, or recording old time radio drama satires, complete with Rich Chocolatey Ovaltine Bar commercials and blooper reels.

We have a lot of fun with our learning. But I'm never really sure, when someone, say the cashier at Wal*Mart who wonders why my kids aren't in school, asks me to define what we do. We aren't school-at-homers. We tried that for a while, and there wasn't a day when one of us didn't end up crying. We aren't classical homeschoolers, strictly speaking, because, while we read a lot of classical literature and focus on a many aspects of classical education, like art and music and some Well-Trained Mind philosophies, we have many modern interests, like juggling and unicycling and blogging. We aren't unschoolers, because that connotates a completely child-led, structure-free lifestyle, and my kids would be quick to tell you that that's not us. I don't relinquish complete control very easily.

So, while we gleen from many different educational styles, we don't strictly follow any of them. I guess I'm a homelearner of all trades, a master of none. If truly pressed to define our educational style, I would have to categorize us as interest-led learners.

"What does *that* mean," the cashier at Wal*Mart might ask while I lift a bag of potatoes onto the conveyor belt. Well, if she had some time, I'd tell her. Because, if you remember what I said before, I like to talk. I guess talking would be my specialty area.

I'd say, "Well, it's like this. Interest-led learning can be broken down into three sub-categories. We can allow interest, we can express interest, and we can encourage interest." At that point, the cashier would probably hand me my receipt, throw my bag of potatoes into the cart, and send me on my way, but since I have you here, a captive audience, I'll expound.

Allowing interest. I would say that's my biggest priority. To me, allowing interest is God's gift to educating parents. Having five children, ranging in age from three to almost sixteen, it would be difficult to choose one learning style, one out-of-the-box curriculum, and use it successfully with everyone. For me, it's important to be flexible, to appeal to their interest areas for clues on how they learn. Out of my school-age children, I have one child who is a voracious reader, one who is very artistic, one who loves animals, and one who...well...he's easily distracted, a bit strong-willed, and likes to be the center of attention. In other words, he's an awful lot like me. But I think he's the child who taught me the most about the importance of flexibility in our learning environment.

One day about six months ago, I got a call from a homeschooling friend. She was exasperated with her thirteen-year-old daughter. "I can't get her to do anything! She won't write her book reports, she won't do her math, and it's driving me wild! All she talks about is learning how to play guitar. I told her today that I've had enough. No way. I won't stand for it! If she can't handle doing her regular lessons, then she can just forget about ever getting a guitar."

So I told her about my proverbs 22:6 story.

For years, Houdin balked at the idea of learning to read. Reading was something his *sister* did, not him. His sister, who had taken to reading like a homeschooler takes to curriculum fairs, learned to read with very little help by age three. She was reading Pride and Prejudice by age eight. She was off the charts in her language arts assessments by age ten. Houdin, however, showed no interest in reading. As a matter of fact, by the time he was six and still wasn't reading, I went into so much of a panic that I enrolled him in a local private Christian school. By the end of the year, my wallet was quite a bit lighter and he had developed a deep appreciation for recess, but the boy still didn't know how to read. It was about then that I got a hold of Raymond and Dorothy Moore's books and found a bit of comfort, that it was better for a child to be late in reading than too early. Mortimer J. Adler says something very similar, that it will do more damage to force a child to read before he's ready than it would do for them to read after they're ready. So I decided to just stop pushing it.

Proverbs 22:6 says to train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not turn from it. One day, I happened to be reading this verse in my Amplified Bible, and I was encouraged to read this:

Train up a child in the way he should go [and in keeping with his individual gift or bent], and when he is old he will not depart from it.

In keeping with his individual gift or bent. That's one of the beautiful things about homeschooling. We can do this--we can make accomodations for kids who are night owls, or kids who communicate better by speaking than by writing, or kids who think they hate to read.

