If you talk with me for very long, I will probably find a way to work my neighborhood library, the Hamline Midway Branch in St. Paul, into the conversation. As my friend Danna once explained to another friend who didn't know the extent of my library love, "She's totally obsessed with the Hamline Midway Library." I think she meant that affectionately.
If you've been reading this blog all along, you know that early this year, our mayor proposed closing our 80-year-old neighborhood branch in response to the city's budget crunch. Along with many of my neighbors, I found myself compelled to get involved in fighting for the library. The good part is that all the community effort led to the library being spared, at least for 2010--but the work of preserving the library is really just beginning.
A few days ago, I was part of a presentation to the library board, which is actually just the city council with a different name. We were reporting on a task force that met this summer to try to find partnerships that might help the city save or make money on the library. My part of the presentation was to try to give the community side of things. If you have ever tried to speak for "your community," you know this is a rather hard thing to do. And ever since my presentation, I have been agonizing about the things I didn't say, the things I said that I wished I hadn't, and on and on and on. As my fellow neighborhood activist Julie GebbenGreen kindly told me, "It's scary to tell the truth to people in power. We really have to overcome a lot of 'how dare you speak like that to your betters' voices inside of us." I think it's important to remember that. It's part of what makes it hard for ordinary people to get and stay involved in politics.
What I regret most about my library presentation is that I said that the crux of the problem this year was that our leaders didn't appear to be listening to us and that they met our heartfelt concerns with sound bites. That's true, but what I wish I'd focused on more was this: when you close a library that's been in a neighborhood for generations, the damage you do will far outweigh any cost savings. I think I thought I didn't have to say that, that it's obvious. But it's important enough to bear repeating. I wish I would have spent more of my very limited time telling stories that show how people depend on having a walkable library. I wish I would have told them about the woman I met this year who had a stroke after her daughter's premature birth. Her husband lost a lot of hours of work caring for her and their daughter, and money was tight. She told me that being able to walk to the library (she couldn't drive after her stroke) was a crucial lifeline for her as she recovered from her stroke. She learned to read again reading library books to her daughter. That's the kind of story I wish I would have spent my time on, and it twists my guts up that I didn't. What a missed opportunity to connect people's stories to our leaders! But I didn't remember her story until after I'd done my talk.
I also wish I'd done a better job of acknowledging that many of the city council members I was talking to were really supportive of our community. I think I ended up venting some of my rage at the mayor at the wrong people, and I regret that. All those times I told my old writing students how important audience awareness is--and still I forgot once I was standing at that podium in the big intimidating council chambers.
I wrote follow-up notes to the city council members saying I wish I'd acknowledged their help and support more in my talk. The only response I've gotten so far, other than from my own councilman, was from our sole female councilmember.
She finished her email, "Ah, women. We are always thinking about the one tiny little thing we forgot (completely unintentionally) and ignoring all the other great things we got done." Those words from an experienced woman leader were absolute balm for my soul. And again, it's a good reminder of why it might be even more challenging for women to get involved in public life and stay at it for the long haul: we are so damn good at picking ourselves apart, the burnout potential is extremely high.
"Try again. Fail better." Those were playwright Samuel Beckett's writing instructions. Zen master Dogen called Zen practice "one continuous mistake." As I move out of my safe, private home life into public life, I'm making mistakes all the time. I hope to learn how to learn from them, fail better next time, and not agonize so much about it all in the meantime.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Mistakes
A few days ago Bridger was doing some equations in a math workbook. We're not doing math in a systematic, now-we're-going-to-sit-down-and-do-math way, but he had expressed interest in doing more math, so I'd picked the book up for him, along with a preschool math book for Cass which she tore through with relish.
Bridger realized he'd made a mistake on one of the equations, and because he was using crayon, he couldn't obliterate the offending error.
"That's it. I've ruined the whole page. I might as well rip it out and throw it in the trash," he said.
When he is so hard on himself about mistakes, it's hard for me to stay calm and relaxed, in part because I can so relate to that kind of either-or, all-or-nothing, it's-either-perfect-or-it's-shit thinking. I can see from my own experience that life is so much easier and more productive, so much more fun, when I can see mistakes as a natural part of any learning process, any life experience, really. I wish I could wave a magic wand and give him the perspective on mistakes I'm beginning to have at 40 so that he doesn't have to suffer through mistakes so much.
