Part of the beauty of homelearning is the freedom it affords.
For many years, when my homelearning children were younger, I felt that I had to fit into the mold set up by the public school regarding grades, should-knows, grade levels and curriculum. I thought that I really needed to have a "back to school" party, or take my kids "back-to-school" clothes shopping. And when I knew that it was time for the other kids in the neighborhood to step onto the Big Yellow Bus, I thought that my kids needed to be at home, sitting at their desks doing their workbooks.
I'm so glad I don't do that anymore.
For you, those things may be just what you enjoy. I don't give grades. I have to calculate grade levels for my kids when someone asks me for that information on a form. I don't use a set curriculum, though I have been extremely thrilled to discover Charlotte Mason and Ambleside. We have parties all the time, so I don't feel the need to designate one as a "back to school" party. I was talking to a mom the other day who said that she loves going back-to-school shopping with her home-schooled children, and that she really enjoys having a soiree to mark the beginning of their school year. Like I said, the beautiful thing about homelearning is the freedom it affords.
For me, I like learning all-year-round, with an accent on what I call "formal academics" during the traditional school year. The first Monday after Labor Day is our goal for getting serious about learning new things, having all of our Ambleside materials available, and making sure that there's ink in the printer. I don't like textbooks, and I don't like workbooks. I like reading real literature, getting our hands dirty, hanging around together, giving weight to every moment, never discounting a thing, discussing, observing, discussing some more. I never, ever, ever want to turn learning on and off, look at the clock and say, "Okay! School's over! We're done learning now!"
As for school supplies, well...I buy those all year long. Every week, I think. Maybe, if you consider that even the meals we make are part of our education, every day. Books flow through our house like water through an ambling creek. We never stop talking about math, science, history, literature, art--except when we're sleeping, and we try to keep such nonsense to a minimum. Just yesterday, I read Bard a piece from her recommended reading list. It was a Kurt Vonnegut story that I'd heard presented by a speech student. I'm a big fan of Vonnegut, and was thrilled to hear a homeschooled high school kid interpret one of his pieces, so when I saw it on Bard's schedule for this year, we went right to it and read it together. Why wait until school "starts?" After all, I really enjoyed reading it again myself.
I'm a firm believer in seizing opportunities, in taking advantage of what are commonly called "teachable moments." That's kind of a misnomer to me, because I often learn just as much or more than my kids do when we stumble upon one of those moments. I guess I would be more quick to call them "shared learning moments," or some other clever thing I can't come up with right now.
If I could give new homelearning moms one gift, it would be the confidence that one attains from being a veteran homelearner. I would tell them to feel the groove. Don't feel pressured to do what other homelearners are doing. Don't fall into the feelings of guilt that come from comparison. Slip into your own rhythm. Find your own rhyme. Learn when you want to. If you don't want to "do" grades, then don't. If you don't want to divide your three children into grade levels, then don't. If your kid would rather read a book in a tree than at a desk, go for it.
And when the clerk at Stuff*Mart drawls, "I betcha can't wait 'til they go back to school canya?" you can give your child a smooch on that incredibly unique and intelligent head of theirs and proudly declare, "I don't have to wait. We get to learn every single moment of the day, thankyouverymuch."
Then you can pick up your bag of school supplies--s'more fixins, superglue and cat food--and seize the next shared learning moment.
Or whatever you wanna call it.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
Prayers for a Homeschool Family
Please pray for the Burrus family as they mourn, and may we allow ourselves to mourn along with them.BLUFFTON, Ohio - Fifteen-year-old Leisha Burrus was out for a walk with her headphones on about a mile from her rural Pandora home Wednesday evening when her mother stopped to give her a glass of water.
Not long after, Leisha darted across the road toward her friend's pickup and was struck and killed by an oncoming car. Ohio Highway Patrol troopers said she apparently didn't look before she crossed the road. They found her headphones and the broken glass at her side.
at jfeehan@theblade.com
or 419-353-5972
The Rocks will Cry Out
A bruised reed He will not break, and a dimly burning wick He will not quench; He will bring forth justice in truth.