One of my favorite authors on education, Charlotte Mason, says, "The parent who sees his way to educate his child will make use of every circumstance of the child's life almost without intention on his own part...Does the child eat or drink, does he come, or go, or play--all the time, he is being educated, though he is as little aware of it as he is of the act of breathing."

This quote reminds me of a story that John Holt, the father of unschooling, told about walking across a courtyard on his way to work one day, how he envisioned a seminar where everyone talked about breathing. "How are you breathing today?" One would ask. "Oh, not like Joe Smith...doesn't he breath beautifully?" And so on. If we were to witness this type of convention, we'd wonder if the attendants were sick, or had been sick. Why so much talk and worry about something healthy people do naturally? The same might be said, Holt concludes, about how much we worry about learning. Given room, we all have interests. We all have things that motivate us to learn. Aristotle said that the pleasure arising from thinking and learning will make us think and learn all the more.

So I thought about my son's individual bents and gifts, wondered what would motivate him to think and learn all the more. What does he like? Well, he likes magic, I thought, sleight of hand. Illusion. It's an interest he picked up from his great-grandfather, a master magician who has never failed to wow us with his tricks. I took Houdin to a magic shop and let him choose a few things with the promise of more the next week if he did his chores and cared for these gifts. This, not reading, was clearly his talent. But the beauty was that, in order to learn to do these tricks well, he needed to read the instructions. Bam. The inspiration was there. The motivation was there. And as if by some intervention of the Lord, the next time we went, the shop owner, who had taken a liking to Houdin, suggested...GASP!...some BOOKS for him to read! "Do you know anything about Houdini?" He asked. "A little," Houdin answered. "Do you like to read?" the shop owner asked. "Not really," Houdin answered. "How old are you...about twelve?" Houdin nodded. "When I was twelve, I hated to read, too. And then I got interested in magic. I read about Houdini, and then I started reading books like this one..." he handed Houdin a huge book filled with instructions for different magic tricks. "Can we get it?" Houdin asked me. We took the book home, he got some books on Houdini from the library, and by the end of the week, he was reading every night. When the student is ready, the master appears. Now, Houdin takes his magic tricks to businesses to entertain patrons, uses them as ice-breakers, and presents them at nursing homes. And, he still reads every night.

So, after I told my friend this little story, I suggested that she use the guitar as a motivator, not as a punishment. "Have her research guitars. Tell her to take notes and present them to you. Encourage her to save her own money for lessons. You have a gift here, the gift of motivation that comes with her desire to play guitar. It's the best tool you have." I added, too, the benefit of a lifelong love of music, how it will always be a means of meditation and worship, how it will increase her logical thinking.

Last week, the young girl played her guitar for me. She plays beautifully. she has started a teen worship team at her church. And her mother no longer has problems with getting her to do her lessons--she sees the value in research and written communication. Abbe Ernest Dimnet said that children have to be educated, but they have also to be left to educate themselves. I find that by giving my children a little room, a little benign neglect, they educate themselves quite well.

Of course, there are things that we, as mothers, want our children to learn even if they can't be easily motivated by their gifts to learn them. That's where encouraging interest comes in. Listening to her play a new piece on the piano, asking to hear the new story she's written, showing a guest his latest drawing, and, one of my favorite ways of encouraging interest,"strewing." Strewing is a term I picked up from unschooler Sandra Dodd. Strewing, defined, is leaving materials of interest around for my children to discover. This follows the same course of logic as keeping healthy foods in the pantry. Charlotte Mason, in her book Home Education, says, "The more the child shapes his own course, the less do the parents find to do, beyond feeding him with food convenient, whether love or thought or bodily meat and drink. The parents' chief care is that that which they supply shall be wholesome and nourishing, whether in the way of...books, lessons, playmates, bread and milk, or mother's love." Strewing could be as simple as leaving an interesting book beside the toilet, as effortless as playing Edvard Grieg pieces during meal preparation times, or as pre-planned as taking the whole family to a contra-dance. Sometimes these things meet with a bit of resistence, but with some polite discourse, the child usually trusts that I, the mother, know what I'm talking about, that I've rarely steered them wrong, and they comply. I once heard John Tesh say that it takes introducing a food up to fifteen times before a child will like it, so sometimes, I have to keep trying. The important things stick. The superfluous ones slip away.