But deep down, I'm realizing that he's going to have to come to his own reckoning with imperfection. All I can do is hold him as compassionately as possible through his struggles and successes and try to remember to model healthy ways of dealing with mistakes (I am, after all, the woman who said the other day, "I feel like a dummy" when I realized I'd made a scheduling mistake that was going to inconvenience another person. And I said it in earshot of Bridger. Oops.).
When Bridger was feeling frustrated about the math book, I put my hand on his shoulder and said, "You know, the whole point of doing equations in a math book like you're doing is that it gives you opportunities to make mistakes, and that's how you can learn. If you don't ever try them, you don't get the chances to make mistakes."
He didn't have any "A-ha!" moment that freed him from perfectionism forevermore. At least, I don't know if he did. As I once remarked to him, he and Cassidy are sort of like icebergs for me--I see only a small fraction of who they are, and so much of who they are is a hidden mystery. He did close the book without ripping out the page and throwing it in the trash, though.
It struck me later that if there's any gift our homeschooling choice offers our kids, it's that attitude, or at least my heartfelt attempt at that attitude: that mistakes can be opportunities for learning and growth. At school, I suspect, many good teachers try to welcome mistakes, but the pressure to see mistakes as road blocks to learning, as obstacles to be gotten around, as faults to be corrected, is systemically so great. The pressure to correct mistakes within a certain time frame makes it hard, too, to relax when mistakes come up.
I don't think homeschooling is perfect. I can't offer my kids a foreign-language immersion experience, or state-of-the-art science and art materials, or daily contact with lots of other children from a variety of backgrounds, or a feeling of being part of a school community. What I can offer is lots of reassurances, repeated over many years, that mistakes are not something we have to fear, but something we can learn, if we let ourselves, to welcome.
Bridger realized he'd made a mistake on one of the equations, and because he was using crayon, he couldn't obliterate the offending error.
"That's it. I've ruined the whole page. I might as well rip it out and throw it in the trash," he said.
When he is so hard on himself about mistakes, it's hard for me to stay calm and relaxed, in part because I can so relate to that kind of either-or, all-or-nothing, it's-either-perfect-or-it's-shit thinking. I can see from my own experience that life is so much easier and more productive, so much more fun, when I can see mistakes as a natural part of any learning process, any life experience, really. I wish I could wave a magic wand and give him the perspective on mistakes I'm beginning to have at 40 so that he doesn't have to suffer through mistakes so much.
But deep down, I'm realizing that he's going to have to come to his own reckoning with imperfection. All I can do is hold him as compassionately as possible through his struggles and successes and try to remember to model healthy ways of dealing with mistakes (I am, after all, the woman who said the other day, "I feel like a dummy" when I realized I'd made a scheduling mistake that was going to inconvenience another person. And I said it in earshot of Bridger. Oops.).
When Bridger was feeling frustrated about the math book, I put my hand on his shoulder and said, "You know, the whole point of doing equations in a math book like you're doing is that it gives you opportunities to make mistakes, and that's how you can learn. If you don't ever try them, you don't get the chances to make mistakes."
He didn't have any "A-ha!" moment that freed him from perfectionism forevermore. At least, I don't know if he did. As I once remarked to him, he and Cassidy are sort of like icebergs for me--I see only a small fraction of who they are, and so much of who they are is a hidden mystery. He did close the book without ripping out the page and throwing it in the trash, though.
It struck me later that if there's any gift our homeschooling choice offers our kids, it's that attitude, or at least my heartfelt attempt at that attitude: that mistakes can be opportunities for learning and growth. At school, I suspect, many good teachers try to welcome mistakes, but the pressure to see mistakes as road blocks to learning, as obstacles to be gotten around, as faults to be corrected, is systemically so great. The pressure to correct mistakes within a certain time frame makes it hard, too, to relax when mistakes come up.
I don't think homeschooling is perfect. I can't offer my kids a foreign-language immersion experience, or state-of-the-art science and art materials, or daily contact with lots of other children from a variety of backgrounds, or a feeling of being part of a school community. What I can offer is lots of reassurances, repeated over many years, that mistakes are not something we have to fear, but something we can learn, if we let ourselves, to welcome.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Oldies
When you have the flu like I've had the last few days and are trying to sleep in spite of aches and chills, it's not exactly welcome to have a tape loop of Judy Garland singing, "Clang, clang, clang, went the trolley, ding, ding, ding went the bell" running through your head. But that's what I get for watching "Meet Me in St. Louis" with the kids twice in one week.
