LOST A SOCK

Sometimes if you just watch things, just sit still and let the world exist in front of you-sometimes I swear that just for a second time freezes and the world pauses in its tilt. Just for a second. And if you somehow found a way to live in that second, then you would live forever. ― Lauren Oliver

On Expectations

My guy Jack, just before the Mother-Son Dance we attended last weekend.

My boys, at nine and six years old, have now reached the ages where they enjoy cars.  With their father especially, they name them off as we all drive down the street, and scratch their heads over how I just do not comprehend the cool-ness of old cars, fast cars, convertible cars, cars with racing stripes, cars with two mufflers. They know that I drove a Mustang before KJ was born (and traded it in for something that could accommodate a rear-facing infant seat) and that is about all I have to hang my hat on in the world of Things That Go.

So the other day as we were driving, Jack was oohing and aahhhing from the back seat, over a Camaro, and then a Mustang Shelby, and he asked me to please buy him a Mustang Convertible for his sixteenth birthday.  Our conversation went exactly like this:

Jack: Mom, I really love those Mustang Convertibles.  I want you to buy me a red one with racing stripes when I turn sixteen.

Me: Child, my job is to provide you with food, clothing, shelter and an education.  Buying a car will be all your responsibility.

Jack: How much does it cost?

Me: A lot. Thousands.

Jack: I will start saving my money.  I will save enough.

Me: You will also have to pay for car insurance.  Insurance for a sixteen year old boy with a shiny red Mustang Convertible will be very expensive.

Jack, growing frustrated: Why can't you just buy it for me?

Me: I will not buy you a car.  Sorry, buddy.

Jack: Maybe I will distract you and take the money from you.

Me: (!!)

Jack:  I will take it from your old people account.

Me:  My retirement?

Jack:  Yes, I will take the money from your retirement account and buy a Mustang Convertible with it.  Then you will probably say, "Oh, I really wish I had gotten LifeLock."

 

Note to self: Keep this one away from info-mercials, and possibly the general public.

On Stripping the Bark from Myself
(For Jane, who said trees die from it)

Because women are expected to keep silent about
their close escapes I will not keep silent
and if I am destroyed (naked tree!) someone will
please 
mark the spot
where I fall and know I could not live
silent in my own lies
hearing their "how nice she is!"
whose adoration of the retouched image
I so despise.
 
No.  I am finished with living
for what my mother believes
for what my brother and father defend 
for what my lover elevates 
for what my sister, blushing, denies or rushes
to embrace.

I find my own 
small person 
standing self
against the world
an equality of wills
I finally understand.

Besides:
My struggle was always against
an inner darkness: I carry within myself
the only known keys
to my death - to unlock life, or close it shut
forever.  A woman who loves wood grains, the color
yellow
and the sun, I am happy to fight
all outside murderers
as I see 
I must.
 
by Alice Walker

Canvas Reprise

Just about two years ago I wrote a blog entry detailing the first time I ever tried my hand at painting on canvas. I explained that every wall in my house had been painted a half dozen times (which, for some rooms, is no exaggeration) and that I always wondered if I could paint in some artsy-sort of way.  That, of course, was the nice way of saying I doubted that I could really paint on canvas, because that would involve detail, a steady hand, and i-de-as.  Did I have ideas?  A few, at that time.

First I went out and purchased the largest canvas that I could fit in my truck.  While in Hobby Lobby my subconscious whispered to me that if I were to purchase something about the size of a wall, I would feel almost safe in this new endeavor.  If I messed up, then, I could simply grab a roller and the remnants of a gallon of Glidden, and slap a canvas up on the wall like a camouflaged Where's Waldo sort of challenge.  Can you find the hidden artwork in the house?  Oh yes, I meant to paint it that way.  It's a block painting.  One giant block.

Brushes.  I grabbed a handful of brushes.  One may need several brushes to paint such a large canvas, yes?  

Choosing colors to experiment with was easy.  Color is my favorite part.  It is amazing that I once painted my entire house eighteen shades of tan.  I had growing to do.