And, while encouraging interest, I incorporate those modifications I talked about earlier. For a child who thinks he hates to write, I started a mother/son journal, a place where we communicate with each other in writing on a regular basis. Interest encouraged. For a child who thinks he hates math, we get into discussions about pi at midnight, the ratio of the circumference to the diameter of a circle, by measuring every circle in the house to see if the theory holds true. Interest encouraged. For the daughter who doesn't like to keep records of her lessons or do narrations about the books she's read, we created a blog where she can record her educational progress. Interest encouraged. In these ways, we learn, not just during traditional school hours, and not just during the traditional school year, but all the time. Taking every opportunity to learn. Learning like breathing. We breath everywhere. Last week, while on a date to Coccia House in Wooster, my son Monet and I had a conversation about continents. "Are they, like, cities?" He asked. "No," I answered, "let me explain." And right then, that italian restaurant became the world. Each room became a continent. Each table became a country. He caught on. Each plate became a state or province, my pasta, a tangled mass of cities, towns and villages. "I like my teacher," he said. "Because, in a way, I am my teacher."

And while they do teach themselves, I also feel that there are things that I must teach them, things that resist being learned by allowing interest and encouraging interest. These things can almost always be learned by my expressing interest, by my taking the time to learn and become entranced. Frank Clark said, "Every adult needs a child to teach. It's the way adults learn!" And I believe it's the way children learn, too. A well-publicized study by Harvard University in 1997 found that both literacy and school success could be linked to--guess what?--pleasant dinner table conversation about current events. We know that we influence our children with out interests. Charlotte Mason wrote "The child who sees his mother with reverent touch lift an early snowdrop to her lips learns a higher lesson than the print books can teach" and "If [children] see that the things which interest them are indifferent or disgusting to you, their pleasure in them vanishes." Learning together, showing a never-ending interest in learning, is one way that I have seen inspires my children to love learning.

That's how we got interested in the monarch butterflies. After my friend brought us our first batch of caterpillars, I just fell whole-hog in love with them! I couldn't get enough, checked out every book in the library, made a monarch butterfly habitat and a caterpillar feeding jar, and the kids and I went out in search of fresh milkweed when the caterpillars had eaten through their supply. Monarchs monopolated our lives. But they also taught me another valuable lesson in flexibility.

That morning, Monet and I left the monarch chrysalis and went into the kitchen to begin our day. Not two minutes after we'd walked out of the computer room, I peeked in to check on the monarc. There, dangling from the chrysalis, was a perfectly-formed butterfly, spreading her wings. "WE MISSED IT!" I yelled. Monet came rushing into the room, wide-eyed, yet disappointed. "I told you to wait, Mom!"

He was right. I can't remember specifically what drew us away, what we were doing that was so important, but I do remember that we missed an opportunity to witness a miracle. I don't want to make that mistake again. So I try to be open to learning opportunites, to make accomodations, to allow interest, to encourage interest, and to express interest, and in this way, I believe I can witness miracles rather than busy myself with things that I'll probably not remember in years to come.

I want to leave you with one quote by author Borg Hendrickson, words that have encouraged me to trust myself to develop my own educational philosophies:

"The homeschool parent listens to her inner voice, the voice she recognizes as the world's most natural and suitable teacher for her children. She listens to her own convictions, to her life-earned wisdom, to her love for her children, to her hopes for them and she then knows how and to what purposes she wants her children educated. she then knows her educational philosophies and aims. She also knows that nothing else will do."

