Naughty?

Okay, I've been asked by the Universe to explain myself (what kind of a quirky sense of humor do you have?!), so I'll attempt to venture in that direction without getting too heady.

When I heard Trinidad holler out to the world and his Grandma that she should not forget to pick her nose, my heart warmed to witness his desire to connect. I imagined that his words landed with her completely, but I felt amused, a need for irony (yes, I may be the first to put it on the needs list, but it's big for me) met in imagining that these words did not meet needs for connection in others. Under the irony is a need for growth I anticipate being met as we are invited to further explore and connect more deeply with ourselves and each other.

Truth is, I deeply value acceptance -- for him, for me, for us all. Part of my amusement stems from my firmly held belief that love conquers all, at least in the big picture. I actually find hope in such opportunities as this when I imaginine someone being uncomfortable with certain words/phrases, but still touched by the spirit and presence of a child, particularly in a child's willingness to play with language. This tornness, as uncomfortable as it is, asks us to clarify what stands between us and the full compassion we would like to embrace. We are invited to join a conversation with ourselves and the world; what is truly alive in us, in our neighbors? How can we live most authentically and in our integrity?

To play is, in itself, a courageous act. I see it as a spontaneous exploration of the world in ourselves with trust that reconnection can occur. Play demonstrates a willingness to be fully present, usually with needs for fun and connection most alive, without worry about how one is received. It represents a trust in one's own ability to either accept and love oneself or to at least stay present as others express their needs unmet.

This playfulness, appearing both in my birthday poem ("To fool, to fool...."), and in much of the time I spent with my mom, reflects a strain of wisdom-in-presence and connection that I deeply value. The "fool" of Shakespeare's day was more than an entertainer. Again, I point to the path of King Lear.

I am aware in this moment that the strategies I reported engaging in are ones that could leave others bewildered. But this very shaking up of the predictable is something I can't help but enjoy, at least in part, even as it can bring its own share of pain. The order we impose in our "appropriate language" that attempts to touch a need for meaning in us is dependent upon the predictable, and is too easily toppled.

I would rather embrace the dynamic of connection over the predictability of propriety in any arena. I think that the practice of opening our ears and hearts to the deeper needs that drive playfulness is one that will serve us as a race and contribute to our harmony on this planet.

I love to turn a thing upside down to get to the bottom of it. At the University, my Chaucer teacher pointed out (in... was it The Wife of Bath's Tale?) that she had become cultured and educated enough to only appreciate appropriate language for most of the years of her scholarship, and it took getting a Ph.D in Medieval Studies to bring her back to an appreciation for gutter humor.

Subversive, at worst. And I wonder... would someone be willing to post a quick comment to let me know if this explanation is a contribution in clarity to why I value play with language?

We Saw My Mother Off

Yes, "off" she always has been, and "off" we'll always be, thanks to genetics that have graced the lot of us with beauty, resourcefulness, fierce independence, and a world view skewed by one drastically ironic lens. (Yes, she's responsible for the makeshift Halloween costume I'm pictured in below.)

We saw my mother off after a glorious birthday weekend together. Begrudgingly, we dropped her with her friend at the friend's daughters house in an upscale neighborhood where all lawns stood green and clipped to perfection. As I dug for my car keys, Trinidad, already missing his grandma very much, rolled down his window and shouted the finest endearment he could muster: "Don't forget to pick your nose!"

I imagined the neighborhood stiffening as they heard it. My mom laughed. I continued the search for my keys. He rolled down his window again and shouted it louder.

I found the keys and felt compelled to put in my motherly two-bits before pulling away from the curb. Cataloguing all of my most eloquent NVC lingo, maternal care (oh no! Am I caretaking again??) and the self-connection that would serve me best, I rolled down my window in turn. "Don't forget that you're in choice about what to do with the boogers!" I called.

So many peas in a pod.

Happy Birthday to Me, and a little poem....

In gratitude for the celebration of my life, light and a poem happening my way through the night....



Lear-y

I have
not so far to fall from
grace:

one trip by car to the grocery
ten blocks away
what I said
and did not say
one banana picked south
of California
a thought to feed the animal
I live in
that striped rug from China
not listening when you talk
not listening to my heart
doubting magic
sizing rocks
thinking too much.

Two sons
receive the model of my living.
Two sons
of mine inherit our Earth.

What if
they take this gift from me, ungrateful?
Have I
received its value full, myself?

To fool, to fool,
forget yourself,
flip the looking,
laugh.

