o frabjous day

Toward all that is unsolved

2011-06-21T16:49:00.006-04:00

"Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart, damn it."

Okay, the damn it is mine and that's not the complete quote. That's just half the quote and a good portion of my frustration. I'll share the rest of Rilke's wisdom, though not until the end of my tale, which is when I became a bit wiser and a whole lot less frustrated. Many of you have recently heard this tale, so forgive my repetition.

If you weren't aware, we've been not trying to not get pregnant since the fall of the year Isaiah died four years ago. At times, this has been background fuzz for me, a journey there, but happening far away. And at times, especially more recent times, it has been front and center, uphill and downhill and full of corners I couldn't see around no matter how far I traveled. So, naturally, instead of patience in the midst of the mystery, I began pounding my head (fists would be too sensible) against every door I spied: adoption, fostering, career, pregnancy, vasectomy. I'm not sure I cared which door opened, as long as one of the answers was final. And preferably offered up by someone else.

This is where I found myself about a month or two ago, when I was feeling the urge to follow the fostering path again, feeling like I wanted to offer the Boy more companionship (not necessarily his want, mind you), feeling like our family was just right, feeling like I was ready to explore career options. I was going no where fast and no one was telling me what to do. Damn it.

And then we spent a weekend with my sister. And I sat there one day watching the Boy lay on the floor next to their big, gentle dog, Jersey. He hugged and petted and loved on that dog and a door opened. A door I'd never even guessed at the existence of before that moment. And on a drive shortly after that experience, I asked the Boy how it felt, when he imagined bringing another child into our home or bringing a dog into our home. He somewhat hesitantly said, "About the same," to which I said, "You know, it's okay if one feels stronger than the other," to which he quickly replied, "Ok, a dog." So we started walking through the dog door–

–and I realized how completely trapped I'd felt in my desperate seeking for an answer to the "more children" question. How I'd been ignoring the fact that we did have "more children," though only one still living. How I'd been narrowly defining the idea of companionship. How I'd been feeling guilty around my desire to explore my own passions of play and medicine. And then a window presented itself.

The following weekend we walked in memory of Isaiah at our local Hospice of Michigan Walk and Remember. While waiting to walk, I saw a woman whom I knew, though I wasn't sure how. In an unusual move, I approached her and it turned out that her husband used to work with the Esquire and we had talked about social work in the past. We agreed to meet the following week for coffee, where I learned she was currently working part time as a social worker with Hospice of Michigan, engaging families using her skills, including play therapy. I talked to her about my interest in Child Life, a program which works to ensure children in medical settings retain a child's life, particularly in the arena of play, and which requires less schooling, (because I already have a bachelor's) than going for an MSW, which had been feeling daunting to me. She said it sounded perfect for me.

And then another window. Talking with my sister the following week, I told her of my coffee date, my interest in Child Life. And she shared that while at the children's hospital with her son, who was receiving his weekly chemo. treatment, a Child Life specialist had worked with him, and she had thought of me the entire time.

Since then, we've started exploring types of dogs, watching shows on t.v. about training puppies and discussing dogs we've loved. And I've started the process to volunteer in the Child Life department at our local children's hospital, where Isaiah made his last hospital visit ever - and where both the boys were delighted with the play provided by the Child Life specialists.

"Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and books that are written in a foreign tongue.

Do not now seek the answers which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live with everything.

Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer." –Rilke

These words have been in my living space for the last 11+ years. I may have had them memorized but it wasn't until this year that I began to have any understanding of them and I sense that a lot of it has to do with trust. Which I'll touch more fully upon in my next post, where I try to unpack a few tasty morsels from the recent We Shine with Unschooling conference we three attended.

The Beamish Boy Learns

2011-02-06T15:59:00.003-05:00

If you don't live with us (and you don't, but we'd love to have you for a visit), it may be hard to imagine how it is that the boy learns. If you ask him what he likes to do (and you probably will), it may be hard for him to answer with anything beyond video games. If you ask him what he's learned lately, he will likely say, "I don't know," or "Nothing much." This is not because that is the truth, but because there is no defined, or correct answer - there is no box in his head labeled Important things I have learned, which he will know to draw from when someone asks him that question.

So I thought I'd sit down and play with seeing where this week has led us, in terms that can be labeled learning, but are more truly an expression of endless curiosity.

Learning from a pack of 3-D opaque ink:

While Cutter and I were eating one day this week, he pulled over a pack of art pens I'd left on the table. The questions began. "So, what does opaque mean?" I answered. Then, on one side, he noted the writing in English, on the other, writing in a different language. He compared and said, "S0, in Spanish you say writing you can feel by saying ecriture en relief." I explained that the language was French and how the translation is not entirely literal. En relief led to a discussion about the style of art known as bas-relief. From there Cutter asked me when I had learned Spanish and I shared how I had studied in college and then taught ESL after college, when he was a baby and came with me. We looked at South America on the map and talked about how the word Hispanic can be used to describe people who speak Spanish but that you wouldn't assume they are Spanish because Spain conquered much of South America, but that there were indigenous peoples, with native languages, already in those countries. Interesting!

Learning from a comedy:

A few days ago, Cutter and I went to see Jack Black in Gulliver's Travels. After the movie, Cutter talked about how Jack Black is always cast as himself and we talked about type casting of actors. At the end of the film, Black sings the song War, which Cutter loved. Later at home, I looked to see who had written the song and shared with Cut that it was by Edwin Starr, a Motown artist (another link in our visit Detroit soon chain) and the song was an anti-Vietnam protest song. Just as I was sharing that info., Cutter beat story mode on Black Ops and was watching a cut scene (video) of Fidel Castro, JFK and Richard Nixon talking - another link in our Vietnam war chain. Cool!

Learning from a book or two:

Cutter and I have been reading aloud each of the Sisters Grimm books by Michael Buckley for a couple of years now. We recently acquired the 8th book in the series, which finds the three main characters traveling through a series of classic fairy tales. At one point, they travel through The Wizard of Oz and Cutter and I tried to remember if either of us have read the original, because some details are unfamiliar. As I read, Joe (remember, he's the all-around trivia god) walked through and shared that L. Frank Baum wrote Wizard of Oz in Holland, Michigan (where we live!) and also added some historical/economic context to the story being about the gold standard.

Learning from Legos:

On a final note, I shared this picture because Cutter and I were playing Legos and he noticed something that I hadn't even seen. My Lego people were to the right of the owl, representing Eden and made out of all white bricks. To the left of the owl were Cutter's people, made of all black and red bricks. In the middle, the owl, keeper of the chalice. Cutter was excited that I get this shot because he noticed that the sun shone on the owl's right half and the owl was cast in shadow on the left, a perfect image, a metaphor for our good and bad sides.

As I learned this week, education, in one reading, comes from the Latin word educere, meaning to draw out from within and I delight in finding out what draws out this 10 1/2 year old boy with whom I walk the days.

Construction Work

2011-01-28T07:42:00.004-05:00

This photo was taken while Cutter was immersed in a Hardy Boys graphic novel. His love of graphic novels has led me into the wonderful world of comics and graphic novels, which I never really knew existed. I, myself, just finished the first collected volume of Sandman, by Neil Gaiman and can't wait to get my hands on the rest.

Upon seeing this photo on fb, a homeschooling friend commented that she was envious, that she couldn't get her son to do anything constructive. I commented that Cutter wasn't being constructive, that he was just enjoying himself.

My response niggled at me throughout the morning as not quite right. By saying he wasn't being constructive, it seemed I was saying he wasn't doing something of value. Thankfully, my eloquent friend and fellow unschooler, Amy Carpenter Leugs, chimed in, pointing out that "... constructive = what the heart loves, in unschooling speak. Because by doing what he loves, the child *constructs* his world and his connection to it ..." I love this image of children building their worlds from the inside, from who they see themselves as, rather than attempting to conform their inner lives to parental or societal constructs.

Amy's words spoke to the niggling feeling I'd had to my own response. I did not mean to imply that Cutter was not doing something of value, but that he was not doing it because it was anyone else's idea of a constructive thing to do. He was reading a graphic novel because that activity holds meaning and joy for him. If I had, for example, set a random time and said, "Ok, it's time for you to read now," or if I chose the book I thought he should read, well, he'd come to hate reading pretty quickly I'm sure, no matter how constructive I assured him it is.