I have loved old movies since I was a little girl, so it's been absolute heaven for me to share old movies with my kids. So far we've watched "Singin' in the Rain," "The Sound of Music," Charles Chaplin's "The Gold Rush" and "The Circus." Oh, and don't let me forget the 1930s, Errol Flynn version of "The Adventures of Robin Hood." I did have to repeatedly identify which guy was which in that one, as they all had mustaches and British accents, bad guys and good alike.
These movies give rise to so much discussion and in some cases further investigation. Who knew, for instance, that it used to be a Halloween custom for trick-or-treaters to throw flour in their neighbors' faces when they answered the door? I didn't, until we saw that ritual enacted in "Meet Me in St. Louis" and felt compelled by the weirdness of it to find out more.
To help the kids understand "The Sound of Music," I had to talk a little about who Nazis were and what a swastika was and why Captain von Trapp was so upset when someone hung a Nazi flag on his house (though I kept my explanations simple and focused more on the Nazis taking over countries--I didn't feel ready to go into the Holocaust yet). We also learned more about the actual story of the von Trapps and found out some interesting contrasts with the movie: in real life, Captain von Trapp was somewhat tempted by the offer to command a submarine for the Germany Navy, but eventually decided he couldn't stomach supporting the Nazi cause, even if it meant getting to play with a really cool toy. We learned that in real life, if the von Trapps had tried to cross the mountains on foot, they would have ended up in the back yard of Hitler's country retreat.
I've also been fascinated to see how Bridger picks up on visual elements in the movies. In "The Circus," when Chaplin first meets the aerialist who captures his heart, her father has just pushed her through a circus tent covered with a pattern of stars. When Chaplin's character helps her up, she's still clutching a torn star. At the end of the movie, the aerialist has married a handsome high-wire walker and the circus has pulled up stakes and taken off for the next town. Chaplin is sitting on an old crate in the dust when he spots a torn paper star and picks it up. "That's his last trace of his love!" Bridger remarked. At first I didn't understand the connection he was making until he reminded me of the star in that early scene.
On the down side, some old movies do have sexist, racist, or homophobic stereotypes that need to be talked about, but even that's an opportunity. In "Meet Me in St. Louis," the Judy Garland character and her little sister sing a jokey song about "a maid of royal blood but dusky shade." I made sure to talk with the kids about how that kind of song wouldn't be included in a movie now, and why, and why people at the time thought a song like that was OK. There are occasionally moments that upset the kids--like the way a father slapped around his daughter in Chaplin's "The Circus. We talk about those moments, too, and get to share in a safe way how we feel about that kind of violence. But for the most part I've found old movies a safe haven from kids' entertainment that's either insultingly innocuous and dumbed-down on one hand or amped-up, sarcastic, and mean-spirited on the other.
For ideas about good old movies to watch with children, I've found Ty Burr's The Best Old Movies for Families: A Guide to Watching Together a great resource.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
It's Ba-ack!
"Do I contradict myself? Very well, I contradict myself (I am large, I contain multitudes.)"
-Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"
"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Self-Reliance"
I am calling on some pretty heavy hitters to justify why I am resurrecting this blog after killing it so decisively, uh, only seventeen days ago. But Emerson and Whitman have always been beloved spiritual uncles to me, as they understandably are to so many people. Tonight, their famously bad-ass words gave me the permission I needed when I thought, you know, I think I DO want to keep posting on my blog after all! I still have work to do to keep my Internet use under control, so that'll be a bit of a challenge. I also still need to figure out a way to make sure my essay-writing stays my number one writing priority. But I think the challenges are worth it to me, and here's why.
What I realized tonight is that this blog is the easiest way I know for me to preserve moments from my life with my children that I really do want to remember. I don't seem motivated to record memories in a hand-written journal the way I used to when they were babies and toddlers--perhaps I've changed too much, grown impatient with the slow speed of handwriting and the difficulty of retrieving memories quickly from piles of notebooks. But I do seem willing to commit moments that stand out to me to a blog.