Thirty-six years
behind me now.
What else have I
to do?

First Day At School

The boys went to school with a friend for the last 30 minutes of the school day yesterday. They attended with a mother who was assigned to go in and help with the "reading group," so they could all be together to go to the pumpkin patch after school. It was their first time ever to appear in public school while in session. Here is the report, as it was given to me last night at 10 p.m.:

"Writing the 'thank you' letter as I had planned didn't work," Trinidad told me. He'd brought a writing project to keep himself busy as the other kids read; he doesn't yet enjoy reading.

"The kids kept coming up and saying, 'Wow! you wrote that? That's really good! You write so good!' ...And I kind of liked it, but I couldn't concentrate, and there were more and more kids coming up, so I finally just put it away."

"There were Magic Tree House books," said Sam.

"Yeah, but the teacher wouldn't let Sam read any of them," Trinidad said. "She said she could tell by looking at him that he was not old enough to be reading those."

Sam has read several of the Magic Treehouse chapter books to himself. They are his favorite series. He reads aloud to us from Narnia, and even "sneaks" Harry Potter, because "now that [he] can read, [I] can't stop [him]." He's not quite five and a half, still smallish and chubby cheeked.

"So, what happened then?" I asked.

"Well, A-- tricked the teacher by reading only half of the Dr. Suess book and having Sam read the rest to her. She took it to the teacher and said she'd finished it. M-- saw that, thought it was a great idea, and had Sam read his for him, too. Then J-- and A --....."

I got the picture.

"A-- tells me they write every day," said Trinidad.

"What do you think of that?" I asked.

"I feel sad," he said. "Because they don't like to do it. I'd rather Unschool," he said.

To See In The Dark

Gliding through darkness, I reached up to adjust the headlight on my bike helmet. For an instant, the concrete path before me blackened, then glowed with the pale luminescence of electric light. My heart sank for a beat, yearning to witness again what I had seen in shadow.

What was it? What had I seen that fed me in that moment, that begged for me to return? I covered my light again. In seconds, my eyes adjusted to the dark, the swath of concrete path beneath my slender tires. Yes, that is what I had missed: the shadowland, a frontier to be seen only as my eyes would see it, a singular sense in shadows that only I can assign.

A sensation of fear pushed upward into my heart and rose to my ears while my hand simultaneously dropped and the light spilled cold to the concrete before me.

A choice to make. This is the lesson in my life, the lesson I see before us as a people. Alone in the dark, we can navigate with full autonomy only within the power of our footfall on the path. We can touch the beauty of light and shadows, the exquisite lens of each and every one of us capturing its own patterns, reflecting its own beauty back out into the world. But when we lift a tool to our aid, we are traveling beyond the realm of our power, beyond the realm of our autonomy and are suddenly in need of more external support to keep us safe and Strangely Sane in our world. As the tools "progress" so does our demand for more resourceful mechanisms to sustain us in superhuman flight across our planet, through our days.

My footprint is shaped by my footfalls, the beauty I perceive in my locale directly reflecting my ability to take it in... one breath at a time.

Next time, I will walk.

Sensible

Last night, lying in bed with the boys and talkingtalkingtalking like a bunch of slumber-party delinquents, I laughed and said, "You know, when I was a little girl, I went to bed by myself -- usually while it was still light out -- and I had to think of all these tricky ways to try to get myself to sleep..."

"Mom. You could have just climbed out the window," said Trinidad, point blank.

"I wouldn't have dared --"

"Well, I would have," he said. "And I would have gone down the block 'til I found some new parents who were more sensible."

Centered

My children and a young friend attempted to fly tonight. This endeavor called for sleeping bags and duct tape with many whispers behind a closed door.

I prayed for their confidence and safety and that I might leave them in peace to explore.



"At a kibbutz," my friend, David, tells me, "you grab a plate when you are hungry. And the food is hot."

"Where does it come from?" I ask.

"Many hands."



We swam in a wave pool today. "To the island!" said Sam, bobbing beside me in an orange lifevest. We swam back and forth, from one end to the other, me learning how to let go my muscles, to stop trying so hard. The twelfth lap in waves rising, I discovered moments of drift that rushed me forward effortlessly in time with the surge.



"We can have our rice in burritos for simplicity, or on a plate which would take more time to serve and clean up after. This choice impacts the amount of time that you will spend researching why children are not allowed in most public hot tubs before we get ready for bed. You decide."

"We'll have our rice in the burrito (right, Trin?)."

What does implicit leadership mean, to us all? I wondered.