You really love, by the way, that I am writing this entry in stream-of-consciousness, don't you?  And also completely as if I've not told you all of this before in one little post.  It's just that I have a new perspective now. So. Giant canvas, fifteen brushes.  

Once my supplies were set, I began cross-hatching.

Actually, it was more like half-hatching.  I needed to do something drastic because by the time I had made my third stroke on the enormous canvas, using the red plastic brush I had swiped from my first grader's Crayola watercolor set, I realized that I may not finish the background until age fifty-three. The canvas was just that big.

I hatched and painted, painted and hatched for quite a long time.  The one part of this story that does not change, even with a couple years worth of perspective, is that I loved the process.  I felt so in-the-flow, and creative and delighted with what was coming from my hands, arms, trapezius muscles, mind, heart.  I could not have cared less if the finished product was any good, because the process itself was just that moving, and so remains all of my art today.  From painting to photography, quilting and so on, I simply adore the process of creating.

Finally, once all of the hatching was finished, there was really only one choice for what should appear in the foreground.  A tree.  Because I am a lover of trees.  

You guessed that, yes?

So I painted a tree-- a black, shadowy tree with snakes buds on the end of its barren branches.  I was so in love with the entire endeavor that I plopped my enormous canvas atop our fireplace mantel, and there it remained for at least six or eight months.  And every time I looked at it I remembered how good it was to create.  

Eventually, however, the winter grew long and I grew tired of looking at my dark, barren tree.  I needed leaves, literally and metaphorically.  I created new art on smaller canvases and displayed them on the mantel, and my very first piece made his way up to our bedroom closet, which was not really the best arrangement, considering his size.

Two months ago I wondered what would ever become of my first project.  I've painted so many by now, and have sharpened my craft in many ways.  The closet storage was just not working anymore, and I wondered if it was time to send my big guy out with the trash, or maybe to be donated somewhere.  I pulled him out and leaned him up against my bedroom wall, beside my vision board that I look at as I drift off to sleep each night.

Curling up in my bed several hours later, I glanced over at my enormous painting and decided suddenly that I should repurpose him.  I should paint leaves on him, or maybe glue some sort of leaves to him-- mixed media, my recent interest!

This, of course, was a late-night idea, and I have not decided if I completely trust my late night ideas just yet. They tend to be a bit more far-fetched, revealing, daring.  Why would I paint over my perfectly fine first painting?  What if I destroyed it?  What if I made it better?  What was I going to do with it anyway? 

In the morning when I was again more sensible, or apprehensive, I decided I could try some leaves.  

Then I changed my mind thirty-seven times.

I worked on and off for a few weeks, painting, piecing and gluing; alternating emotions between energized and determined, to perplexed and doomed.  

I finally finished my tree last week, and I am very happy with him.  

I brought him to life.

The hatching now gone, I invited clippings to join the party, and twigs, and pieces of books well loved, and buttons, shells, rocks, and looping raffia.  This is the most fun I have ever had with a project.  With a giant project of a tree in full bloom, who once boasted only a handful of buds.  With a caped little girl who has climbed a ladder to paint the words, Beautiful Forever.  That is so true.   

And a little boy on a red tricycle pulling his world by a rope.  And the little red heart of a tree, which is always kind and warm.

This is what the inside of me looks like, because none of this existed until it came out of me.  Only an enormous white canvas.  (That is always the fun way to think about people's art, isn't it?)

This was what my tree looked like.

And this is how he came to life.

The Life List

I first posted my life list about three years ago, and have tried to update it here every year or so.  It has been a bit longer than that, now, but I am making great progress.  And progress on a life list?  Is really exciting progress!  I have forty of my one hundred crossed off now, and several more in the works.  We will be up to forty-five states later this summer, and have solid plans for swimming, boating, publishing, lots of homeschooling, and we will be making that perfect house happen in the next few years.  It doesn't necessarily come easy, but I am such a believer in setting goals and going after them with everything I've got.  It takes just as much energy to plan as it does to dream, right?