David Wilcox

Bo and I had the pleasure of being in the audience for David Wilcox's concert at the Kent Folk Stage in Kent, Ohio on January 13th. My love for this amazing artist was renewed after hearing him sing and speak. If you haven't taken the time to get to know David's music, please click on over to www.davidwilcox.com and learn more. If you want suggestions for which CD to start with, feel free to e-mail me and I'll try to guide you along.

Pictured here are some of my notes and part of the evening's setlist. If you ever get a chance to see David live, please, do yourself a favor and go. It'll be good for your soul. 

The Barmy Blogger

My daughter Bard, The Barmy Blogger, wrote this touching vignette about our dog Snoopy's death this summer. She just posted it to her blog and it's quite touching. I'm amazed by her observations and honesty.

Monet's Drawings

My ten-year-old son, Monet, spends most of his time imagining and drawing. His characters are fun and interesting, finding themselves in all types of adventures. Here's one of my favorites of his most recent drawings. I love the pants and the look on the character's face. 

Finally

Bard's Christmas interview is here.

If the Octopus Fits...

Impromptu Mom asked me why I was wearing an octopus, so I thought I should explain.

See, I have really thick hair. Yeah, I know. You wish you had thick hair, too. Well, you only wish that because you don't.

Because if you did, you'd know that there's not much you can do with all this hair. It's either down and frizzy or up and frizzy, and since up and frizzy's easier to manage and takes less time, that's what I most often do, so I'm always looking for some kind of...something...to help reign my mane.

One day, while Bard and I were perusing the hair accessories aisle of the local Stuff*Mart, Bard pulled a very imposing-looking torture device from its peg. It looked like a big black spider, or an octopus, or that photo on the left. It was actually called an Octopus Clip. I didn't want to buy it.

"I'm not buying that thing," I announced.

"Why not? It's cool! It's for thick hair!" Retorted Bard, who inherited the thick hair thing, too.

"Because I can't put something that looks like...like...like that on my head. I spend a lot of time worrying about things that look like that. I've called your dad to come home from work so he could kill things that look like that. I think one of my biggest nightmares would be finding something like that in my hair. Put it back."

"C'mon," she badgered. "It's cool." She wriggled the thing in front of my face. "Maybe it will help me look cool, too."

And because I'm a guilt-ridden pushover, I bought it.

And once I had it home, I couldn't help myself. I tried it. Besides, I was late for work and desperate.

Wonder of wonders. It held my hair. All of my hair. It doesn't slip out. And I can actually operate it, unlike those chopstick things and french twist doo-dads that I buy and plunge into my tangle of tresses, either to break them in two or to give up and toss them in the "that was a waste" pile.

But not the octopus. It grabbed my hair with all eight legs and held on for dear life.

When I got to work, one of my co-workers commented on my new 'do. "It looks nice!" She said. Huh. Maybe this scary-looking thing and I can actually be friends, I thought. I introduced my co-worker to the octopus. They shook hands. All eight of them.

And now, I'm hooked. I've purchased several of the hideous-looking things, because I have a tendency to leave my hair accessories wherever I take them off and may not find them until I clean under the couch. Which may be never. Plus, with my luck, an Octopus Clip will attack some lady's head and she'll file a lawsuit claiming emotional damage and they'll take the clips off the market. And then I'll be stuck with french twist doo-dads and chopsticks and a frizzy down-do. I don't think I can go back.

And so, that is why one of the things I'm currently wearing is an octopus.

Tagged Again: Two Things

I thought this might be helpful since you can't copy and paste it off of my blog:

2 names you go by:
1. Mom
2. Mrs. H.

2 parts of your heritage:
1. I don't know
2. I was adopted

2 things that scare you:
1. Freak accidents
2. Moving too fast

2 of your everyday essentials:
1. Conversing with my husband
2. Reading e-mail

2 things you are wearing right now:
1. Acorn earrings
2. An octopus

2 favorite bands or musical artists (at the moment):
1. Coldplay
2. David Wilcox

2 favorite songs at the moment:
1. In the Bleak Midwinter
2. If it Wasn't for the Night

2 truths:
1. God is.
2. I'm not.