In the last few days, my kids have said things I really don't want to forget. All of these utterances, perhaps not coincidentally, are related to bodily functions--my kids are 3 and 6, after all, and they live with a fairly uninhibited pair of parents. If gross-out humor isn't really your thing, you may just want to stop right here. Otherwise, brace yourself and proceed on.
Story Number One:
A few days ago I was showing the kids a cool, layperson-friendly version of the periodic table that my husband had found online. I was talking about the noble gases when Cassidy piped up, "Noble gases? Is that what royal people toot?"
Her pun-loving physicist daddy was so proud.
Story Number Two:
The kids like me to tell them stories about when I was a kid. "Eight!" they say, or "Twelve!" or "Three!" and I come up with something I remember from whatever age they've asked for. I've told them so many memories at this point that I really have to scrape the bottom of the barrel sometimes to come up with something new. Tonight, I told them about a boy in my third-grade class who used to collect his boogers in little piles on a paper towel on his desk.
Cassidy responded thoughtfully, "When I pick my nose, I just wipe the snot on my clothes, and then a fairy takes it away. She's brown, and she's not very fancy."
And last but not least, Story Number Three:
At bedtime tonight, we were talking about what it means to "let go," because we say a bedtime prayer that ends "It is only in letting go that we find real peace." To try to explain what I personally mean by "let go," I told the kids about Byron Katie, creator of The Work and seemingly one of the most enlightened beings around right now. According to my understanding of Byron Katie's ideas, "letting go" means accepting and loving exactly what's happening, no matter what. It doesn't necessarily mean passivity; think of Gandhi, Thich Nhat Hanh, or Mother Teresa, working to make the world better while accepting their utter lack of control.
Bridger was especially riveted to hear the way Byron Katie experienced some truly terrifying situations: a possible cancer diagnosis, near-blindness, and an encounter with a gunman intent on taking her life. In each case, she faced what was happening with curiosity, fearless openness, and love for her life and the people in it--even the gunman. (At least that's how she tells it, and I happen to believe her.)
I told the kids about how Katie says, "I'm a lover of reality. When I argue with what is, I lose, but only 100% of the time."
"But what is 'reality'?" Bridger asked.
"'Reality' is what's actually happening, not just what we wish was happening," I told him.
He was quiet for a while, and then he said gleefully, "I'm reality!"
Yes, I agreed, you are definitely reality. But now, I said, it's time to get ready to sleep so you can stay healthy and well-rested.
"The floor is reality," I heard Bridger muttering beside me in the bed. "The universe is reality. The floor is reality. The bed is reality. The window is reality."
"Yep. Good night, sweetie," I said, patting him, wondering why I'd gotten a conversation this big going at bedtime in the first place, grateful at the same time that we'd had the conversation at all.
"A TOILET PLUNGER is reality!" he declared. And then, he was silent. He had said what needed to be said, and he was now ready to accept the reality that it really was bedtime.
"I believe in the flesh and the appetites,
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me
is a miracle."
-Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Over and Out
A friend of mine asked me today what I'd decided to do about this blog, since I'd said back in July that I would make a decision about it by the end of August.
Well. As I've mentioned previously on this blog, I have trouble finishing things (hence, my annoying-to-my-husband habit of keeping our cupboard shelves well-stocked with cracker boxes containing one or two stale crackers and keeping our fridge rattling with nearly empty salad dressing bottles and jam jars). And clearly, I have had some trouble finishing off this blog and admitting that I don't want to do it any more. But I don't. I have really enjoyed writing the posts. But being as addicted to external validation as I am and keeping a blog just didn't go together well. I didn't need yet another reason for checking the Internet to see if I still exist. I continue to find it challenging enough just remembering to check in with my own flesh-and-blood, real-time existence every once in a while.
Thanks to everyone who ever stopped by to read this blog, to people who commented, and to the fabulous bloggers whose work I've discovered this past year. I am happy to have shared the past year with all of you, and to have had the pleasure and honor of hearing some of your stories, too.