 

My Life List of 100

1. Stand in Times Square, NYC

2. Own both of our vehicles outright 

My Maine pine trees on the rear window of my Ford Expedition.  Each of our vehicles boast more than or nearly one hundred thousand miles now, because we are both on the road so much, but our cars have been paid off for a year now.  And a year without car payments makes me one happy mama.  May they run forever and ever. 

3. Homeschool for as long as possible with each of my children (Finishing up year three, currently)

4. Photograph the Northern Lights of Alaska

5. Go camping as a family

6. Write a book and publish it

7. Pay off my undergrad student loans (More than half-way there!)

8. Adopt a child/children from Africa 

9. Immerse myself in the work of encouraging people to define and live as their best, most true and beautiful selves

10. Get a tattoo

Last summer I added this family of birds to my back, for the five of us in free-flight.  My brother Matt is a tattoo artist, and was actually able to copy one of my (bird) photographs onto my back, tattoo style.

12. Make a quilt for Nathan

13. Reach a healthy, comfortable size and stay there

14. Meet Oprah

15. Travel by train

16. Grow my hair long

I actually grew my hair quite long, to more than half-way down my back.  And then I chopped it all off when the mood struck, because that's how I roll.

17. See Paris, France with Kevin

18. Visit Scotland's Eilean Donan Castle with Kevin

19. Own a laptop

20. Throw a girlfriend party with all my best girls

We did a weekend overnight at the sweetest rented house in Southern Michigan in the late summer of 2010, and I have thought about how we can do another, ever since.  I love these girls. 

21. Spend a sunny summer day on a boat

22. Take the boys to Lego Land

23. Sell our first house

It took us four long years and a set of renters in the middle, but we signed our little place away in December of 2010.

24. Bike ride as a family

25. Donate $10,000

26. Inspire someone

27. Pet an elephant

28. Have a home office

29. Own a nice camera with lenses

I adore my camera, as well as all of the happiness it has captured.  Looking forward to an upgrade soon!

30. Lay on a blanket beneath the stars, away from the city lights where they can really be seen 

31. Cry tears of joy

32. Own a jean jacket

33. Photograph glaciers

34. Be fearless in public

35. Earn my Masters Degree

36. Thank my favorite college professor for the wonderful, human lessons she taught me about being a teacher

Kevin and I waiting to be checked in last summer when we went to see the Dalai Lama.  He was the most simple, beautiful person, and it was amazing just to observe him.  And one of those times that you realize anything can happen if you put it out into the Universe... This was definitely one of my farther reaching life list items.  

37. Hear the Dalai Lama speak in person

38. Take in the Rocky Moutntains in Colorado

39. Publish a book of photographs I've taken, just for myself

40. Take a writing class

41. Attend Maria Shriver's Women's Conference

42. Make a twirling skirt for Marin

43. Carve my initials into a tree 

44. Tour the Eastern Seaboard in Peak Fall

Beautiful Kennebunkport, Maine in October

45. See a Broadway show

46. Attend a Notre Dame football game as a family

47. Learn to meditate

48. Drink a beer in a Boston bar

49. Live in my perfect house, detailed with beautiful baseboards, oversized windows and a library, surrounded by tall trees

50. Feel truest peace in my heart

51. Learn to play the accoustic guitar

52. Spend a weekend in Las Vegas

53. Complete a Breast Cancer walk for my Aunt Kathy 

54. Be a keynote speaker

55. Start my own charity

56. Befriend my daughter(s)

57. Buy a Thomas the Tank Engine table for the boys

58. Attend a spiritual seminar at The Omega Institute

59. Run a 5K

60. Own two-inch heels and wear 'em proud

61. Attend the religious services/places of worship for twenty faiths (8 as of late 2011- Catholic, Lutheran, Jewish, Episcopal, Baha'i, Buddhist, Unitarian Universalist, Mormon)

LDS Temple in St. George, Utah

62. Enjoy fine dining

63. Catch fireflies with my kids

64. Be humble

65. Host an incredible Christmas party

66. Attend a tent revival

67. Own stainless steel appliances

68. Open my own retirement account

69. Rock my sister's baby

70. Attend a week-long silent retreat

71. Indulge my African connection

Our adoption, which we ended by necessity last year, has had the farthest reaching implications throughout every nook and cranny of my life to this day.  I am infinitely grateful that I learned and experienced all that I did, and hold the possibility for our family in my heart, for farther down the road if it is mean to be for us, again.  I absolutely trust that there is so much more for us, here.