Beyond graphic novels, Cutter's building blocks have largely, of late, been made up of playing Little Big Planet 2. He's discovered how to make a music video with sackbots and it's really cool to watch him set up camera angles and dance moves. He's been exploring his sleep needs as well, which I'll write about next time. And on our list of upcoming constructions: screen "puppet guts" t-shirts (you'll see!), film a live action movie and make silent foam shoes (the better to Ninja kick you with).

The Invention of Lying

2011-01-27T14:48:00.003-05:00

Yep, I took the title from a hilarious and popular movie. Perhaps you know the movie, starring Ricky Gervais. In the fictional world of the movie, no one in the world can lie. Until Ricky Gervais' character tells a lie. He makes up a story about the afterlife to comfort his dying mother. The plot continues from there, revealing all the funny and poignant moments that happen in a world where only one person can lie.

The subject of the movie, lying and its inception, has been running around in my brain these last few weeks.

You see, the boy has recently told a few lies. If you're anything like me, your first, internal reaction may be that some dark evil has invaded your home and your child will now and forever be pursued by the demons of hell and you will fail as a parent. Okay, so that's bit dramatic, but I must admit to surprise. Not because I never expected him to lie- I know it's a natural part of growth in language and mental faculties. But because, as radical unschoolers, so many of the more traditional reasons to lie are removed. Or so I thought... (cue dramatic piano: dun, dun, dunnnnnnn).

The lies Cutter told were around the subject of when he went to sleep. This was especially baffling as we haven't set a bed time in years and years.

After the fact, I talked with him about trust and how it feels when he lies to me and wondered if he might have some insight around why he lied. In hindsight, I believe this type of response: Why did you do such and such? regardless of the gentleness of the tone, just sets the scenario for more lies to be told. Children want their parents to be pleased with them, to enjoy their light. If it takes a lie to do that, (and if you've not had the 20+ years of self-reflection that enable you to offer up a possibly clear reason for your action), why would you hesitate?

It came to me that I needed to stop focusing on THE LIE and start looking at the big picture, and my role in it. I think sometimes I lull myself with the idea that because we live this way as a family that everything is going to turn out just fine and that's when I fall down on the job, so to speak. Radically unschooling, no matter how "easy" it looks, is not easy. It's rewarding and challenging and fun and complicated and beautiful - and never just plain ole' easy. So, the big picture:

My dh and I always ask one another and the boy how our sleep was, when we managed to fall asleep, if dreams were dreamed. We also, more so recently, have been talking with Cutter about the shadows under his eyes, asking if he needs help moving from computer to bed, pointing out what seem to be the signs of fatigue.

If someone I loved asked me every day about when I went to sleep, I would infer that it meant a lot to them. That there was weight tied to the hour of sleeping. That they expected something other than the answers I gave. That it might be a good idea to give them an answer they would be pleased with, whether truth or not, in order to make them happy, calm their fears. It would be the wise and kind thing to do. When looked at in this manner, a lie seems a kindness.

It also seems to be precipitated by my actions more than anything else. As Cutter grows, I have to think in different ways about what it means to parent consciously. I have to more closely examine my role in our relationship as he brings more of himself to the table. I have to make room for the boy with shadowed eyes who leaves me sweet facebook messages at 1:30 a.m. The boy who clearly didn't enjoy last night's dinner but still looked at me and exclaimed, "Thanks, Mom, that was great," before he went off to do his thing. That boy is going through great growth in his interactions with others right now. He's offering up his opinions more often, showing up when he's upset, trying to read others interactions, offering encouragement and support.

To borrow from a good friend, this radical unschooling is about allowing our children to construct themselves from the inside. Sometimes a child's inside world demands things we, as parents, fear - such as little sleep, or lots of candy, or friends with whom we can't connect. We can sit with those fears and concerns and look at our role within them without attempting to build our child up from the outside. Or we can stop their internal construction by attempting to impose our own, external edifice upon our child - and in this way, they will lie in order to try and conform to the constructions we've demanded they wear. Or we can spend our time welcoming the unique creation that is our child. We can construct bridges between us that leave no need for conformity.

Joe and I have made an effort of late to not make a big deal about hours slept, to stop asking Cutter when he fell asleep. Instead, we ask about his night- a new book on c.d., a funny t.v. episode, a useful walkthrough. If there is something he wants to be up for in the morning, I let him know and he sets an alarm and decides how much earlier than normal he will try to go to sleep. He is a boy that could be head down, eyes shut on the couch but if you ask him if he's tired, he'll say Nope, not even a little. He is a boy that never wants to be tired, that wants to stay awake as long as he can, to explore, to play, to learn - and sometimes that looks scary, but the disconnect that occurs when we try to steer him away from his own direction, albeit unconsciously, is far scarier to me.

This is is a topic I continue to ponder - how to sit with and respond in such situations, how to remember the very smallness of these moments in the overall picture, how to look at my own role in these moments. If the above post feels incomplete, imperfect, well, it is - to the extent that I am still growing alongside my boy.

Guarantees Will Be Offered

2011-01-18T08:50:00.008-05:00

Today is the birth day of our younger son, Isaiah. It is also the fourth birth day that we have celebrated since his death at age five.

Whenever my brother-in-law and I share space, he offers me the small kindness of asking about Isaiah, about how I am missing him, what that looks like. He wonders if it looks like imagining Isaiah at age nine, as he would be if he were living.

It does not. Isaiah never will be nine, will never be more than the five years we shared, for my own reasons of not wanting to fall down the rabbit hole of what could've been. I have what is.

When I was five months pregnant with Isaiah, I underwent the standard ultra-sound. Afterwards, the nurse called and said they were unable to see all the chambers of his heart. She said it was likely a fluke but that unless I came in for a second ultrasound, they could not guarantee that everything would be perfect. I assured her that she would not be able to guarantee that regardless and opted out of the second ultrasound. From that moment, my mind jumps to the day, after several sessions, that we stopped occupational therapy. The therapist expressed concern that Isaiah did not color with the skill of his peers. And again, a jump, to the last hospital stay, the last series of tests. We asked for hospice and the cardiologist urged us to continue treatment. There could be something else that could prolong his time with us.

So many guarantees are offered, all with the perception that there is one direction in which your child's life should head, some perfection for which you must reach. I carry these images and thoughts with me as I remember Isaiah, as I live with Cutter. As I try to remember that nothing that I do can guarantee his happiness, his health.

I forget. I worry about vegetables and exercise and video game content. I read and I overthink and then, of course, I remember again. I remember that it was not Isaiah's "normalcy" that endeared him to us. It was his wild way of shouting LIGHT BLUE, the way he laid all out on the floor so he could better see the wheels of Thomas move along the track, the way he wrapped his hands in your hair to fall asleep, the way he smiled that giant smile even after puking. Yep, there was no sort of normal about that boy - and he was amazing.

I remember that there are no guarantees. That I could make Cutter eat every vegetable known to Mother Earth, demand he exercise the recommended thirty minutes every day, limit his video game time to one hour a day - and he could still die.

I remember that the day is made by what joy we allow in, not by what we're trying to keep out. So, today, I will let my sleeping boy sleep on. We will buy giant, fancy cupcakes to celebrate our missing boy. We will play with our sackboys on Little Big Planet and shoot each other on Black Ops. We will read on the couch and wrestle on the bed. We will be weird and wonderful and imperfect. Today, I remember.

The Medium of Instruction, or what was Media-free Week

2010-11-07T14:21:00.006-05:00

Several people with whom I spoke about our media-free week assumed it was a top-down decree, that We the Parents, ordered it so. Allow me to clear that up by sharing what really went down:

On November 2nd, The Boy and I were pedaling our bikes like mad to find the church where I was to cast my votes on election day. Attempting some fancier version of bike riding than I aspire to, The Boy leapt up and then noted that his wrist was causing him some amount of pain. I asked if perhaps he'd like to take some time off from video games. He said that actually he'd been meaning to ask if we could have a media-free week. That's it, word for word. "Actually I've been meaning to ask if we could have a media-free week." He's ten. He doesn't go to school and he has no homework. He's not had an arbitrary media limit on his waking hours for years. He loves video games and anime and Legos. And sword battles with friends and basketball and fluorescent orange cheese-flavored crackers. He asked for a media-free week.