Well. As I've mentioned previously on this blog, I have trouble finishing things (hence, my annoying-to-my-husband habit of keeping our cupboard shelves well-stocked with cracker boxes containing one or two stale crackers and keeping our fridge rattling with nearly empty salad dressing bottles and jam jars). And clearly, I have had some trouble finishing off this blog and admitting that I don't want to do it any more. But I don't. I have really enjoyed writing the posts. But being as addicted to external validation as I am and keeping a blog just didn't go together well. I didn't need yet another reason for checking the Internet to see if I still exist. I continue to find it challenging enough just remembering to check in with my own flesh-and-blood, real-time existence every once in a while.
Thanks to everyone who ever stopped by to read this blog, to people who commented, and to the fabulous bloggers whose work I've discovered this past year. I am happy to have shared the past year with all of you, and to have had the pleasure and honor of hearing some of your stories, too.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Takin' A Breather
I'm going to put this blog on hiatus at least until the end of the summer, and possibly stop doing it all together or change it a bit--as in, making it less about me and more of a true family collaboration, with more posts from my kids and husband (it is, after all, subtitled "Adventures in Family Learning.") I've so enjoyed and appreciated the give-and-take with people who have commented here and with other bloggers whose work I've gotten to know in the last few months of exploring the blogosphere. It has meant so much to me and been a huge source of encouragement and connection.
But.
My yard is so full of weeds I feel too embarrassed to have a bunch of awesome women from the neighborhood over for wine and beer around the firepit.
My husband all too often goes to bed by himself while I prowl around online so late that I'm tired and grouchy the next day.
I'm way behind on returning calls and letters to old friends and my own mom--yet I seem to find time for blog posts. Seems like a discrepancy that needs correcting.
The thought, "I wonder if anyone has commented yet on my last post?" has taken on depressingly compulsive dimensions.
My book project needs attention. When it comes to writing ideas, I find myself devoting more of my mental space to blog posts than I am to book revision. Something's gotta give.
I made a vow to start meditating every day again. Has it happened yet? Nope.
I've realized I really like the blog-type form as I've been doing it--taking small, everyday moments and trying to pull out larger meaning from them--and I'd like to find a way to do it in a less ephemeral, nebulous form, like finding a place to have a regular column with a set deadline. I'm thinking that way, I could "compartmentalize" it a little more rather than having it take over my brain so much on a day to day basis, the way blogging seems to do.
And finally--when I thought about stopping the blog, I felt a sense of relief and possibility.
That's reason enough, wouldn't you say?
This is not to say that I'm not going to miss doing it, and miss the miniature "conversations" it has sparked with you.
I'll check in at the end of August and let you know how the blog hiatus has gone, then take it from there.
But.
My yard is so full of weeds I feel too embarrassed to have a bunch of awesome women from the neighborhood over for wine and beer around the firepit.
My husband all too often goes to bed by himself while I prowl around online so late that I'm tired and grouchy the next day.
I'm way behind on returning calls and letters to old friends and my own mom--yet I seem to find time for blog posts. Seems like a discrepancy that needs correcting.
The thought, "I wonder if anyone has commented yet on my last post?" has taken on depressingly compulsive dimensions.
My book project needs attention. When it comes to writing ideas, I find myself devoting more of my mental space to blog posts than I am to book revision. Something's gotta give.
I made a vow to start meditating every day again. Has it happened yet? Nope.
I've realized I really like the blog-type form as I've been doing it--taking small, everyday moments and trying to pull out larger meaning from them--and I'd like to find a way to do it in a less ephemeral, nebulous form, like finding a place to have a regular column with a set deadline. I'm thinking that way, I could "compartmentalize" it a little more rather than having it take over my brain so much on a day to day basis, the way blogging seems to do.
And finally--when I thought about stopping the blog, I felt a sense of relief and possibility.
That's reason enough, wouldn't you say?
This is not to say that I'm not going to miss doing it, and miss the miniature "conversations" it has sparked with you.
I'll check in at the end of August and let you know how the blog hiatus has gone, then take it from there.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Unusually Rich Days
The last few days of being back from our trip have felt so good--a chance to reconnect with the kids and our home and our lives here in St. Paul. And the kids and I have been doing so many lovely things together, mostly either at home or in the neighborhood. There are many, many days when I feel awash in self-doubt and uncertainty about unschooling the kids. Days like the ones we've had lately, when it's so clear how much they're learning and so beautiful to see the way they're learning through play and living, are the kinds of days that keep me going.