"If we make an environmental club," said our young friend, "can I be the Queen?" Her query was countered by others in favor of partnership. Just a letterhead, she said she'd be content with -- if she might also be allowed to police in case someone wanted to destroy our club.

"I don't believe anyone would want to destroy our club. It sounds like you would enjoy really seeing your power in the world."

"It's not that," she told me. "But we might need police. Then we could make people take care of the environment."

"I would rather they do it out of choice and love," I told her. "How about you?"

"I see your point," she said.

Still, what makes us afraid of owning our need for power?



"I will slide by myself this time, Mama," Sam told me at the pool. "And I will wait for you at the bottom." After a moment's pause: "You promise?"

"Promise what?" I asked him. "You are the one waiting for me."

"Oh yeah," he said.


I am prime for adventure. I had no idea that partnership could feel like this. It is not adult centered. It is not child centered. It is simply centered, all spokes radiating outward and pulling us seamlessly forward.


Sometimes, dreams come true.


"I can fly without duct tape and blankets," I heard Sam say. "I can fly with just me."

What We Unschoolers Do All Day

"So, how do you Unschool?" a new friend, impressed with the boys vocabulary, at the park asked me yesterday.

"We just go about our lives, having fun," I said.

But perhaps I could be more specific (or at least more verbose).

Today, I got up before the kids and walked the dog, fed the rabbits and picked barely ripening tomatoes. When I got inside, I found Trinidad (age 8) laying on the couch playing with his Tamagotchi. We chatted in bits about our night's sleep, the progress his pet was making, our plans for that day and the next. He had questions about how many points he'd just been given by the "king." I sat down and gave him a quick explanation (10 min.) and practice identifying 1's, 10's, 100's, and 1,000's. We stopped when he wanted to.

Sam (age 5) woke up, and Trinidad decided he would start breakfast. He got out a frying pan and some eggs. I offered advice (which he chose to take) while he cracked in the eggs and turned them. I took over on the few unbroken yolkers so that they might be preserved while he and Sam set the table and poured water for all. I put toast and apple slices on, too.

After breakfast, the boys played with Legos, building complicated starships while I cleaned up and talked on the phone with friends.

As I jumped into the finances (balancing, bill paying, etc.), Trinidad offered to slice mushrooms to go on the dehydrator, so that tomorrow we could spend the day just having fun together (no home economics). He arranged the dehydrator, cutting board and racks on the table top so that all would fit and set to work. Sam played the Tamagotchi for awhile and then shifted to drawing with a book that "shows you how" to draw dinosaurs. Unimpressed with his results, he chose a book that both Trinidad and I wanted to hear (a chapter book with pictures), and read aloud.

Before Sam began to read aloud, Trin and I chatted occasionally. He wanted to know what the bank said we had in our account and how that money would be spent over the course of the next 2 weeks. He tallied the money mentally that he is saving to buy a sailboat from a friend and compared it to his goal. He proposed a tracking system and asked for feedback. I explained the use of a ledger and goal chart for the saving. He is still considering.

A neighbor child (age 4) came over to play, and all of the children dressed up, took swords, shrieked, ran and tumbled while I made a quick lunch.

After lunch, the neighbor went home and both boys read or looked at picture books while I cleaned up some more. Then we cleaned house together so we could make our goal of a cleaningless day tomorrow. At one point, Sam played piano and Trinidad a drum to keep me engaged with the rhythm of my work.

More children arrived to play. They explored water, tree climbing, and shared food. They created a cross country race course in the backyard, played the piano for each other and joined in games both competitive and non-competitive.

When everyone departed, I reviewed the morning math lesson for 5 minutes, and took the numbers into the 100,000's. Just before a million (heh, heh), he was done.

My children have now gone to the neighbors to play, and I will prepare for my music lesson. This evening, while I am away, they will spend the evening talking and playing with their Maddy (Seda), perhaps setting up a system to melt and contain the beeswax taken as a by-product from our hive when we extracted honey. Then, just before bed, we will continue our aloud reading of Julia Butterfly Hill's account of her real-life 3 year long treesit, entitled The Legacy of Luna. We're about halfway through.

So there it is. Each and every one of us owning their activity and boredom. The whole of us thriving (today at least) as a team.

The Zen of Tamagotchi

"But wouldn't you want to win?" the children asked me.

"Win what?" I said.

"The raffle!"

"Well... I suppose it depends on what I would be winning. I like to be given things I can use," I said.