I reiterate that because one of the concerns I've heard expressed around radical unschooling is how a child will ever learn self control if they are allowed to eat/sleep/watch when they want, which goes along with the idea that if you let a child follow their interests they will go berserk (especially around media) and watch t.v./play video games 24 hours a day. I would point out that many of the folks expressing these concerns and fears are thinking about schooled kids. For many schooled kids, it may seem that they have an insatiable desire to play video games or watch t.v., but the desire's only insatiable because schooled children have so little time and so little control in which to meet their interests outside of school. Off my soapbox.

So, we began our media-free week Wednesday. The Esquire and I both knew we didn't have to go along with the week, that we could have continued to do our own things, and in a way, I did. I continued to check my e-mail, I simply made sure to do so when The Boy was sleeping so I could support his media-free journey. Wednesday was a fun day, full of drink concocting, Lego play, magic tricks, sword fighting and friends, among other things. Friday, I picked The Boy up after a sleepover with two other ten year old boys. Telling me about playing twenty minutes of Little Big Planet (a thoroughly brilliant game), he hit his head in frustration and guilt. I asked him to remember with me why he wanted to do the media-free week, that it was to allow his wrist to heal from the pain he was feeling, not to inspire feelings of guilt and inadequacy around an arbitrary rule. He decided he'd like to continue the break from video games, but wanted to resume television and movie media. Since then, he's played a bit on his X-box 360 today, but continues to keep an eye on how his wrist feels. It is a constant conversation around what works and doesn't.

What is really amazing to me is that he is a ten-year-old boy who is aware of his body, who notes its pain and takes steps to adjust for healing. I know many adults, sometimes myself included, that eat, work and go go go beyond what their bodies are telling them to do, who ignore fullness and pain until medical interventions are necessary. Just yesterday, his dad announced neck pain, which The Boy suggested was due to smartphone use and the constant looking down it requires. It made sense - and what made more sense is that we took his suggestion seriously because we have just as much to learn from him as he does from us and we all benefit from the lack of arbitrary rules, from the continuous conversation.

For my own media-free part, I laughed when one friend asked if I was having detox tremors and in a way, that first day, I was. I wanted to constantly check facebook. Media is far more an issue for me than for The Boy. It's something I allow myself to be distracted by when trying to meet my goals, say writing. It was a good break for me to reevaluate how I use media in my day-to-day and reflect on how my own interactions with media affect how I view The Boy's interactions. And now back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Confessions in Dreamland

2010-09-30T19:54:00.004-04:00

In the last post, I wrote that I thought to give the boy a BMX bike for his birthday because he was enjoying practicing jumps on the ramps at the local skate park. I did not write that I knew one of the things he wanted most was a laptop, a netbook to be exact, nor that the reason that I wanted to offer the BMX was that I judged it healthier than a laptop. I didn't write those things because they didn't reflect who I want to be as a parent - even though they are who I sometimes am as a parent.

These past two months have found me in the midst of frequent darkness, even as I traverse the magnificent light of my daily life. This darkness has been seen most vividly in my dream life. You see, recently, Cutter, my son, went through about three weeks of what felt like intense sickness.

He developed a cough that went into double ear and eye infections as well as some pretty wicked lung congestion. This came at the tail end of a couple months of busy-ness and travel the likes of which we don't often experience at our house. He developed a high fever and became sluggish. His breathing became quite rapid and I became quite concerned. We spent a few days on homeopathic and herbal remedies before we landed at the pediatrician's and antibiotics. I morphed into mainstream (albeit creative) mom. I designed menus full of healthy, vegetarian menus from which he could order. I pushed outside time. I pushed a BMX bike instead of a laptop. I started having bad dreams. About Isaiah. Our son who died 3 1/2 years ago from complex congenital defects.

You see, I know what life-threatening illness looks like. I know how fast, and for how long, a heart can manage to beat and still sustain a life. I know what the last slow breaths, the last slow beats, sound like. I listened to them. And so, when I dreamed of being unable to "play" with friends at the health club because Isaiah was sick, when I dreamt of refusing to visit Isaiah in the hospital while he was sick, well, I listened to that, too. And when I found myself freaking out because my husband fed our still sick son, Cutter, a plain bagel, I listened to that, too.

And what I heard was fear. Irrational, yes, but real fear nonetheless. I could see and know the fear was irrational, know that by trying to control my loved ones in their eating and their actions, I was not only expressing my fear, but hurting our relationships (refer back to The Hidden Child.) But I also needed to honor that mourning Isaiah and hurting from that loss is not a one-shot deal. Sure, I did a year of counseling with an amazing woman. Sure, I live an amazing life full of love and adventure and growth. But I still suffer. I still want to hold my son to my chest. And I sure as hell don't want to lose my other son. There, I said it.

Enter a good friend. One versed in dream work and Jungian psychology. A friend I went to with one of my latest dreams. The first dream found me in an art class that I'd enrolled in to "find myself." The professor gave us our first assignment: go home and draw your house. Don't focus on details. Just get the basic shapes down. How easy, I thought. At home, I tried to get the basic shapes of home down and found I couldn't. I could sketch the corner of the couch, the curve of the curtain, the dirty spoon on the sink's edge, but the whole escaped me. I returned to the class the next day, abashed in front of the professor, in tears explaining that I could not find my home.

To me, this dream represented part of my darkest self, the self caught up in trying to control minute details, the plain bagels and the day of video games, rather than being able to see the whole of where my life is, the whole of who my amazing child is. My friend offered something else, something more hopeful in the dark - that my psyche, through the dream, is letting me know that part of me knows that the whole is there, is visible, when I am ready, even if it means I have to go through all the details first.

Dream two, two nights ago, after I again attempted to assert control over my loved ones. During a moment that I was writing a book review on my laptop, my dh was watching a t.v. show and Cutter was playing a game on his laptop, I heard one click too many and said, "O.K., this is all wrong. Let's all shut down our media and talk about our day." I forced it. It was ugly. Cutter cried. Joe looked at me in bemusement. I don't like writing this - I'm often looked at as someone for whom this parenting is easy, but it's sometimes hard as hell, folks, and sometimes I am ugly. It's ironic - even as I forced it, I remembered a time in my youth when my siblings and I were forced to watch a t.v. show, for family time, for reasons I will never know, but which surely felt as powerful to my father. As a child, I hated it. And I hated it two nights ago. I apologized to Cutter, to Joe, to myself. I allowed that it was actually the noise that put me over the edge and not the fact that my family members were engaged in activities they loved. Since, I have made sure to have the space I need to write, to avoid noise when needed.

But the dream that night - I dreamt that Cutter was engaged in several activities that parents frequently dread. Sex, drugs, alcohol, stealing. I dreamt that he was engaged in a lot of ugliness, and still, I knew that I loved him, that he was deserving of love. And to think, the most I've been so hyped up about is food and video games. One day, my dh was kind enough to ask, "You know, if he sat on the couch all day reading books, would you be as concerned?" You see, I know, in my deepest heart, that my son is well, that he is rounded and healthy. He rides horses, he plays video games, he eats a variety of foods, he cooks sushi, he plays pretend, he builds dioramas, he swims, he does so much - and I know this and I love him. I just sometimes forget that I am fearful, fearful of loss, fearful of illness and death, and instead of allowing that, allowing it to open me up, make me vulnerable, well, I forget and I let it shut me down, shut my son down, shut my husband down, shut life down.

Here's to opening up again, to dreaming new dreams, come what may.

The hidden boy

2010-09-23T08:13:00.002-04:00

The one on the right, in the red shirt, is my son, Cutter, recently turned ten.

He doesn't like his photo taken, so I don't often see him on film, though I do "see" him, and saw him, and myself, quite clearly on the morning of his birthday. This was the first year Cutter chose to have a party which we put together as a family, as opposed to a package deal somewhere like Craig's Cruisers or Chuck E. Cheese. The day before, he and I traveled to the grocery store to pick up the supplies needed to decorate a park picnic area, to make dozens of miniature angel food cakes, to have an all-out Nerf gun capture the flag battle. That was when I first noticed something was slightly off. As I muttered aloud to myself and Cutter about ingredients we needed, or decorations I couldn't find, he said quietly, "I hope this is going to be fun." I asked if anything in particular was making it seem as though his party wouldn't be fun, and even as I asked, I had an inkling it was me.

I have never particularly enjoyed my own birthdays. They have always been very high stress for me, a day built up to be everything I'd ever dreamed of, a sheer 24 hours of perfection: just right gifts, absolute happiness, world peace.