Yesterday we started off by reading some Greek myths in Cassidy's bed right after we woke up. The kids have really been enjoying D'Aulaire's Book of Greek Myths, a book I've been holding on to for a while, waiting for the right time to introduce it, and the right time appears to be now. I'd warmed 'em up by telling an oral version of the Persephone story as a bedtime story, and then I pulled out the book to show them the pictures for that story.
After breakfast, we made little miniature clay mountain scenes, with tiny lakes, rivers, snowcapped ranges, waterfalls. At first Bridger didn't want to do it, but pretty soon he drifted over, checked out what we were up to, and said, "Oh, I'll do one, too." It was a lovely way to remember some of what we'd seen in Montana and shape our memories with our hands in a small, kid-scaled way.
We played at home for a while, then took a late-morning bike ride to lovely Newell Park. The hills and trees there made a perfectly fine Sherwood Forest for us to play Robin Hood until we were ready for lunch. On the way home, we stopped to admire our neighbors' gardens and identify some of the vegetables and flowers we saw growing. We spent the afternoon acting out a story with craft stick puppets and paper dinosaurs. In the evening Bridger went to martial arts, and I attended a task force meeting to help save our neighborhood library from closing, so we even got a little time out in the neighborhood with other people--a really nice balance.
Today, more Greek myths in the morning, then we picked up where we left off with the craft stick puppet/dinosaur story. The story even involved some spontaneous, kid-initiated math (i.e., calculating how many steaks each carnivorous dinosaur needed to be fed so they wouldn't eat the human characters).
At lunch, Cass mentioned her current aspiration to be a ballerina/speech therapist when she grows up. I said there would probably be a lot of work available for a speech therapist in the future. We ended up talking about the rise in autism and some of the theories about what causes it, which led to talking about Temple Grandin and her innovations in how cattle are treated, discoveries made possible in part by her autism and the unique insights it gave her into animals.
"So maybe having autism isn't necessarily all a problem," Bridger pointed out.
Bridger listened to a "Hank the Cow Dog" book on CD while Cassidy and I hauled out the wooden train set for the first time in a long time and played trains, which morphed into "bad giant" when Cassidy decided to play a bad giant kidnapping trains. When Bridger finished his CD, he joined in and brought "Lego Pest Controllers" on to the scene to shoot her with a goodness missile that made her into a fairy who loved art instead of a bad giant. He went on to build three different pest controller vehicles along with various unusual pests. For instance, one vehicle used special saws to surgically alter a rampaging lion into a docile kitty cat; another captured yetis and hauled them to zoos.
Meanwhile, Cassidy's good fairy was set up at an easel happily painting picture after picture.
Finally, to top things off, when we went to Target this afternoon, Bridger had two small but exhilarating reading breakthroughs: He sounded out the word "large" in "Large Grade A Eggs" on a carton (though he said it "larg-eh," spurring a little reminder about silent "e"). Then, in the checkout line, he pointed out the princess in the Starbuck logo to Cassidy, knowing how much she loves princesses. Then he asked, "Does that say 'coffee'?"
I was kind of flabbergasted. We don't frequent Starbucks, so I don't think he has associations with the logo--I guess maybe he inferred the name based on context, but hey, isn't that how a lot of reading works?
"How did you figure that out?" I asked him as I loaded bags in our cart.
"Well, I know that "c-o-f" says 'cof,' and 'e-e' says "ee," so I know 'c-o-f-f-e-e' spells 'coffee'!"
It reminded me of how I felt the day he was sitting at the kitchen table, a chubby baby of 10 months or so, when he pointed at the whirling ceiling fan and said, "Fa, fa, fa" with a big, sassy grin.
When things are going well for us, it's easy to look back at the tougher times, the times when not much learning seemed to be happening, and say, well of course--that was just the fallow period that makes growth possible. That was the period of disequilibrium that always seems to come before a time of grace and ease. It's a lot harder to remember that when I'm in the middle of a hard slog of days. That's part of why I wrote all this down today--to help me remember, and to help me appreciate, and to help me relax.
Perhaps some day I'll even get to the point of not evaluating times in our lives so much as good or bad, hard or easy--when I'll simply attend to what's happening with a greater, more open-hearted curiosity and fewer value judgments. We'll see!