~Isaiah 42:3 (Amplified Bible)
Every once in a while, the honesty and intensity of a secular song grabs me and brings me to my knees like no Christian Contemporary song ever could. There's something about hearing another human being cry out, expose their soft insides, and when I hear that kind of vulnerability, it causes me to believe that the songwriter isn't writing for the audience, but is lifting his voice Up, if you know what I mean.
Many times, Coldplay songs speak to me this way. I'm not sure if songwriter Chris Martin intends for me to read so deeply into his writings, but I do. I can't help it. As a matter of fact, there are many secular songs that are absolutely saturated with spiritual messages, whether intentionally or not. To me, it's like the very rock[ers] are crying out. Maybe they don't even know it. Maybe they're compelled by Someone to speak to the heart of one such as me, to lament and hope and call upon God through something so spiritual and human and internal-made-external as music.
There was a time in my adulthood, when I thought I was in a place in my life where I could be referred to as a "mature Christian." But I allowed my eyes to be set too low; people I had trusted had very seriously let me down and disappointed me. And, as a result of my low sites, I began to doubt the significance of many things. And, eventually, I decided that there must not be a God. I had laid my troubles at His feet; I had asked Him to meet my physical needs; I had called out to Him for healing; I had put my trust in His people. As far as I was concerned, He had failed me. His people had failed me. It just wasn't worth believing in Him anymore. And for a time, I walked away. Completely.
Not many people know this about me.
For quite a while, I had to repattern my thinking. Believing in God is a strong habit to break, and I had to guard my heart at every turn. Where I had regularly spoken to Him in a kind of monologue-type prayer, I had to internalize my feelings. where I had seen Him everywhere before, I had to look for excuses for my lack of belief. Where once I had praised Him for His goodness, cried to Him for His assistance, thanked Him for his gifts, I inserted feelings of cynicism, anger, selfishness. What a state I was in!
And then, one day, I was working in the garden, and I looked down at my hands, things I had taken for granted all my life. Those hands were tools, not accidents. They were designed, not evolved. Someone had created me, crafted me, designed me in His image, had loved me enough to bring me to this place, this spinning ball of dirt and rocks inhabited by other fallen people just like me, where He, in His infinite wisdom, had even given me free will, by which I could even choose to deny Him. And there, in the garden, I started finding my way back to God.
Crawling back to God was difficult. For months after I had realized that I was missing Him, I felt like He was so distant, and though I knew He was there, I once again had to repattern my thinking. Now I see Him in the clouds, in the trees, in my children, my husband, my friends. I see Him in the morning and in the evening. I see Him in the words of a song that wasn't necessarily written to glorify Him, wasn't necessarily meant to speak of a heart that had once been lost, but now is found.
When I hear this song by Coldplay, I think of that time in my life. Maybe there's a reason why "Chris Martin" is an anagram for "Mr. Christian."
A warning sign
I missed the good part then I realised
I started looking and the bubble burst
I started looking for excuses
Come on in, I've gotta tell you what a state I'm in
I've gotta tell you in my loudest tones
That I started looking for a warning sign
When the truth is
I miss you
Yeah the truth is
That I miss you so
A warning sign
You came back to haunt me and I realised
That you were an island and I passed you by
And you were an island to discover
Come on in,I've gotta tell you what a state I'm in
I've gotta tell you in my loudest tones
That I started looking for a warning sign
And the truth is
I miss you
Yeah the truth is
I miss you so
And I'm tired
I should not have let you go
So I crawl back into your open arms
Yes I crawl back into your open arms
And I crawl back into your open arms
Yes I crawl back into your open arms
~Isaiah 42:3 (Amplified Bible)
Every once in a while, the honesty and intensity of a secular song grabs me and brings me to my knees like no Christian Contemporary song ever could. There's something about hearing another human being cry out, expose their soft insides, and when I hear that kind of vulnerability, it causes me to believe that the songwriter isn't writing for the audience, but is lifting his voice Up, if you know what I mean.
Many times, Coldplay songs speak to me this way. I'm not sure if songwriter Chris Martin intends for me to read so deeply into his writings, but I do. I can't help it. As a matter of fact, there are many secular songs that are absolutely saturated with spiritual messages, whether intentionally or not. To me, it's like the very rock[ers] are crying out. Maybe they don't even know it. Maybe they're compelled by Someone to speak to the heart of one such as me, to lament and hope and call upon God through something so spiritual and human and internal-made-external as music.