So you might imagine my surprise in that grocery store when I realized that that was exactly what I was trying to give my son - and he was feeling it, not in a good way. From that moment, I told myself I would relax - and the change allowed us both to let go of expectation, to get silly in the candy aisle, to admire the newest Nerf items in the toy aisle, to pick all black balloons in the party department.

On to his birthday morning, where I continued to try and give Cutter exactly what I had never wanted. He'd recently expressed an interest in BMX biking, jumping off of ramps, doing wheelies; a somewhat difficult task on his mountain bike. So I thought, let's offer to get him a BMX bike for his birthday. The second the words were out of my mouth, it was like looking into a mirror, seeing a place I'd been many times before. His face shut down, even as he tried to reassure us that that was what he wanted.

Joe, my dh, and I instantly let Cutter know that we could get something else for his birthday, that the bike was just an idea. The more we tried to reassure, the more he cried and insisted that was what he wanted. We agreed to stop talking about the gift for a bit and we went our separate ways.

Growing up, I had been (perhaps am even now) considered "difficult to buy for" among the family. At the same, I did not want to hurt anyone's feelings by saying I did not like whatever gift had been presented. Not a winning combo on a day declared to be about absolute happiness. This was the mirror I saw in Cutter's face, the recognition of those conflicted emotions. Shortly after walking away, I walked back and sat down. I told him about my experiences with gifts, and explained that those experiences are what led me to a place of not enjoying gifts, of asking his dad to stop giving me gifts. I let him know that my love for him was in no way bound up to any gift offered and that we should get him something he was truly excited about. I asked him if he felt bad saying he didn't want the BMX bike. He said, "Yes, some," and that he still wanted to get the bike sometime. I wanted to force the issue, to say, No, we never have to get the stupid bike, but that would have been denying a part of Cutter, that part that doesn't want to hurt someone he loves. So I said, "O.K.," and the day carried on. We discovered what it was that he would really love for his birthday and we had a fun day with friends at the park. There was no perfection, there was no implication that he was "difficult" and there was a whole lotta laughter and love.

And then just two weeks later, my birthday rolled up. In years past, I have dreaded it. The pressure of trying to figure out just the right thing to do on my day, the fear that I would be disappointed in any gifts given, the ignoring of internet and phone because I didn't want to have to be "up" because that is what was expected of me on my birthday.

This year, though, was different. This year I decided to focus on my joy at being alive in this world, to give thanks for the gift of this life, gift enough for a thousand birthdays. I wrote notes to loved ones, I held others in my thoughts, I bought two vegan/vegetarian cookbooks, I went roller-skating, I downloaded a beautiful video game and I ate some delicious Mexican food. The day was not extravagant, nor was it truly outside the realm of what would happen on any other day in my life. But it was transformative and I am thankful.

Why?

2010-07-17T14:00:00.004-04:00

Why would he do that? It is a question Cutter, almost 10, asks me while we are debriefing about the previous night spent with friends. There was much fun and laughter, swimming and ice cream, and there were also some difficult interactions among the kids. In particular, Cutter and our young friend, age 5, were having struggles. I imagine the younger boy was trying to figure out how to play with the older kids and not quite getting it right. So instead of that, he threw plastic cups and spit at Cutter. I discovered the tension as I rounded the corner of the house and found Cutter throwing a plastic cup back as he burst into tears. There were no innocents in the cup throwing department. I made sure they were both physically okay and then I apologized to Cutter.

I apologized because part of my role as a parent is to act as a buffer when necessary, as protection, as a guide in social situations that can so easily spiral out of control. I apologized because two kids were clearly very upset and on the verge of physically hurting one another and I did not make it clear that I was available, I did not make myself available enough. There is surely a line of thought, of parenting, that goes something like: "Parents don't always have to be with their children, kids need these difficult interactions; they're a "normal" part of childhood." In response, I'm reminded of the words I read recently while writing a speech about play, "The ego is implicitly nurtured by the absence of failure." It's very powerful, this idea of being nurtured by the absence of failure. I don't believe Cutter is learning anything about healthy relationships when I leave him to hash it out on his own, to throw cups and get spit upon; I don't believe a joyful adulthood arrives through such interactions. And so I apologized. And the next day, we debriefed. I asked why he didn't come to let me know they were having problems, as he usually does. He shared that his young friend, while spitting and throwing, had said, "Don't tell my dad. He hits us."

And then Cutter very seriously asked the question I cannot fully answer, for which there is no simple answer, "Why would he do that?" It is the second time in two weeks that someone we love has been revealed as someone who also hits and/or spanks his children. The first revelation came as friends were filling out paperwork for foster care certification and the dad lamented the "no spanking" rule. His example: If my child runs into the road, I'm not going to let them get hurt. I'm going to give them a good spanking so they don't do it again.

I try to explain the logic, or rather lack of logic, of this to Cutter. That parents are afraid their children will get hurt and so they hurt them believing this is the only way to keep them safe. I try, but I cannot truly explain. Explain how we come with deep hurts that we choose to heal or not; how those who hit, don't hit with their love and their strength and their wisdom, but with their past and their anger and their weakness; how embarrassment from buying into society that judges a parent based on the age-appropriate activities of a child can keep us from showing love and kindness, keep us from conversation; how I believe that the unexamined life can be easier and more damaging; how I learned, through our life with Isaiah, that I cannot prevent harm nor "create" a perfect dream child, but can merely question my own reasons for living, for acting, heal my own pain and in doing so, help Cutter find his own path, ask his own questions; how I'm so sorry that he lives in a world where it's okay to hit kids, to poison the ocean, to imprison the weak. How I love him, in his anger and his tears, his joy and his pain, just as I love our friends in their strength and their weakness. How I'm always trying to learn how to forgive, how to grow, how to question, how to love.

No, I cannot fully explain everything, and so we turn to play, to DragonQuest IX, battling next to each other on the couch, and I try to live the questions, because I know I don't have all the answers.

Be Imperfect.

2010-02-23T09:22:00.004-05:00

Make mistakes.
Apologize.
Erase.
Fall down.
Lose.
Don't know the answer.
Don't even pretend to know the answer.
Do this all in full sight of children.

I imagine that many of us, when we become parents, think, I am going to teach this child how to be in the world, how to live right and be successful. I doubt many of us think, I am going to show this child of mine what it looks like to fall down, to apologize, to make a mistake. Yet, I am discovering that this second aspect of living, the falling down, is just as important, if not more so, to a child trying to make their way in the world. Watching Cutter, I see that he has no difficulty doing what he loves, celebrating his successes, be that rollerskating or swimming or video games. It is in his struggles, his challenges, where I see space for my living to offer guidance.

The first time this really came to my attention is after I told my Gramma that I'd illustrate a children's story she'd written for all of her grandchildren. I've always loved drawing, but hadn't really given it any space in my life for a long time, not since high school. I recall thinking that if what came out of my brain through my pencil wasn't automatically perfect, well then, I was not meant to draw. So it was with excitement and a tinge of doubt that I found myself at the kitchen table post-holidays with a veritable treasure trove spread before me: drawing books, a new sketchpad, charcoals, pens. As I began drawing, Cutter pulled out his own treasures: How to Draw Aliens and Monsters, a #2 pencil, tracing paper. He watched as I bit my lip, drew a line, erased, occasionally cursed, made notes of what needed to be different. I asked his opinion frequently. When he said a particular drawing looked like an alien, I drew antennae on the man's head and we laughed at the strange being I had created. And we both kept drawing.

After this time, I remembered back to Cutter's first (and only) time trying to snowboard. He stood on the board, fell off and announced it was much harder than he thought it would be and that he couldn't do it. I recall that we continued with sledding and had a fun time, but I also remember having thought to myself that he should try harder, that of course it wasn't easy and of course he didn't start out perfect. After our time drawing, I remembered back to that time on the snowy hill, and recognized myself in Cutter. I think sometimes it can be scary to go out on a limb and try something again at which you fear you aren't "good enough." Especially, I think, for children, who see adults everywhere seemingly competent in everything, from hair brushing (I actually realized a few months ago that I needed to ask Cutter if he knew how to brush his hair; he didn't) to cooking to reading, to claiming to know everything, to ruling the world.