72. Place a lock on a lock fence

73. Teach my children to swim (Two all set, one more to go!)

74. Plant twenty trees (Have planted 3/20 as of Spring 2012)

75. Make my own summer dress   

76. Cross and photograph the Brooklyn Bridge in NY, Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, Perrine Bridge in Idaho, Royal Gorge Bridge in Colorado, George Washington Bridge in NY/NJ, Mackinac Bridge in Michigan, Tower Bridge in London and Pont de Normandie in France

Us on the Royal Gorge Bridge in Colorado, on my 31st birthday

77. See a panda bear in person

78. Take my children on an airplane flight

Jackson, age 3, at Midway Airport in Chicago

79. Give excellent advice

80. Go horseback riding (as an adult)

81. Meet my dearest Internet friends

82. Habitually give meaningful gifts

83. Own a Mercedes Benz

84. Make bracelets for each of my girlfriends

Colors, textures, shapes and meaningful words.  Love creating these, and wearing combinations of them every day.

85. Wear braided hair

86. Author an important essay

87. Own an old piano 

88. Paint on canvas and display it

I find myself painting walls much less frequently now that I paint canvases.  I have no method or study, but what good fun for the soul.

89. Send my children to college, and others too

90. Ride a camel

91. Write poetry

92. Hatch chicks with my kids 

Our third year of chick hatching, March 2012

93. See the Vatican in Rome, Italy

94. Set foot in all Fifty States together with Kevin (as of Spring 2012, 40 of 50)

Hiking at Snow Canyon in Utah, October 2011

95. See the Argentine Patagonia

96. Grow a large back yard vegetable garden

97. Eat a fancy cupcake in a charming little cupcake shop

Molly's Cupcakes on the North Side of Chicago.  How appropriate.

98. Visit Holland, MI in peak tulip season

99. Become a grandmother

100. Serve Thanksgiving dinner to a long, festive table of my favorite guests

The roots deep within never doubted that this would come.

 

Been Somewhere

I was talking with a few friends recently, about growing and becoming yourself and all things that are my favorite to discuss in the presence of close, trusted souls, and one friend said proudly of the other, You should see one particular photograph she has of herself, from fifteen years ago.  You would not even know it is the same person, as this person sitting here.  I believed it, of course, because I have changed so much over six small and long years, since that approximate place in time that stands for me as a large pushpin in my life's story- those early moments when, by no force of my own, I could see the world differently.  And boy, was it something to behold.

I have one of those pictures, too.  Gosh, I have so many of them.  In earlier years I looked back at them to motivate me, something to push off from with my bare feet, like a tiled blue swimming pool wall.  I had to go, and without some map for where I was headed, I could only feel with my toes, the force in which I would need to propel myself away from that time when I was not this new.  I gave that other girl so much grief, then, for things she couldn't know.  

But the funny thing that happens as months and years pass is that you learn to love, even her, the girl before that particular pushpin, and you understand that she was right where she needed to be then, so that you could be you now.  How good of her, and what love I have for her.  I thought, early on, that it was something with the weight loss.  I felt like I was hatching from my own egg, climbing out to something new, with every positive thought I grabbed hold of, and pound I shed.  It was the first time I had pulled it all together in such a way, with bravery and power that was almost not even my own.  I thought I had finished, and that would be all, though I have now done it-- braved the roller coaster so many times over the years that I know it doesn't matter at all what size jeans I pull on in the morning because they are indicative of nothing at all.  Rather, the size of my heart and my ability to hold hands with whomever is beside me, sharing our selves and communicating what we know, without saying anything at all.  Am I giving today my best?  Where is my presence requested right at this moment, and can I muster the strength to go there?  Where do my inadequacies and failings connect back to, how many times have I seen them before, and from where can I draw strength to approach things differently-- better this time? Who do I love, and who loves me?