There was a time in my adulthood, when I thought I was in a place in my life where I could be referred to as a "mature Christian." But I allowed my eyes to be set too low; people I had trusted had very seriously let me down and disappointed me. And, as a result of my low sites, I began to doubt the significance of many things. And, eventually, I decided that there must not be a God. I had laid my troubles at His feet; I had asked Him to meet my physical needs; I had called out to Him for healing; I had put my trust in His people. As far as I was concerned, He had failed me. His people had failed me. It just wasn't worth believing in Him anymore. And for a time, I walked away. Completely.
Not many people know this about me.
For quite a while, I had to repattern my thinking. Believing in God is a strong habit to break, and I had to guard my heart at every turn. Where I had regularly spoken to Him in a kind of monologue-type prayer, I had to internalize my feelings. where I had seen Him everywhere before, I had to look for excuses for my lack of belief. Where once I had praised Him for His goodness, cried to Him for His assistance, thanked Him for his gifts, I inserted feelings of cynicism, anger, selfishness. What a state I was in!
And then, one day, I was working in the garden, and I looked down at my hands, things I had taken for granted all my life. Those hands were tools, not accidents. They were designed, not evolved. Someone had created me, crafted me, designed me in His image, had loved me enough to bring me to this place, this spinning ball of dirt and rocks inhabited by other fallen people just like me, where He, in His infinite wisdom, had even given me free will, by which I could even choose to deny Him. And there, in the garden, I started finding my way back to God.
Crawling back to God was difficult. For months after I had realized that I was missing Him, I felt like He was so distant, and though I knew He was there, I once again had to repattern my thinking. Now I see Him in the clouds, in the trees, in my children, my husband, my friends. I see Him in the morning and in the evening. I see Him in the words of a song that wasn't necessarily written to glorify Him, wasn't necessarily meant to speak of a heart that had once been lost, but now is found.
When I hear this song by Coldplay, I think of that time in my life. Maybe there's a reason why "Chris Martin" is an anagram for "Mr. Christian."
A warning sign
I missed the good part then I realised
I started looking and the bubble burst
I started looking for excuses
Come on in, I've gotta tell you what a state I'm in
I've gotta tell you in my loudest tones
That I started looking for a warning sign
When the truth is
I miss you
Yeah the truth is
That I miss you so
A warning sign
You came back to haunt me and I realised
That you were an island and I passed you by
And you were an island to discover
Come on in,I've gotta tell you what a state I'm in
I've gotta tell you in my loudest tones
That I started looking for a warning sign
And the truth is
I miss you
Yeah the truth is
I miss you so
And I'm tired
I should not have let you go
So I crawl back into your open arms
Yes I crawl back into your open arms
And I crawl back into your open arms
Yes I crawl back into your open arms
Thursday, August 24, 2006
No Energy
I don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe I need a protein drink, but I'm just pooped. I didn't do a whole lot today, but what I did sapped me of my energy. Actually, I'm not sure I had any energy to being with. And, under normal circumstances, I would say that today was a good day. But, for some reason, I'm grumpy and tired.
I awoke this morning in the cabin. Yesterday, I spent a good portion of the day putting finishing touches on it--laying down rugs, hanging curtains, making beds--things like that. Bo was there helping with the "carpentry" end of it, hanging the curtain rods. When he was finished, I told him that my nerves were just jangly. He offered to usher the kids up to the house and put them to bed, which he did. I sat down and wrote a couple of letters, and just as I opened a pint of Dulce de Leche ice cream, Bo returned. We talked for a while, and then made our way to the couch, where I reclined and he sat. I propped my feet on his knees. He started telling me about work (I think. It's all hazy, now), and, next thing I know, I was blinking sleep out of my eyes. We toyed with the idea of heading back to the house, but I was too tired to walk the distance, so we climbed into the bed with freshly laundered sheets and immediately zonked.