The latest adventure that we've embarked upon has been roller skating. Cutter chose to learn roller skating from his own body's movements, without instruction from anyone. He has his own unique way of moving around the floor and in the past two months, he has become a skilled skater. My body has slowly recalled the ways of its youth, how to cross over on the curves, how to pick up one leg to avoid a downed skater, but there are many aspects of skating at which I am currently unskilled; jumping with both feet, for one; skating backwards, for another. So I throw self-consciousness to the wind and I try. I ask kids to show me their moves. I practice and I bump into walls. I fall down. Through it all, Cutter is doing his own thing, but he is also watching me: watching me laugh, watching me ask for help, watching me enjoy the entire process.

Just last week, we were skating and I fell down on one knee. Later, I said to Cutter that I had fallen. He said, "Yeah, I know, I saw you." I told him that I yelled when I fell. He said, "Yeah, I know. I heard you, too." I'm learning to not be bashful about looking foolish, imperfect, ever learning; I am indeed all those things, and every time I fall down, I can't help but think that my child learns something about how to get back up again.

The never empty world

2010-01-03T10:00:00.005-05:00

"There can never be nothing... there's always something."

We were kneeling in the snow after a wrestling match and Cutter had paused in eating his snow snack in order to make this observation. He seemed truly fascinated by this thought.

It led me to talk about why I meditate, because there is always something, it's true, but that we don't always have to be drawn away from where we are by what else there is. I asked if he recognized that look in my eyes when we play, that look which tells him that I've started thinking of something else. He said yes, as I knew he would. I've been practicing for years to not drift away from where I am and when I do, I try to point it out to him, offer my apology. He's learning as well, especially when he's reading or playing a video game, to say, I can't give you my attention right now, but when I reach this point, I can.

So, there we sat in the snow, and I tried to explain meditation. We tried to make our minds blank and he said maybe white was blank. I began talking through a small meditation on where we were... I close my eyes, I breathe deeply, I hear the quiet and the cars and the wind in the trees, I feel the cold in my cheeks and the snow under my legs... I snuck a peek at him and his eyes were closed, his body still, head tilted up toward the sun... then he laughed and jumped up, throwing a snowball at me on his way past. I am thankful that the world is never empty, that there is space to sit and to jump, room for laughter and quiet, time for presence and joy.

Come look at this!

2009-12-16T07:51:00.003-05:00

First, a list of us, the short version of what we've been up to: Reading, book review writing, rollerskating, FlipNote drawing, pretend with friends, video game playing, GoogleSketchUp creating, candlemaking, food baking, comic book writing, movie watching, snow fort building, family visiting, new job settling, christmas music listening... and so forth.

It has always been difficult, for myself and for Cutter, to respond to the question of what we've been learning. Cutter, because he tends to go with what he's doing at the moment and blanks on the rest; everyone in the state of Michigan and my family is likely quite certain that the only activity Cutter engages in is video game playing from morning 'til night. For myself, the question is difficult because this life, this choice, is so much broader than the question of what information he's learned in any given day or week or year.

Some clarity has come in the form of a young writer, Idzie, who has lived an unschooled life, as well as in the form of a friend and mother, Pam, who unschools with her kids and is planning a book around the subject of her radical unschooling experiences. Their blogs are worth checking out.

It seems to me that what is most important in our daily living is how we have connected with each other and the world and most days, it is with intense interest and open communication. It is with a constant refrain of, "Come look at this!" Unschooling, for us, has meant inclusion of one another in the living. When Joe is working on a deal, we talk about it at the dinner table and we all ask questions. When I am dipping candles, I say to Cutter, "Hey, I'm going to dip candles. Want to help?" or when I find a new They Might Be Giants video on YouTube, I say, "Hey, this looks cool. Wanna watch with me?" When Cutter is playing a video game, he invites us to come see something that has excited him and before he goes to bed each night, he has a plethora of drawings, stories, action figures that he's sure we'll want to see. Oh, I've no doubt the learning is there, but it is there in the play and in the passion, and it is there for all of us. We are a family growing in the world, not two adults who know better than the youngest member and set out to prove it by filling him with our knowledge. Oftentimes, he knows better, and one gigantic bonus to this way of living is that he has the freedom to say so. Just this past week, Cutter and I were going for a walk in the winter wind. I tried to insist that he wear a coat, giving my many reasons why it was better than the sweatshirt he had chosen (though I've known for years that he rarely wears coats). I said something along the lines of fine, you can wear the sweatshirt and Cutter said quietly, "You sound disappointed in my choice." But what he really said was, "Come look at this, come look at what you are saying and help me understand it, understand you." I can not tell you how thankful for that boy, and this life, I was at that moment. I was able to step back, to say, "Huh, you're right. I did sound that way and I did slip into wanting control over your choice and I am so thankful that you help me to be a better person." But what I really said was, "Come look at this, look at me. I am imperfect and make mistakes, but this is how you say you're sorry, this is how you reveal need and gratitude. This is how you grow."

His own sense of justice

2009-11-06T09:12:00.003-05:00

While we talk with Cutter about why we, Joe and I, believe certain ideas, hold certain values, donate to certain causes, we try to never assume that he will hold those same ideas, values and causes dear.

While I feel strongly that nature is essential to my well-being and that of the world, I have not said to Cutter, "You have to take care of the Earth or we'll all something-about-doom-and-gloom." Instead I have gone on walks with him, pointed out leaves I find beautiful, speculated about dead animals, pointed out hawks and herons galore and played out countless ninja/sword/spy battles in the woods.

While I think that growing our own organic foods is important to the health of body and soul, I have not forced him to garden with me, but have offered him the opportunity to choose seeds, plants that he would like to grow, with the promise that I would care for them. Even though I feel that healthy foods are key to a healthy life, I have let him choose what goes into his body, based on what his body needs.

None of these choices has come without much thinking and even struggle within myself, and much conversation between all three of us. All that to say, it has been interesting to see, with this freedom, where Cutter's sense of responsibility and justice have been popping up these past few months.

Recently, while hanging out at a backyard gathering, a squirrel began heading into the homeowner's garage in an attempt to stash nuts for the winter. Once he saw the squirrel, the homeowner began throwing a ball at the squirrel to try and stop it from entering the garage. Cutter turned to us, dismayed, and said quietly, "Why is he doing that?" I said that I didn't know but that he had every right to ask. So Cutter spoke up and asked his adult friend why he was throwing a ball at the squirrel, that the squirrel wasn't hurting anything. I can't recall what the response was, but Cutter had spoken up for what he saw as wrong and the ball throwing did stop in a karmic sort of way, after it was thrown one more time, and knocked over the owner's bike.

At the bagel shop recently, after we were done eating, Cutter looked at the bottom of his plastic cup, noted the number one and said, "Where do the recyclables go?" We looked around and saw that there was no recycling, so I said he could carry it home to recycle it if he wanted to- which he did.

Yesterday, while watching cartoons, Cutter saw a commercial for the new Lego Miners set and became very upset. He noted that the Lego humans were invading the land of the Rock people in order to mine for crystals, and that they were actually stealing the Rock people's food. He was upset and he said the commercial was lying by showing the Rock people as monsters who attacked the Lego people when really it was the other way around. We talked about justice and resources and the war in Iraq. We talked about how to respond to the commercial, and today, we'll be sending a letter to Lego, Inc. to let them know, in Cutter's words, what he thinks of their commercial.

It has been a fascinating journey with this boy, watching him form his own ideas about the world and his role in it and I am so glad that I'm traveling with him each day.

Where The Wild Things Are

2009-10-18T18:49:00.003-04:00

Oh, my. I knew it would be lovely, I knew I would shed tears, but I could not say in advance why I knew. Even now, having seen the movie, I can not clearly say why; I know because I tried to explain my feelings about the movie to my Love and I don't think they quite came across as I felt them:

How Spike Jonze and Max Records got perfectly that look in a child's eye when they know they're not valued, that look that brings me deep sadness; that for reasons beyond their understanding, what they see as their work and joy is looked down upon so often, placed beneath the level of what we grown-ups have to do. You know the look, I'm sure- the one your child has when they ask you to play Legos or color with them and you say, "Oh, I'd love to, but I really have to -fill in the adult blank-." And the look says, "Yes, I knew you'd say that and my heart is broken, but I'll keep trying." They try politely, asking you to play each day or, like Max, demand their needs be met with wolfish antics and howls, which we punish or ignore, depending on how our adult day went. Until one day they stop trying and we can then lament how they're growing up so fast that they want nothing to do with us.