I see the old pictures now and and approach her eyes with a different feeling-- ...Before she understood her own magic.  Before she had built up muscle and picked up steam.  Poor girl, you are so good.  You just do not see it yet.  It will be okay.  

Do we all have some sort of turning point?  Can it go one way or the other?  I am sure that I have had so many turning points, so many large and small decisions that have brought me here, to this solid and still-changing plot on the time line.  I painted rooms before.  One after the next.  And then I learned to sew, and to bead bracelets and to cook and teach and hike and take in nature in ways that I didn't know possible.  My creative energy, then, had all sorts of outlets, if only I could continue to dedicate myself to them enough-- dedicate myself to me enough, to turn away from the tired, long day and make something good, starting with ten little minutes.  I meditate and visualize and read and write poetry, and I paint and play with photography.  I offer my open arms, and also cry on shoulders.  I seek out God and quiet where those things even seem impossible, and I know now that everything is possible, always.  I didn't know how to do any of this before, in the old pictures, or at least not with so much passion and sensitivity, and it is only by tiny choices that I learn.  My experience of this world, then, is something truly beautiful, and also quite challenging. 

In the tale of the Phoenix, a mythological bird with long, beautiful, golden plumes, he lives out his life of five hundred or a thousand years, according to the Egyptians, and then he takes himself right to the end where he builds for himself a nest of twigs and myrrh.  Finally, I think, after a thousand years of trial and error, heartbreak and love, this bird is raidiant, and authentic.  Relax, bird, you're there.  Or, almost, at least.  And then he does the craziest thing imaginable, which is to set the nest on fire, with himself in it.  He sets it all on fire and he burns to ashes.  He and his nest burn all the way down, by his choice, and out of the ashes this very small core of himself rises.  Whatever is left, what he's truly got, rises from the ashes and does his next thousand years.  

The great thing about learning over time, and about leaning into your pain and heartbreak so that it can teach you, is that once you have those understandings, you truly have them.  When you overcome enough, and you face what is difficult and celebrate what is magical, you not only have great understandings, but you become them. They cannot be lost because they are not only yours, but also they are you.

These weeks contain my first fire.

Diving Into The Wreck

I love this poem that follows- to slow myself down enough to read every word, and also the deep, dark blue image it brings, and most of all the metaphor.  The amazing author, Adrienne Rich, died just last week.  I am thankful for her work and her honesty, and also to know what the ladder is for.

First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put onthe body-armor of black rubber,
the absurd flippers,
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.

There is a ladder.
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it.
Otherwise
it is a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.

I go down.
Rung after rung
and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down.
My flippers cripple me,
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.

First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black. 
I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.

And now:
it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.

I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamps
lowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed

The thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.

This is the place.
And I am here,
the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black,
the merman in his armored body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she: I am he.

Whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass.

We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife,
a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names
do not appear.

Playing Chicken

I bet you can't guess who spent a couple weeks at our house, recently...

Kitchen turned hatchery, is what we have, here!  That would be, left to right, one ninety-five degree brooding box, one high humidity one hundred and one degree egg incubator, one safe and warm infirmary and one happy little veterinarian-in-training.

Chicks!

This is easily a homeschool favorite, and something I can see us doing for many years to come.  It was our third year this year, and we all learn something new (many new things!) each time we hatch these babies.  They arrive in warm eggs, five or six days before they are ready to hatch.  We have to turn them three times each day, keep their incubator right at 101 degrees and humid, and wait and wait and wait.  Finally we get to witness them enter the world, a process that can take 24 hours, sometimes, and they stay with us for the week after they are born.  