When we awoke, we walked up to the house as the sun was making its way over the trees. Bo started off to work, and I roused Bard from her bed, no easy feat, so that she could get ready for her work day. After dropping her off, I spent the morning at my friend Linda's house, where she treated me to a delicious omelet and a rousing card game of Mad Libs with her daughter Emilie. She let me play her drum (can't remember what kind it was) and we laughed a lot. Wonderful. It's good to have a friend.
At home, the kids and I made cheesecakes for this weekend's house concert. So far, we've made four cheesecakes: Caramel Chocolate Chunk, Peppermint chip, Pecan Turtle and Milk Chocolate with Oreo Crust. I hope to make a plain cheesecake and maybe one other tomorrow.
The kids have been into playing chess for the past few days, and I owe Houdin a game soon. Right now, he's down at the cabin with Bo putting down baseboards upstairs. There were so many things we were in-process of doing before we rented it out, and it's very relieving to see them completed.
And now, I have to go down to the cabin and water the flowers.
I hope you have more energy than I do. If you do, please send it my way.
I awoke this morning in the cabin. Yesterday, I spent a good portion of the day putting finishing touches on it--laying down rugs, hanging curtains, making beds--things like that. Bo was there helping with the "carpentry" end of it, hanging the curtain rods. When he was finished, I told him that my nerves were just jangly. He offered to usher the kids up to the house and put them to bed, which he did. I sat down and wrote a couple of letters, and just as I opened a pint of Dulce de Leche ice cream, Bo returned. We talked for a while, and then made our way to the couch, where I reclined and he sat. I propped my feet on his knees. He started telling me about work (I think. It's all hazy, now), and, next thing I know, I was blinking sleep out of my eyes. We toyed with the idea of heading back to the house, but I was too tired to walk the distance, so we climbed into the bed with freshly laundered sheets and immediately zonked.
When we awoke, we walked up to the house as the sun was making its way over the trees. Bo started off to work, and I roused Bard from her bed, no easy feat, so that she could get ready for her work day. After dropping her off, I spent the morning at my friend Linda's house, where she treated me to a delicious omelet and a rousing card game of Mad Libs with her daughter Emilie. She let me play her drum (can't remember what kind it was) and we laughed a lot. Wonderful. It's good to have a friend.
At home, the kids and I made cheesecakes for this weekend's house concert. So far, we've made four cheesecakes: Caramel Chocolate Chunk, Peppermint chip, Pecan Turtle and Milk Chocolate with Oreo Crust. I hope to make a plain cheesecake and maybe one other tomorrow.
The kids have been into playing chess for the past few days, and I owe Houdin a game soon. Right now, he's down at the cabin with Bo putting down baseboards upstairs. There were so many things we were in-process of doing before we rented it out, and it's very relieving to see them completed.
And now, I have to go down to the cabin and water the flowers.
I hope you have more energy than I do. If you do, please send it my way.
PaperBackSwap is my Best Friend
Okay, maybe that's going overboard a bit. But I do have to say that PaperBackSwap is very and completely totally awesome.
If you're not familiar with it, let me enlighten you and change your life. PBS is a currently-free service (they may charge a membership fee in the future) that exists as a huge database of books that people no longer want and are willing to trade for credits--one credit per book. Those credits can be "spent" to obtain books from the database that they actually want. It's basically a big swap meet. You don't have to literally trade books with one person, though that's a possibility, too. You simply list your books using a very simple method of entering in the ISBN number, wait for someone to request your book, and then you print out the handy-dandy label provided and mail the book. When the other person receives the book, they mark it "received" in their account, and you get a credit. Then you can take that credit and get any book that's been listed in the database. My favorite feature is the Wish List, which allows you to keep a list of the books you'd like to have, should they ever be listed. When the book becomes available, the first person who had the book on their Wish List is contacted via e-mail and given 48 hours to respond. After that, it goes to the next person in line, and so on. Your only cost is the cost of postage for mailing the books, which are usually $1.59 and $2.09, media mail.
My account tells me that I have saved $166, based on a $4.50 used book price, but many of these books are out-of-print, or have been brand new, making them worth much, much more than $4.50. The total distance that has been covered by all of the books I've received is 31,213 miles! One came from Hawaii!