How each of the Wild Things was able to express parts of Max that he himself was not able, in words, to express, because kids don't have all the words we adults have just yet. So that when Judith is angry and growling at her king, and Max growls back, Judith says that he doesn't get to do that, that when she's upset he doesn't get to be upset back because he's supposed to make it better (that's a paraphrase). And I was taken to those times in my parenting history when a small child, one of my own, was upset and I, with more words and greater experience, "growled" back. I thought, Judith is right - I don't get to growl back.

How perfectly Spike captured the living of a nine-year old boy- and that it was familiar to me. Not in a Yes, my son's room is that messy, too sort of way but in a way that, to me, means I am deeply connected with my child. I have built the same snow igloo many winters over, times two, so that we both have stockpiles of snowballs to throw. I have sat and marveled at Lego creations more times than I can count. I have transcribed stories about aliens and knights and countless other wonderful beings. I have loved living this life with this boy who is now nine and when he has turned wolfish I have loved the work that has led me to understand him, and so many times, myself, better.

How the movie shows that children believe anything is possible and while it may turn out imperfect, it is still beautiful- and that letting them learn what is possible is the only way for them to come home, to who they are, to relationship, to so much more than my sleepy writing can contain.

Let it suffice to say that when I came home from the movie, I laid on the carpet and took turns steamrolling with my Love and my son, looking into his 9 year-old eyes and knowing that laying in a pile was the most important thing I could be doing at that moment in my life.

One day

2009-10-14T08:43:00.003-04:00

Our world has been very full the last four months and every time I consider writing, I become overwhelmed with the sheer amount of what I want to share. To avoid that altogether, I'm starting with just one day: yesterday.

Yesterday morning found Cutter a little groggy, as he said he'd stayed up until 2:00 a.m., finishing the first volume of Elfquest. He'd gone through the entire series over a year ago, but that was before he was reading, so he wanted to revisit the comic and his namesake, Cutter, to get a better understanding of the story.

We watched a Japanese/English sub-titled episode of Naruto Shippuden; it was Cutter's first experience with sub-titles and he found that the Japanese version uses different voice actors, so the characters felt unfamiliar and we decided to wait to watch the rest of the episodes in English. Because Naruto eats so much ramen, Cutter was sure that it must taste good, which led us to look up authentic ramen recipes.

While looking up ramen recipes, I came across a French-made cartoon maker, so Cutter spent a good amount of time making cartoons with captions and sending them to Joe at work. It was fun for me to use some of my French and we were able to translate the phrases into English.

After that, our first stop was the Halloween store, where Cutter found a costume, Shadow Ice Ninja, which he's pretty sure (and pretty excited that) he'll be able to wear two years in a row. From there, we went over to the home goods store, where we found chopsticks for our ramen as well as a Japanese knife so we could cut the ramen dough into noodles. Next stop, the bookstore for a book of pizza recipes. Cutter and I have been making homemade pizza dough and pizza lately and he's thinking it would be a good idea to start selling our homemade pizza. He's got it figured out that we would need 1/4 of the necessary pizza-making ingredients on hand at any given time and that our ingredients should be healthy. We're going to test out different pizza recipes until we find favorites and then go forward with our business plan.

When we got home, a new video game had come from Gamefly in the mail, "Destroy All Humans." Cutter had fun figuring out the rules of the new game, which makes me think of this article a friend posted on video games.

We began our ramen adventure by watching a few instructables and an instructive, yet strange video of a Japanese woman cooking with a poodle. We chose to make a shiitake mushroom broth. We then added bamboo shoots, mushrooms, green peppers, scallions, noodles and hard-boiled egg, accompanied by Sesame Chicken. It looked pretty cool and the boy who in recent years has said, "bleh" to most new foods declared it pretty good. This was not the 99 cent ramen Americans are used to eating.

After dinner, we headed to a local Ag Silver concert with Joe. It was Cutter's first rock/pop concert and while he was quiet and serious-looking throughout the concert, he could be spotted clapping, singing along and afterwards said it was a really cool concert. Other days are less active, to be sure, but most are at least as learning filled and joyful as this one.

One more reader in the house

2009-07-15T09:47:00.013-04:00

Interest-led life learning means that we have never offered or forced Cutter into using a prescribed reading/spelling/writing curriculum. Sometimes we lapsed in our trust that he would learn on his own schedule and we would slip into the "sound it out" regime. This only ever ended in frustration, because honestly, if he knew how to sound it out, he would've already done so, right? Cutter was happy to have us read for him, happy to gather the story from comic book pictures, happy to listen to books on CD every night.

Every now and then, he would blurt out a word on a sign or in his video game and say, "I just guessed," but he was pretty firm in answering questions about reading with, "I can't read." I pondered this response, because he was clearly reading some, if not all, words he came across. One day a few months ago, I asked him if he thought being able to read meant you could read every word you come across and he said yes. I explained that even I, his "typewriter eyes" reader of a mom, couldn't read every word I came across and that's why I looked to the dictionary, to the internet, to his dad for help.

This seemed to give him more confidence and in the next few weeks, he held aloft his DS while playing Drawn to Life and said, "This game is really helping me to read." A few weeks later, he was playing Zelda The Twilight Princess and I was reading the dialogue, doing my voices as I've done the past 8 1/2 years, and he said, "Mom, I already read that." I readjusted my framework, told him he could just let me know if he needs my help with words. In the following weeks, he's snuggled on the couch next to me while we both read, said it's cool how reading let's him do so many new things, read information to a friend and asked for a dictionary so he can look up how to say words. And while on our trip, he picked up a book we'd started reading together and said, "I think I'll just keep reading this on my own at night. But you can still read it to me, mom, because I like the voice you do for the mouse."

He doesn't often ask for word help and he doesn't read anything below his interest level and I think that he's able to read so fluently, so suddenly, because it wasn't sudden at all. He's been surrounded with the passion of words for 8.5 years so now that his brain is ready to process those words on its own, he has quite a vocabulary ready in there.

And still, just last night after he was away for the day with friends, he came home, laid his head on my shoulder and asked me to read Jon Scieszka's Squids Will Be Squids to him, complete with voices.

Cutter's Brand of Zen

2009-07-10T20:29:00.003-04:00

Joe and I laugh because we know that each time Cutter sees a movie at the theater or on the t.v., he will come away from it saying, "That was the best movie EVER."
Cutter's joie de vivre extends far beyond the movie theatre, though. Before he eats his Saturday morning doughnut, he says, "This is going to be the best donut ever." And when he finishes, he says, "That was the best donut ever." Just today, we spent time with friends and he played for hours with his good friend Fisher. As soon as we pulled away in the car, he said, "That was the best play session with Fisher yet." Mind you, he never wants to stop playing with Fisher. Every day with Fisher is the best day ever with Fisher.
Explaining this aspect of Cutter to a friend, she said it was his Zen, his way of living in the moment. And I really have been considering that. How amazing to wake each day and not compare it to the last day, or the last 5,000 days. To look at a book or a game or the snow piling up outside and say, "This is going to be the best ..... EVER." And then it is. I hope I am learning from him.

More to come about our trip, for which I took few pictures before the camera broke. I'll try to make up for that in descriptive words.

I hope this moment is one of your best *EVER*.

Jen

Child's Work

2009-04-23T21:55:00.003-04:00

A scene from Cutter's baseball practice: The coach turns from helping a boy bat to find the 7 yr. old shortstop drawing in the sand. Coach yells, "Tommy, no playing in the dirt," to which Tommy responds seriously, "I wasn't playing. I was drawing a symbol."

This called to my mind a situation that occurred on a recent warm day. Joe and Cutter were out and I was seized with spring cleaning fever, the kitchen my target. I moved a heavy bookshelf from kitchen to writing space and took bins of utensils and dishes to the basement for donation.

The next morning after I woke, I entered the kitchen to find that everything, down to the last spatula, was back in its place, as though I'd done nothing the day before. I stood baffled for a moment before I turned to look at Cutter in the living room. He was sitting on the edge of the couch watching me closely. His eyes told me that he knew I had the power in that situation. That he knew I could undo the kitchen again, change it just as I had the day before, without consideration or consultation. What to do?