Generally I become nervous in the last day, when we begin to hear a bit of peeping from within shells.  I keep my fingers crossed that we have a good hatch, and that everyone makes it through to the end of the week.  4H says that seventy percent of the twelve eggs is considered a good hatch.  In our first year we hatched ten of twelve, and in our second year we witnessed all twelve hatch, though a few days later we lost one, which was quite sad.  

This year?

Da-da-da daaaaa!  All twelve!  

There was one late bloomer in the bunch, this year-- a very late bloomer, in fact.  She had pecked her first little hole in her egg endlessly longer than twenty-four hours earlier, and I became quite worried that our last little baby wasn't going to make it.  She was just a pastel green little egg with a beak sticking out the tiny hole, peeping occasionally, and Marin had already named her, Alice.  Everyone else had finished hatching hours earlier, and as I got ready for bed late on the second hatch night I decided to do some quick research on whether I could help her out.  Would it make me an enabling chick mother?  Might she never leave her proverbial nest, choosing to free-load in my basement well past age thirty?  Van Halen concert t-shirts?  Wedding singer?  Julia Gulia?  (Spread your wings, baby!  Fly!)  (Ahem.)  Various websites agreed and disagreed with hatch helping, but once I read that little Alice could still be attached in there, by the little strings that once held her in place, I decided it was a no-go.  I put a little water on a sponge and dabbed her beak, checked and rechecked the incubator temperature and offered her lots of encouraging words.  Finally, I refilled water wells, wet the exterior of her eggshell one last time, hoping to prevent her from becoming too dry and sticking to the shell membrane in the night, and headed up to bed.

First thing the next morning I was so nervous to check the incubator that I actually texted Kevin as soon as I woke up, to see if he'd checked on her before leaving for work.  Yes, and yes.  Alice had hatched!

Hooray!

Except, actually, when I caught first glimpse of her, all alone in the incubator, I realized she was stuck on her back and could not get up.  And while it is common for them to take some time to dry and learn to walk, it is not a good sign if they cannot make it to a standing position.

Last year, when one of our chicks died, that was precisely the way she began her descent.  She was fine, until suddenly she could no longer stand herself up, and her cronies pecked her and pecked her until we finally moved her to a little Stride Rite shoe box in the laundry room, where she perished after six agonizing hours.  My children drew pictures of crosses and flowers and cut them out, laying them all around and atop the shoebox, and they were so sad, as was I.  I knew for sure, then, that we did not have the hearts to be farmers, and I even wondered if we could hatch baby chicks again next year.

But here we were, fully invested now with our very own incubator and supplies, with little Alice who could not get up.  The boys took turns placing her on her belly in the incubator so that she could learn, and we gave her a few more hours to gain her strength.  I warned them that I didn't think Alice was going to make it, but KJ insisted that she was going to be okay.  We moved her into the brooding box, finally, and the others began pecking her immediately, just as I feared.  They circled all around her as she lay on her back, pecking away, and it reminded me of how awful bullying is, and that nature can sometimes be heartbreaking.  The kids had the idea to create a separate brooding box for her, with its own heat and food and water, and they spent most of the day helping her to her belly in there.  Marin, in particular, talked sweetly, sang to and petted her nearly the whole time.

I was shocked-- seriously shocked, when we noticed her finally standing, and then for longer periods of time.  I was so happy for the kids and for Alice, who just needed a little extra TLC.  Eventually she joined the others in the main brooding box, and didn't even hold a grudge for the way they had treated her.  Easy chicken forgiveness.  Who knew?

Certainly not the prettiest girl you've seen, but Oh Alice, you made it.

Lucky little chickie and her Number One Fan.

There are others, of course, who have less dramatic stories, but interesting names and personalities just the same.  Temper, temper, Ninja.

Like Barbie Car, above, seated in a Barbie Car because I couldn't resist.  There was also Ninjago, Mario, Justin Bieber, Zane, Scales, Hawk, Falcon, Luke and Leia.  

Justin Bieber was a couch potato, though I warned him that the doggone thing would turn his brain to mush,

and Luke Skywalker was Jack's favorite guy to hold, every time.  He became such a little love that he even fell asleep in my sister's hands one evening and held on for dear life as she tried to return him to the brooding box. She's a pushover.  She held him for even longer, until she was pooped on.