Here, for your viewing pleasure, is a list of the books I've received so far. If it makes you jealous, good. :-) No, what I really mean is that you should hop right over there and join. You have to post nine books in order to get started, and then you get three credits as soon as you post all nine. Make sure you click on the link above or below. I get a credit if you join, which means, what else, another BOOK!
Hat tip to Impromptu-Mom. Thank you so much, I.M.!
Foxe's Book of Martyrs (Valuebooks)
ISBN: 1586600338 - John Foxe Date Completed: 8/23/2006
Bookshelf for Boys and Girls Set
Bookshelf Staff
Homeschooling: The Teen Years : Your Complete Guide to Successfully Homeschooling the 13- to 18- Year-Old (Prima Home Learning Library)
Cafi Cohen, Janie Levine Hellyer
A Passion for Books
Terry W. Glaspey (Editor)
Selected Poems (Dover Thrift Editions)
Alfred, Lord Tennyson Date
Mutant Message Down Under
Marlo Morgan Date
Uncle Tom's Cabin
Harriet Beecher Stowe
the Kon-Tiki Expedition
Heyerdahl, Thor
The Homeschool Journey
Susan Card, Michael Card
Do What You Are : Discover the Perfect Career for You Through the Secrets of Personality Type--Revised and Updated Edition Featuring E-careers for the 21st Century
Paul D. Tieger, Barbara Barron-Tieger
A Charlotte Mason Education
Catherine Levison
The Fat Flush Cookbook
Ann Louise Gittleman
The Authoritative Calvin and Hobbes (Calvin and Hobbes)
Watterson
The Star Wars Cookbook II -Darth Malt and More Galactic Recipes
Frankie Frankeny, Robin Davis, Wesley Martin
Thimble Summer
Elizabeth Enright
At the Crossroads: An Insider's Look at The Past, Present, and Future of Contemporary Christian Music
Charlie Peacock
Lords and Ladies
Terry Pratchett
Traveling Mercies : Some Thoughts on Faith
Anne Lamott
The Blue Fairy Book (Dover Storybooks for Children)
The Best of James Herriot: Favorite Memories of One of the Most Beloved Writers of Our Time
James Herriot
Velveteen Rabbit
Margery Williams
Secrets Of Droon #10 : Quest For The Queen (Secrets Of Droon)
Tony Abbott
Something Under the Bed Is Drooling
Bill Watterson
Saint George and the Dragon
Margaret Hodges, Trina Schart Hyman
Grow It!
W. Langer
Yukon Ho!
Bill Watterson Date
On Writing--This one was a HARDCOVER! Brand new!
Stephen King
The Vein of Gold
Julia Cameron
A Bear Called Paddington
Michael Bond
Something Queer Is Going on: A Mystery
Elizabeth Levy
Heir Apparent
Vivian Vande Velde
Hogfather
Terry Pratchett
Into the Land of the Lost (Secrets of Droon, 7)
Tony Abbott
The Golden Wasp (Secrets of Droon, 8)
Tony Abbott
The Restaurant at the End of the Universe
Douglas Adams
Sleight of Hand
Edwin Sachs
Favorite Poems of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
A Charlotte Mason Education
Catherine Levison
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Influential Women in History: A Request for Help
As part of our upcoming homeschool group's classes, I've decided to teach a course on influential women in history titled Missionaries, Martyrs and Mothers: Influential Women in History from a Christian Perspective, geared towards girls ages 12 and up. The course will cover influential women in the church, in American and world history, and in the arts. I'd like your input, please, if you'd be so kind.
Which women do you think should be covered and why? Which women should be avoided and why? Are there women in history who you feel have undeservedly received a bad rap? Are there women you feel have been greatly overlooked? Would you cover the roots of feminism? Would you avoid it like the plague? Would you discuss women like Susan B. Anthony, who was decidedly pro-life? Would you discuss women like Margaret Sanger, who was a birth-control advocate and Planned Parenthood founder? If so, how would you cover them?
Any other tips and thoughts would be appreciated.