I went to that beautiful amazing boy and I hugged him and said, "Wow, you really did a lot of hard work this morning didn't you?" As Joe joked later, I could have just waited a few days and moved everything back a second time. Instead, I trusted that Cutter was doing his own work, different from mine but equally necessary. When I asked later that day why he had moved things back, he said he "didn't want anything changed that was the way it was when Isaiah was alive." Again, I could have just told him that things always change and re-arranged the kitchen again to prove just that point. Instead, we've been working together to honor the needs of each of our family members, my need for more space from clutter, Cutter's need for more space to hold onto Isaiah.

It came to me (with much practice) that when we set ourselves up as rulers of our children for their own good, we eradicate any honest work they may do. I am speaking of external work, but that necessarily requires internal work; the internal work of knowing and understanding and trusting one's judgement in relation to self and others in the world; the internal work that we, as adults, pay thousands of dollars in counseling fees and self-help books to learn; the work that children do naturally while they play, watch and live unencumbered by our own adult ideas of work, which frequently involve subverting your own voice beneath arbitrary rules that may apply to one situation or individual but not to every situation or individual. I consider food a prime example, especially in this country. If you force or coerce a child to eat when they are not hungry because, e.g. "9:00 a.m. is breakfast time" or to eat all the food off their plates though they've stated they feel full, you effectively, over the course of a childhood, teach a child that there is no wisdom inherent in their own body; that any wisdom or knowledge to be had must be given to or placed upon them by external forces. By the time they've grown to adulthood, they no longer recognize hungry or full, among multiple other things.

Consider the next time you find yourself in a struggle with a child: What work might my child be doing... are they trying to grow in experience, knowledge or power? Am I simply trying to control the situation because I can, because I have the power? And what do I lose if I allow my child to express their own wisdom, voice, needs?

Just some thoughts from my daily parenting practice. Wishing you peace in your practice, whatever it may be.

2009-01-15T16:38:00.003-05:00

Cutter and I are trying to take frequent pics, to post one pic each a day. An idea from the lovely Ohman family.

From Cutter, a glimpse into the backyard life of Saint Francis. It's a snowy life.
From me, how I get my sunshine on a snowy day: carrot/orange/ginger juice.

The Passengers on the Bus

2009-01-15T08:21:00.003-05:00

This pic has nothing to do with the bus. It's a tunnel Cutter and friends made in the deep snow. I like it.

Last spring, after a time in which I felt a lot of anger and confusion surrounding my world, I began talking with a wonderful woman. She has gifted me with many useful navigational tools, and one of my favorites is the symbolic bus. Each of us has a bus. We are, each of us, the drivers of our own bus. We cannot control the speed of the bus and there are no brakes, but we can control the direction in which the bus moves. The challenge is in how we interact with the passengers on the bus. The passengers are many and varied and frequently quite loud. They are your high school English teacher telling you you can't write or your grandma saying you're ill-mannered. You can sit in the back with your passengers, arguing with them, trying to cajole them to understand your point of view, or you can admit that they're there, they're not getting off and you can still direct the bus down the path you want to take. When I find myself feeling frustrated or angry, it helps to ask who's driving the bus. Is it me, and do I want to head in the direction of the frustration or is it one of the passengers directing me that this is how it's done, the right way?

This week Sunday we celebrate Isaiah's birthday. It doesn't come into my mind to think, He would have been seven, he would have been doing such and such because he will never be seven and I would rather hold the joy of who he was than the sadness of who he might have been. So we will eat pizza with special sauce and share the light blue napkin he loved and celebrate his joy.

Driving to the aquatic center last night, Cutter asked if I could park close (the temperature was near 0). I said I would, except all the close spots were reserved for cars with handicap tags. As we pulled into the last spot in the row, Cutter said, "I wish Isaiah were still alive." I turned to look at him and asked what made him feel that way just now. He passionately said, "Because he was my brother and he was fun and I loved him.... and we could still park in handicap." And then he burst out laughing, me along with him. He said the first part was true, the second part just a joke. I could have listened to that societal passenger just then, told him that death wasn't funny. Instead, I celebrated that he did not find death a fully depressing subject, that he has integrated the sadness and the joy of life.

Wishing you joy and laughter in the dance, especially when the steps are most complicated.

We who have so much

2008-12-25T10:03:00.002-05:00

cannot comprehend, but that we keep trying...

The Gift

The day my mother dropped a net
of oranges on the kitchen table
and the net broke and oranges
rolled and we snatched them,
my brother and I,
peeled back the skin and bit deep
to make the juice explode with our laughter,
and my father spun one orange in his palm
and said quietly, "This was Christmas, 1938,"
said it without bitterness or anger,
just observing his life
from far away, this tiny world
cupped in one palm,
I learned I had no way
to comprehend an orange.

by SEAN LAUSE

Happy Thursday in December.
May you find your joy
in the day.

Peace.

Happy Holidays!

2008-12-23T22:43:00.001-05:00

Make a Smilebox slideshow

The names we give

2008-12-06T12:10:00.002-05:00

My mind has been pondering names a lot lately. The names we're given, the names we forget. As many of you know, the boy has been traveling his own path with names. The name we gave him at birth morphed into Joey as he became a bundle of energy and words. In the last year, as he discovered the world of Guitar Hero, the passion of rock music, he came down the stairs with a slip of paper, on it written his new name: Jos. It sounded edgier to him. Recently, he discovered the ElfQuest comic series and, after a character, has taken the name Cutter. Cutter is so named because he has skill with a blade and cuts through deception to find the truth of a matter.

We are, most of us, myself included, amused by this boy who chooses his own name. I wonder what happens if I deny him these names. If I refused Cutter, would I also refuse some part of him that wants to be brave, that desires to be strong and protect his loved ones. The name I call him does not matter so much to me, as I think he's an amazing being regardless of the word he's taken to describe himself.

I wonder about those names we once wished for ourselves, and what happened to them. As a girl, I loved Kallie Marie. I suppose it sounded musical and unusual, coming from Jennifer Dawn. Later, in college, I was drawn to Xavier, my own edge and shadow.

I ask, what name have you forgotten? Who have you hidden inside?

How I Give Thanks

2008-11-24T09:55:00.006-05:00

or why I gather grey feathers and fallen leaves with my son.

Happy

Thanks

giving.

Peace.

by Adam Zagajewski

Try to praise the mutilated world.

Remember June's long days,

and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.

The nettles that methodically overgrow

the abandoned homesteads of exiles.

You must praise the mutilated world.

You watched the stylish yachts and ships;

one of them had a long trip ahead of it,

while salty oblivion awaited others.

You've seen the refugees heading nowhere,

you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.

You should praise the mutilated world.

Remember the moments when we were together

in a white room and the curtain fluttered.

Return in thought to the concert where music flared.

You gathered acorns in the park in autumn

and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.

Praise the mutilated world

and the grey feather a thrush lost,

and the gentle light that strays and vanishes

and returns.

The grass is always

2008-11-04T20:04:00.003-05:00

long or cut, green or dry or not grass at all, but clover and full of bees. It is rarely truly greener, but instead a different shade of green. Kelly or olive, lime or pine, even celadon. A shade of green you don't even know the name of, or a shade you recognize only too well.

Those of you who have loved the Voss and Armstrong family have also come to recognize and perhaps even love the family of my sister, the Newcomb family: Cole (aka Nikki), Ryan, Olivia, Sophia and Brodie. Next Wednesday will find Joe and I in the hospital green of a waiting room at University of Michigan's Children's Hospital as Cole and Ryan's youngest, Brodie, undergoes surgery for a tumor in his brain. This is not our story to tell, and while it does affect us, and I will likely write of it, now is not the time. I recognize the shade but cannot put my name to the color.

For those of you who have offered support, and with permission of Cole and Ryan, the website to check is www.blogoffive.blogspot.com

Peace.