Yesterday we started off by reading some Greek myths in Cassidy's bed right after we woke up. The kids have really been enjoying D'Aulaire's Book of Greek Myths, a book I've been holding on to for a while, waiting for the right time to introduce it, and the right time appears to be now. I'd warmed 'em up by telling an oral version of the Persephone story as a bedtime story, and then I pulled out the book to show them the pictures for that story.
After breakfast, we made little miniature clay mountain scenes, with tiny lakes, rivers, snowcapped ranges, waterfalls. At first Bridger didn't want to do it, but pretty soon he drifted over, checked out what we were up to, and said, "Oh, I'll do one, too." It was a lovely way to remember some of what we'd seen in Montana and shape our memories with our hands in a small, kid-scaled way.
We played at home for a while, then took a late-morning bike ride to lovely Newell Park. The hills and trees there made a perfectly fine Sherwood Forest for us to play Robin Hood until we were ready for lunch. On the way home, we stopped to admire our neighbors' gardens and identify some of the vegetables and flowers we saw growing. We spent the afternoon acting out a story with craft stick puppets and paper dinosaurs. In the evening Bridger went to martial arts, and I attended a task force meeting to help save our neighborhood library from closing, so we even got a little time out in the neighborhood with other people--a really nice balance.
Today, more Greek myths in the morning, then we picked up where we left off with the craft stick puppet/dinosaur story. The story even involved some spontaneous, kid-initiated math (i.e., calculating how many steaks each carnivorous dinosaur needed to be fed so they wouldn't eat the human characters).
At lunch, Cass mentioned her current aspiration to be a ballerina/speech therapist when she grows up. I said there would probably be a lot of work available for a speech therapist in the future. We ended up talking about the rise in autism and some of the theories about what causes it, which led to talking about Temple Grandin and her innovations in how cattle are treated, discoveries made possible in part by her autism and the unique insights it gave her into animals.
"So maybe having autism isn't necessarily all a problem," Bridger pointed out.
Bridger listened to a "Hank the Cow Dog" book on CD while Cassidy and I hauled out the wooden train set for the first time in a long time and played trains, which morphed into "bad giant" when Cassidy decided to play a bad giant kidnapping trains. When Bridger finished his CD, he joined in and brought "Lego Pest Controllers" on to the scene to shoot her with a goodness missile that made her into a fairy who loved art instead of a bad giant. He went on to build three different pest controller vehicles along with various unusual pests. For instance, one vehicle used special saws to surgically alter a rampaging lion into a docile kitty cat; another captured yetis and hauled them to zoos.
Meanwhile, Cassidy's good fairy was set up at an easel happily painting picture after picture.
Finally, to top things off, when we went to Target this afternoon, Bridger had two small but exhilarating reading breakthroughs: He sounded out the word "large" in "Large Grade A Eggs" on a carton (though he said it "larg-eh," spurring a little reminder about silent "e"). Then, in the checkout line, he pointed out the princess in the Starbuck logo to Cassidy, knowing how much she loves princesses. Then he asked, "Does that say 'coffee'?"
I was kind of flabbergasted. We don't frequent Starbucks, so I don't think he has associations with the logo--I guess maybe he inferred the name based on context, but hey, isn't that how a lot of reading works?
"How did you figure that out?" I asked him as I loaded bags in our cart.
"Well, I know that "c-o-f" says 'cof,' and 'e-e' says "ee," so I know 'c-o-f-f-e-e' spells 'coffee'!"
It reminded me of how I felt the day he was sitting at the kitchen table, a chubby baby of 10 months or so, when he pointed at the whirling ceiling fan and said, "Fa, fa, fa" with a big, sassy grin.
When things are going well for us, it's easy to look back at the tougher times, the times when not much learning seemed to be happening, and say, well of course--that was just the fallow period that makes growth possible. That was the period of disequilibrium that always seems to come before a time of grace and ease. It's a lot harder to remember that when I'm in the middle of a hard slog of days. That's part of why I wrote all this down today--to help me remember, and to help me appreciate, and to help me relax.
Perhaps some day I'll even get to the point of not evaluating times in our lives so much as good or bad, hard or easy--when I'll simply attend to what's happening with a greater, more open-hearted curiosity and fewer value judgments. We'll see!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