Which women do you think should be covered and why? Which women should be avoided and why? Are there women in history who you feel have undeservedly received a bad rap? Are there women you feel have been greatly overlooked? Would you cover the roots of feminism? Would you avoid it like the plague? Would you discuss women like Susan B. Anthony, who was decidedly pro-life? Would you discuss women like Margaret Sanger, who was a birth-control advocate and Planned Parenthood founder? If so, how would you cover them?
Any other tips and thoughts would be appreciated.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Sunday, August 20, 2006
It's Good Work
Today was wonderfully productive. Bo and I spent a good portion of our day cleaning the cabin, wiping down the walls with Liquid Gold (love that stuff!) and painting window frames and sills. Mostly, we did a lot of dreaming, planning, brainstorming.
The funny thing about the cabin is how it draws everyone in. The dogs, the cats, the kids, and even my dad, who lives with us, found their way from the house on the hill to the cabin in the woods. The children climbed trees, an activity they'd avoided in order to respect the privacy of the people who were living in the cabin at the time, and they constructed amazing little fairy houses in the woods, complete with bridges and elaborate fences. The dogs laid on the porch, as if they'd always been there, and the cats gathered around, finding any available surface on which they could loaf.
This weekend, we have a house concert planned (wanna come?), so there's a lot of work to be done. Windows in the house have to be cleaned. I was gifted several flats of lavender which I plan to plant in a hedgerow in my front yard and around Bard's garden; Houdin already did the digging. Now we have to add the organic materials and plant the lavender. I read that they like to have the sun reflect up on them, so I'm planning to mulch with oyster shells. I'm not sure I'll like the look, because I generally prefer fine black mulch, but I also prefer live lavender to dead.
I'm fighting for my tomatoes! The chickens have decided that they'd be a tasty daily diet, so I'm quite conflicted. I can save the tomatoes if I pick them before they're ripe and ripen them on a windowsill. After all, the chickens--my first batch of hen-raised chicks--are keeping the grub and caterpillar population down. So do I coop 'em up until the tomatoes are all done, or do I pre-pick and sill-ripen? Sigh. These are the conflicts that plague us rural folk. I guess the canteloupe made up for it. I've harvested three already and, WOW, are they sweet! Yum!
Now it's time to read to the kids, take a bath, and settle in for the night. Tomorrow starts a new day of projects.
Sleep well, my lovelies.
The funny thing about the cabin is how it draws everyone in. The dogs, the cats, the kids, and even my dad, who lives with us, found their way from the house on the hill to the cabin in the woods. The children climbed trees, an activity they'd avoided in order to respect the privacy of the people who were living in the cabin at the time, and they constructed amazing little fairy houses in the woods, complete with bridges and elaborate fences. The dogs laid on the porch, as if they'd always been there, and the cats gathered around, finding any available surface on which they could loaf.
This weekend, we have a house concert planned (wanna come?), so there's a lot of work to be done. Windows in the house have to be cleaned. I was gifted several flats of lavender which I plan to plant in a hedgerow in my front yard and around Bard's garden; Houdin already did the digging. Now we have to add the organic materials and plant the lavender. I read that they like to have the sun reflect up on them, so I'm planning to mulch with oyster shells. I'm not sure I'll like the look, because I generally prefer fine black mulch, but I also prefer live lavender to dead.
I'm fighting for my tomatoes! The chickens have decided that they'd be a tasty daily diet, so I'm quite conflicted. I can save the tomatoes if I pick them before they're ripe and ripen them on a windowsill. After all, the chickens--my first batch of hen-raised chicks--are keeping the grub and caterpillar population down. So do I coop 'em up until the tomatoes are all done, or do I pre-pick and sill-ripen? Sigh. These are the conflicts that plague us rural folk. I guess the canteloupe made up for it. I've harvested three already and, WOW, are they sweet! Yum!
Now it's time to read to the kids, take a bath, and settle in for the night. Tomorrow starts a new day of projects.
Sleep well, my lovelies.
Ode to the Thicket
Below your cracked window red raspberries climb;
A hornet's nest hangs from a beam;
Your rafters are scribbled with adage and rhyme,
And dimmed with tobacco and dream.
"Each day has its laugh", and "Don't worry, just work".
Such mottoes reproachfully shine.
Old calendars dangle -- what memories lurk
About you, dear cabin of mine!