"Hmmm," said Trinidad. "I know what you mean. Once I entered a raffle with my Tamagotchi (hand-held computer pet -- so long, Waldorf), and I got very excited when we won. Then I saw the prize: five poops and a snake that bites."

Yep.

Who's Your Leader?

At the top of a mountain, my boys and a ten year old friend could not be bothered to stop when offered a tuna sandwich. Food in hand, they set off "scouting" the trails about while I curled up on a wooden bench with my lunch, the dog and a view. East, west, north and south, their voices drifted back to me on the wind as they flirted with poison ivy, brush piles and steep slopes.

Returning for a drink, five year old Sam exhaled deeply as he set down the water bottle hard. "Are you the leader, Mom?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, matter-of-factly.

"How can you tell?" he asked.

"Because I have the band-aids."

What's Left Undone

We have taken an unconventional approach.

After our camping trip this summer, the boys only wanted more of me. "Why can't we play like we did then, only at home? Why do you always have so much to do?"

I read them the list: laundry, dishes, food prep, garden, floors....

"Why can't we play? Just for a day? At home?" they asked.

They couldn't understand my position, why I liked to keep them and and our home neat, food healthy and loved to serve us deeply.

Ah, but that is Play to them -- love.

Why can't we wear dirty clothes? A friend who lived on Orcas Island washed his clothes semi-annually after discovering the price for a load of wash at the laundromat: $18. Can I open my mind, heart and ears to my childrens' perspectives? For a week at Sutton Creek, we changed our clothes once -- slept in them, too.

I am aware that my words border the heretical. But lo, I cannot be fired. The only ones that pay my keep are demanding a restructure.

Lunch: leftover kasha, salad, and beans, still in their original pots, with a plum and a carrot -- no dishes, everyone for their own spoon. Change whatever clothes show too much food or dirt to spot clean at the end of the day -- then go to bed in them. (Gracious, I do hope my grandparents aren't reading this post!) Help is needed in picking up clothes, toys, and sweeping floors; all hands on deck if the object is Play. And need I mention how much fun I'm having? Will I tire of the vacation?

And so we have cut our laundry down to 3 loads per week, our cooking in half by making enormous meals that last three nights. The children have jumped to help by making their bed, sweeping, and picking up. They are delighted to eat from one pot, and (knock on wood), it's not killed any of us yet.

At the YMCA (we became members yesterday, now that we have all this time to Play!), Trinidad looked towards the window and said, "They keep those windows really clean. Most windows (i.e. Ours) just reflect, but those you can actually see through!"

Sam came home and washed the windows. The novelty of that is not so very attractive to them after all. But just think: if our windows get dirty enough, maybe I won't have to spend all that time dropping and raising the blinds!

Harvest

"The Praying Mantis laid an egg case!" Trinidad pointed to the foamy, scalloped oval of brown hanging from the side of the enclosure that held his most recent captive. Word got out, children came, and this symbol of hope in the spring hung like a rainbow bridge from the first frost of autumn.

I picked field beans yesterday in the rain, wool felt hat pulled low. Some pods bulged like pregnant women, proud and pale. Others had grown thin-skinned and their burden pressed through damp membranes like the entrails of a carcass left to rot. To take the heart of a plant, all it has known that has served -- this seed is a gift. Let me be reminded of death in all that is given.

The Mantis is much thinner now.

I have given thanks in times of joy so great, oneness so whole, love so ecstatic, that I thought there might be nothing of me left behind. I have given thanks for what was mine after the storm. In this moment, I give thanks for beauty, such beauty, in a field of corn, beans, and squash under the first heavy rains of the season.

There is more. My children sit sorting beans into piles, wondering which color will be revealed as they crack each pod open. It is a game, passing tomorrow back and forth in baskets and bowls, sometimes spilling. My children remind me that fury is not necessary in the gathering of food for winter. Play is just as important -- the bloom before the bearing.

Multi-colored corn hangs across our living room wall behind the wood stove. It is just a portion of what we have been gifted. Each child in our neighborhood will choose their favorite to take home. Every hue of the bejeweled ears leave me breathless. Sometimes, even with them hanging so nearby, I cannot bear to look.

"I found last year's egg case in the front yard!" Trinidad proudly holds up the dull, empty casing that he purchased with his own money at a local garden store last March. The mantis in his care now surely knew its walls.

Sometimes a moment sits still on the head of a pin to be held and examined. Sometimes it stretches out in all directions, and I cannot find myself at all.

The bridge across this divide shortens every autumn.