2 of your favorite hobbies:
1. Knitting
2. Planning

2 things you want really badly:
1. Peace
2. Money

2 places you want to go on vacation:
1. London
2. My own home

2 things you want to do before you die:
1. Get old
2. Learn to play an instrument

2 things you are thinking about now:
1. Taking down my Christmas decorations
2. Cleaning my house

2 stores you shop at:
1. Save N Serve
2. Wal*Mart

2 people you would like to complete this meme:
1. Bard
2. Impromptu Mom

In the Bleak Midwinter

by Christina Rossetti

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign.
In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, Whom cherubim, worship night and day,
Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, Whom angels fall before,
The ox and ass and camel which adore.

Angels and archangels may have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;
But His mother only, in her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.

What can I give Him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;
Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart.

If You Give a Mom a Muffin...

I don't know who wrote this--it wasn't I--but it sure is accurate! Sums up my day today.

If you give a mom a muffin,
She'll want a cup of coffee to go with it.
She'll pour herself some.
Her three-year-old will spill the coffee.
She'll wipe it up.
Wiping the floor, she'll find dirty socks.
She'll remember she has to do laundry.
When she puts the laundry in the washer,
She'll trip over boots and bump into the freezer.
Bumping into the freezer will remind her
she has to plan for supper.
She will get out a pound of hamburger.
She'll look for her cookbook, "101 Things To Do
With a Pound of
Hamburger"
The cookbook is sitting under a pile of mail.
She will see the phone bill, which is due
tomorrow.
She will look for her checkbook.
The check book is in her purse
which is being dumped out by her two-year-old.
She smells something funny.
She'll change the two-year-old's diaper.
While she is changing the diaper, the phone will
ring.
Her five-year-old will answer and hang up.
She'll remember she wants to phone a friend for
coffee.
Thinking of coffee will remind her
that she was going to have a cup.
And chances are... If she has a cup of coffee,
Her kids will have eaten the muffin that went
with it.

(with apologies to Laura Numeroff)

Tagged--I'm so weird

I've been double tagged...once by TrueVyne and once by Jody2ms.

Five weird habits of yourself:

“The first player of this game starts with the topic ‘five weird habits of yourself,’ and people who get tagged need to write an entry about their five weird habits as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose the next five people to be tagged and link to their web journals. Don’t forget to leave a comment in their blog or journal that says ‘You are tagged’ (assuming they take comments) and tell them to read yours.”


1. My nose twitches when I'm in the vicinity of lettuce. No kidding. When I was a kid, I seriously thought I was part rabbit.

2. I make myself perform one good deed before I allow myself to check my e-mail.

3. I chew my fingernails while watching movies.

4. I have a particular weakness for Krispy Kreme donuts, specifically the chocolate glazed kind, and NOT the ones in the grocery-store box. They must be the fresh ones in the donut case.

5. I cry over previews and fall asleep during the actual movies.

I tag Bard, Impromptu-Mom, Pensive Wanderer, Peaceful Lady, and Allison Tannery.

Beautiful Voices, Beautiful Places

Bard's choral ensemble sang at a nearby community's First Night celebration on Saturday. The church where they perform several of their concerts each year is just gorgeous. First year touring singers are often distracted when they sing there because one simply can't help looking around at all of the loveliness--colors, architecture, statues, lighting. Bard says that it's lovely, yes, but not as lovely as the cathedrals she saw while singing in Italy.

I haven't travelled very far; I think the hills and fields surrounding our home are some of the most beautiful landscapes ever. I do remember, however, a particularly beautiful sunset view from the top of Mount Baldy in the Indiana Dunes.

What is the most beautiful place you've ever seen?