100 things I love

2008-10-21T12:25:00.003-04:00

I am trying to make a grocery list. I am trying to write the next line of a poem. I am trying to respond constructively to the lines of another writer's poem. I am trying to remember that this adult world and its fears are not the fault of my child. I am especially trying to remember this when the computer has frozen and he continues clicking the mouse. I am sometimes failing more than I would like. I am going to stop trying for a moment to remember why I try. A list I made months ago, probably from a prompt in some artsy book about how to free my soul. I forget sometimes it is free. What tops your list, frees your soul from the trying?

black tea, mushrooms, light blue, candy shops, homemade bread with real butter, hand-dipped candles, spinach sauteed in lemon, pumpkin orange, East Africa, cherry red, Austin, molasses cookies, vanilla, photo booths, tamales, San Francisco, the first spring crocus, Joe in the morning, peppermint mochas, antique furniture, the heat of summer, heated seats in winter, board games, ink pens, beautiful journals, art work, space, blank canvases, charcoal pencils, cute erasers, play-dough, instant coffee, nutella, maple syrup, woods with rivers, singing, Ben Lee, Amelie, lino cuts, wabi sabi, vodka martini triple dirty, swirled marbles, libraries, aquariums, unschooling, handwritten letters, stationary, beads, bone, found objects, printed fabric, resale shops, banana slugs, caterpillars, deer, old barns, soft pillows, quilts, yoga pants, running, trampoline jumping, swinging, stones, big waves, handmade soaps, etsy, laughter, pregnancy, making lists, eyes, red cheeks, curly hair, sleeping, my bed, peanut butter, strawberries, children's picture books, playing the piano, the coast of california, driving by myself, dr. suess, the pound and salt of the ocean, wind in my hair, scrabble, my grandma's kitchen, sticky buns, 50 cent words, sun on my face, my fingers in sand, speaking french, speaking spanish, prayer flags, reading into the wee hours, love stories, scalding hot showers, baths, the minds of children, rolling change, magic tricks, thunderstorms

Time the predator

2008-10-15T09:59:00.003-04:00

Jos has been very into coral reefs and deep sea life lately. We've been reading books and watching nature shows and looking into scuba lessons. Watching a recent flick on the Great Barrier Reef, fish began attacking a crab that crept into the open. Jos didn't want the crab to get eaten and I explained that bigger fish would come along to eat the crab-eating fish, and he said, "Yeah and then the biggest fish will get eaten by Time and nothing can eat Time." I wonder why it takes the rest of so long to realize that no matter how many escapes we make, we're all going to get eaten by Time, in the end?

Jos found his Halloween costume at the resale shop last week. After online checking, we discovered it's a Power Ranger, DinoThunder, though I'm still pretty sure that it's actually a device for human suffocation.

Walking to the bus stop in Holly to pick up cousins Olivia and Sophia last week, Jos and Aunt Nikki and I reminisced about making the same walk with Isaiah. About his desire to pick every dandelion, stop at every pile of rocks, about how long it took to make the walk. Jos said, "Just because he was slower doesn't mean it wouldn't be fun to still have him here." He is coming into his grief, and it is hard for me, because it would feel so much easier to not remember, to not have Jos experience sad. Consider this your friendly PSA reminder: feeling is hard, but worth it. Because I don't really want to forget Isaiah, and I do want Jos to have every memory he can to hold for as long as he can.

Sex Ed. and Space Stations

2008-10-07T09:06:00.002-04:00

Our friends recently reminded us of the joys of shaving cream play. Thus was born the world of our sparklemon (Joe and Jos have been playing the Simpson's video game, hence sparklemon). School at home officially ended about three days after it began, though Jos would still like to do "projects" with me.

A few days ago at lunch, we played a game called "Let us give thanks." We took turns giving thanks for something related to the lunch. I gave thanks for the person that grew the cucumbers that became our pickles. He gave thanks for the person that invented the machine that chopped the trees down to make our lunch table, and so forth. Whoever came up with the last one was the winner. So toward the end, I said, "I give thanks for the people that made the boy that's eating the lunch." And he looked at me and started laughing and said, "You and Dad made me," and then laughing even harder, said, "You and Dad are walking factories." It was so fun to laugh with him!

Last night we were looking at a photo of a space station and Jos started talking about how it goes around, trapped in Earth's orbit. When I asked, he said he'd learned it on one of his shows. My money's on Jimmy Neutron. All hail the magical power of cartoons- and kids! We're off to find science supplies of some sort so Jos can test the soil sample he took from the sand trap at the golf course on Sunday. I imagine he'll discover it's full of anger and sweat and curses ;)

Unschooling school and other assorted strangeness

2008-09-13T17:33:00.002-04:00

Jos decided this week that he'd like to try school at home. He set up a schedule that begins with him leaving by way of the front door at 10 a.m., "catching the bus", and entering the back door two minutes later, to be greeted by his teacher, Miss Rose. Wednesdays after recess there will be art and Fridays, cooking. Saturdays will be led by the male teacher, Mr. Max Power. Though today Jos came downstairs beaming and said, "No school today. It's raining and the bus driver can't see." It will be an adventure no doubt and on our list of "school topics" we have such joyous subjects as scuba diving, deep sea creatures, Spore and a visit to the Field Museum of Natural History in Chicago to look at the exhibit on evolution. We decided to make the classroom in Isaiah's room, which required the disassembling of Isaiah's bed. Joe handled that while Jos and I played LiteBrite. As we played, I said, "It will be sad not to have Isaiah's bed around anymore," to which Jos replied, "Yes, but we still have Isaiah in a jar." True, my beautiful child, true. Later, we put on music and had a jump fest across Isaiah's bed, which we were sure he would've loved.

In my own adventures, I just finished reading the YA novels Stargirl and Love, Stargirl. They were a delightful (if I may say so) read! Someone amazing (ok, poet Jack Ridl) sent along an article about introverts today; I laughed with recognition and I highly recommend it to all the friends and family I drive crazy with my unwillingness to talk on the phone. I love you, but...;)

As for Joe, when asked what I might share with all of you, he said he continues to be mystified, baffled, befuddled by the insanity of my desk space. I say, he continues to work on top-secret exciting projects and is trying to line up some pros to see if we can sell in these downtimes and move to GR. Preferably before the Michigan winter.

Virgo: wisdom, garnered in the fields of experience

2008-09-09T16:41:00.002-04:00

I am not a big fan of birthdays, either because I frequently forget those of the ones I love or because I dislike the inordinate amount of attention it brings to me one day out of every year.

Today, I sat in some small amount of dejection before the computer, said to Jos I was having a hard time escaping. He responded, "That's because the computer is negative energy." This, soon after Joe suggested I flee to the woods. So the boy and I fled into the arms of grasshoppers and apple trees, shared river logs with garter snakes and the path with something Jos called a mole and likened to a Bidoof in Pokemon, and which I can only guess was a woodchuck or beaver. We fled into the living peace I needed and few understand better than Mary Oliver.

For you, Ame, and anyone else that can't flee in this moment:

When I Am Among the Trees

by Mary Oliver

When I am among the trees,

especially the willows and the honey locust,

equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,

they give off such hints of gladness.

I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,

in which I have goodness, and discernment,

and never hurry through the world

but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves

and call out, "Stay awhile."

The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, "It's simple," they say,

"and you too have come

into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled

with light, and to shine."

Happy Birthday.

Day of Birth, Eight Years Later

2008-08-27T14:45:00.003-04:00

Jos has been playing around with the PhotoBooth feature on my Mac a lot lately, recording various faces from funny to alien. For his birthday pic, he decided to go with a pose to match the shirt, though moments ago he had his action hero professing, "I'm a gladiator of love."

On our afternoon walk, he said it's getting harder without Isaiah, because he's remembering more so we talked some about the ideas of shock and forgetting for protection.

Yesterday, when I searched and didn't find a water bottle I wanted to take to the park, I swore. Jos looked at me and said, "Why did you say shit?" I responded with something about wanting the water bottle and he said, "A water bottle's not worth all that anger," and proceeded to offer me several other options, from jelly jar to plastic cup and by the end, I was laughing.

As he grows, Jos continues to be a gift, one that challenges us to learn how to live with more patience, more peace, more questions and more joy. We give many thanks.

Us, redefined

2008-08-23T21:15:00.004-04:00

I've been feeling that it's time to move from the site that hosted so much of our pain the last six years. That does not mean moving from Isaiah; he will always remain Jos' little brother, our curly-headed little boy. It does mean moving from his pain and coming to a place where we can celebrate his memory joyfully, as well as our living.

In case of confusion, Jos is the boy formerly known as Joey. He prefers to be called Jos (rhymes with gross) these days, and while it's difficult at first (believe me, I know), it does get easier with practice.

Jos and Joe recently read Alice and Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass, Jos has been listening to the Sisters Grimm books on CD, and I've been reading poetry like mad, so we all came together over the Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll. Hence, my beamish boy; hence, our frabjous day. Welcome to the fray!