Chicks provide other learning opportunities, of course, more than the big picture, philosophical life and love lessons.  They can be measured, randomly.

And as you can see they are excellent students, paying close attention to everything she explains to them about their inches.

Also as fate would have it, we are working on Food Chains and Food Webs in Science right now, and our chickies fit right in.  Fortunately, and unfortunately.  Also as an aside, special thanks to Jack for donating his half eaten apple to the cause.

We all bonded with our babies this year, even more than in the years past.  Even our parakeet, Sammy, loved his little friends who came over to visit a few times a day.

He and Zane shared secrets and stories from the box to the cage.

Last Friday as our babies were already losing their down and growing feathers on their wings, it was time for them to go.  They will join a 4H family to be raised, now, and we can visit them at our county fair this summer. My children definitely did their best to convince me to keep them this time (do you guys have any clue how much chickens poop?!) but after I explained the need for a chicken coop and winter heat, not to mention more chores... they said their goodbyes.

Until next year!

The most unusual, particularly beautiful March

Do believe that this is a personal accomplishment, one where I breathe a deep sigh of relief, to have finally crossed Upload Pictures off of my to-do list.  This month has been amazing-- a Springing forth that I not only bore witness to, but felt somehow part of, with all of these days where we danced around in the abundant sunshine, inviting forth tiny green leaves on enormous, bare, brown trees.  They arrived, and I have arrived as well.  I will be back with more words, soon, friends.

The greatest use of life is to spend it for something that will outlast it.

- William James

Homeschool 2.0: SPD/ADHD Edition

This has been the best winter. It was mildly winter-ish here, with little snow and tolerable temperatures, and that was an enormous help for raising one who was not so much with the dressing for the weather this year: no gloves, no hat, no boots or any type of shoe that covers the tops of her feet, no snow pants, no jeans, no pants with buttons, snaps or zippers of any sort, no leggings, no tights, no layered shirts, no sweatshirts, no pajamas of any kind, no elastic wrist, ankle or waistbands, no, no and no.  My daughter has Sensory Processing Disorder, diagnosed two months ago now, and I finally have her list memorized.  

Yes to the soft fleece pants with the silky bows, yes to soft cotton t-shirts, yes to socks mostly free from seams at the toes.  Yes to one pair of black ballet flats and one pair of silver Mary Jane's, yes to Hanes tagless boy shorts underwear with the fold-over waist bands, yes to Hanna Andersson's sleeveless, cotton dresses, worn backwards:

We have been doing occupational therapy for two months now, and so far there have been two very important changes that I have made, in order to work through Marin's tactile defensiveness:

1.  Give up.  You do not realize as a mother that you are a bit tied your to your daughter's funky skirts and tights and hairbows and leggings, and even more simplistic things such as wearing a coat in Chicago January, until every occasion of putting any of these items to her skin causes a meltdown of epic proportion.  Just after I initially outed us in what we were dealing with every day, I decided that I would just let go.  I began allowing her to wear anything she wanted from her drawers, most days completely unmatched everyplace we went, until I could figure out her system and abide by it, rather than the typical vice versa.  This does not mean we are meltdown free, of course, because the socks that were good last week could be a bit scratchier this week, and we are still stretching every article of clothing every day, and smoothing them out to remove every crease and fold (she cannot handle "crumbly" as she calls it.)  But I have a general idea, now, for how to direct our morning flow in a more peaceful way.  I had to give up any vision I once had for dolling up my little doll.

2. Therapy all day every day.  We began with deep pressure massage right away, and moved into skin brushing every two hours, and all sorts of pushing/pulling activities to reset her nervous system via the proprioreceptors found in our joints and muscles.  In addition to the skin brushing every two hours, I was also performing joint compressions on her at those same times. (A full-time job, no lie.)  From there we began intentional experimentation with all sorts of tactile stimulation, such as a return to our beans and rice box, various rubber toys, sand, heavy piles of blankets, and so on.  I came across (hello, Pinterest) or invented lots of activities that would give her strong sensory input throughout the day, and I feel like I am just as aware of how long it has been since she has had deep pressure input as I am for how long it's been since she's last had a meal.