A hornet's nest hangs from a beam;
Your rafters are scribbled with adage and rhyme,
And dimmed with tobacco and dream.
"Each day has its laugh", and "Don't worry, just work".
Such mottoes reproachfully shine.
Old calendars dangle -- what memories lurk
About you, dear cabin of mine!
~Robert Service
Yesterday was the sixth anniversary of a realization of a dream for us. After many, many years of high-hoped searching and heartbreaking disappointment, we were blessed with a beautiful piece of property in a quiet, rural community. Our first three years here were spent first visiting and then living in a small cabin in the woods, a place which had existed here since the year Bo and I first began dating in 1989. It was charming in the fact that our luxury accomodations didn't include electricity, telephone, indoor toilet or indoor bath. It did include Amish voices that rose up from the valley during their bi-weekly Sunday morning singing, birds of all kinds that accepted our invitation to our half-dozen feeders, a beautiful tree-lined trail which provided hours of simple fun for our children who would scurry up the branches and light there with a book or an awed expression, a mature trumpet vine where Mother Robin would build her nest and lay her fragile blue eggs beneath the bedroom window, and midnight stars that were enough to bring tears to my eyes during my midnight trips to the outhouse. Our Little House in the Big Woods provided a haven for us, an escape from the busyness that had been our lives in the suburbs, and even the birthplace for our youngest daughter, The Baby.
The cabin, which hovers on stilts in the middle of a thicket of multiflora roses, raspberries and blackberries, is the reason why I go by the pen name of Thicket Dweller. The Thicket is rich with history, situated on the glacial divide, stomping grounds for notorious Indians, a former writer's retreat for my very dear friend and mentor, Penny B, who helped me along as I learned to appreciate and practice a simple life. She and her husband Richard spent literally months helping us find our way around our new home and our community. Penny welcomed us to the cabin by cleaning it from top to bottom, providing us with lanterns and lore, bunks and bedtime stories. Richard helped us begin our homestead with more knowledge and know-how than we could ever have hoped to have had on our own. Whenever I touch the walls of the cabin, walk the footpath to the blackberry patch, feel the fossil stones on the path beneath my feet, toss compost into the years-old compost bin or look out over the cow pasture through the maple trees, I honor Penny and Richard and the intent of that space.
When we built our house, in order to continue the ritual of honor and generosity that Penny and Richard had so effectively cultivated in us, the cabin became a peaceful retreat for myself and others who had been dealing with rough times, who needed to find a way out for long enough to collect their thoughts. Each time we had a visitor, we lovingly prepared it in anticipation of their stay. It wasn't just a retreat for them; it was therapy for me. To provide a weekend getaway for a young mother and her sons, a meditation place for a single woman going difficulty, or for relatives who needed a stopping place along their sojourn fed my spirit.
For the past twenty months, the cabin has been occupied by a family in transition, and while I was very glad to have given them my sacred space while they needed it, I am also so very glad to have it back. In my anxiousness to share the cabin's simplicity with others, I'd ignored my intuition and my heart-knowledge and rushed into an arrangement which I now wonder if I should have. During those twenty months, the cabin called to me, but I resisted. I thought so many times about how Penny must have felt, how difficult imt must have been for her to give up her quiet place, how hard it must have been to stay away. But I did stay away, entering into that space that had become someone else's only a half-dozen times at most; once for a social visit, other times to give service, correct problems or right wrongs. I could only pray and trust that the history within those walls was working its magic on the sojourners as they traveled their own direction.
Yesterday, on our fifth anniversary, my family and I spent the day there, cleaning windows, scrubbing floors, moving furniture, wiping down walls, planting flowers, lighting candles. It was a cleaning I really, really needed, physically and emotionally. I learned a lot through the experience of being a reluctant landlord; I hadn't wanted to rent long-term, but people were in need. There are mistakes I will never make again, and there were lessons I learned about other people and myself that I wish I'd not have had to learn, but it all helped me to appreciate appreciative people, and to thank God for the blessings of my cabin even more, to treasure it for what it is and is meant to be--a simple, rustic retreat offering to pull me from the hustle and bustle of life, to slow me down, to fit me into it, not for me to contort it or make it fit me.
From now on, the Thicket Cottage is open for short stays only. It's here to be an inspiration to the itinerant musician; a safe-haven for the young pregnant mother; a celebration site for the homeschooled college student; the resting place for the overworked greenhouse owner; the solitude for my favorite mother-in-law; the laughing house for the friends of my daughters and sons; the secret place for me to gather with my husband, my children, my dogs; to gather berries on the path; to gather my thoughts, my words, my feelings.
And for you. If you can appreciate it for what it is; if your heart longs for simplicity, peace, primitive living, and seclusion, then you, my friend, are welcome here. Come as you are, and respect the Thicket. You'll leave a better person if you do.
The cabin, which hovers on stilts in the middle of a thicket of multiflora roses, raspberries and blackberries, is the reason why I go by the pen name of Thicket Dweller. The Thicket is rich with history, situated on the glacial divide, stomping grounds for notorious Indians, a former writer's retreat for my very dear friend and mentor, Penny B, who helped me along as I learned to appreciate and practice a simple life. She and her husband Richard spent literally months helping us find our way around our new home and our community. Penny welcomed us to the cabin by cleaning it from top to bottom, providing us with lanterns and lore, bunks and bedtime stories. Richard helped us begin our homestead with more knowledge and know-how than we could ever have hoped to have had on our own. Whenever I touch the walls of the cabin, walk the footpath to the blackberry patch, feel the fossil stones on the path beneath my feet, toss compost into the years-old compost bin or look out over the cow pasture through the maple trees, I honor Penny and Richard and the intent of that space.
When we built our house, in order to continue the ritual of honor and generosity that Penny and Richard had so effectively cultivated in us, the cabin became a peaceful retreat for myself and others who had been dealing with rough times, who needed to find a way out for long enough to collect their thoughts. Each time we had a visitor, we lovingly prepared it in anticipation of their stay. It wasn't just a retreat for them; it was therapy for me. To provide a weekend getaway for a young mother and her sons, a meditation place for a single woman going difficulty, or for relatives who needed a stopping place along their sojourn fed my spirit.
For the past twenty months, the cabin has been occupied by a family in transition, and while I was very glad to have given them my sacred space while they needed it, I am also so very glad to have it back. In my anxiousness to share the cabin's simplicity with others, I'd ignored my intuition and my heart-knowledge and rushed into an arrangement which I now wonder if I should have. During those twenty months, the cabin called to me, but I resisted. I thought so many times about how Penny must have felt, how difficult imt must have been for her to give up her quiet place, how hard it must have been to stay away. But I did stay away, entering into that space that had become someone else's only a half-dozen times at most; once for a social visit, other times to give service, correct problems or right wrongs. I could only pray and trust that the history within those walls was working its magic on the sojourners as they traveled their own direction.
Yesterday, on our fifth anniversary, my family and I spent the day there, cleaning windows, scrubbing floors, moving furniture, wiping down walls, planting flowers, lighting candles. It was a cleaning I really, really needed, physically and emotionally. I learned a lot through the experience of being a reluctant landlord; I hadn't wanted to rent long-term, but people were in need. There are mistakes I will never make again, and there were lessons I learned about other people and myself that I wish I'd not have had to learn, but it all helped me to appreciate appreciative people, and to thank God for the blessings of my cabin even more, to treasure it for what it is and is meant to be--a simple, rustic retreat offering to pull me from the hustle and bustle of life, to slow me down, to fit me into it, not for me to contort it or make it fit me.
From now on, the Thicket Cottage is open for short stays only. It's here to be an inspiration to the itinerant musician; a safe-haven for the young pregnant mother; a celebration site for the homeschooled college student; the resting place for the overworked greenhouse owner; the solitude for my favorite mother-in-law; the laughing house for the friends of my daughters and sons; the secret place for me to gather with my husband, my children, my dogs; to gather berries on the path; to gather my thoughts, my words, my feelings.
And for you. If you can appreciate it for what it is; if your heart longs for simplicity, peace, primitive living, and seclusion, then you, my friend, are welcome here. Come as you are, and respect the Thicket. You'll leave a better person if you do.
The photos below are of the cabin through the years. Enjoy!
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