Mar trying out her new trapeze swing over the (warm!) weekend

Most thankfully, this has gotten us somewhere, recently.  For two nights this week, Marin went to bed with a blanket on her.  I cannot remember the last time that a blanket did not send her into panic mode, let alone being covered up by her own suggestion.  Also in the last week, she has been able to handle a coat zip!  That is huge! (So huge, truly, I want to overpunctuate!!!!!) (Also, hello grammar geekery!)  Her occupational therapist has really crazy goals, like getting her comfortably into jeans and gym shoes, though I won't lie, I have to stretch to believe these ideals even remotely possible.  Up until now, if Marin has worn a pair of jeans for a day, it has most definitely been preceded by kicking, screaming and fighting from the perceived pain on her part (and bull-headedness on mine.)

Morning Montessori preschool has been okay...  Okay in the way that she continues to cry each morning at drop-off, hangs back while her class has circle and story time, and refuses to participate in snack at school-- but she has the most understanding, patient teachers I could have asked for, who are willing to let her work at her own speed.  At home she is singing all of the songs at home that her class is singing at school, gushes about her teachers, and she not only knows the name of every child but has all of their stories down-pat.  She's just not gathered the readiness to completely engage, yet.  I am so glad that she started this year, and that we can give her all the space she needs to acclimate on her own terms.

She loves the texture of sand, and has to stop on our Dunes trails to collect in her pocket

Interestingly enough, at home so much of what Marin has going on overlaps with KJ's stuff.  We had really reached a breaking point in our house late last fall, and I had to decide who to work with first (surprise, the squeakiest wheel won).  I have always known, from his days in three year old preschool, that KJ struggled with his attention.  It was becoming more obvious, though, as third grade marched on this year and so much more sustained attention was required of him, to complete multi-step division and multiplication problems, and to write paragraphs.  And while it might seem okay for a six year old to be reminded fifteen times each morning to brush teeth, comb hair and put on socks and shoes, this is a routine that a nine year old should be able to handle.  

By Christmas break I was thinking our time may have come-- that over the years I had made every modification I could think of to help keep my guy on track with holding attention and completing tasks, but maybe it was time to finally get an official diagnosis and possibly even some sort of stimulant to help get through daily school.  I hadn't wanted to go that route, because I've always wanted each of my kids to be exactly who they are, but I also began really fearing that we'd hit some sort of ceiling in terms of his written educational output.

So about a month ago, now, we met with a highly recommended pediatric neuropsychologist, and as I expected we talked ADHD, but also some similar sensory issues to Marin, though manifesting in different ways, and fine motor and gross motor skills lacking a bit, due to some muscle tone issues.  The beautiful thing, though, in all of these discussions that included all sorts of technical terms, was that this doctor was completely, absolutely, positively full of applicable ideas.

We were introduced to fidget toys, to be tinkered with throughout our school day, and special lined writing paper, and Mozart music proven to prime memory and learning ability.  The kids do fun physical activities during the school day, intended to make them cross their body midlines and connect the two sides of the brain, and I provided them with a balance board for much the same reason.  Our doctor encouraged me to provide KJ with a couple different types of seating, to help appease his sensory seeking, as well as allowing him to sit in our swiveling, spinning, tipping computer chair so that he can move continually, as he needs to, while he works.  I did not realize how much I had been stifling that in him because I thought it was the "right way" and really what I needed to do most was let go and let him just be himself.  It makes me so happy to just let them be who they are.

Additionally, the good doctor suggested a personal, bending-neck lamp, to help see exactly where he is supposed to focus.  That has worked phenomenally (and of course there was no way Jack was not getting in on this action!) He reinforced the concept that I've already had mostly in place, that was no television or video games at all before school, until we are finished for the day (the explanation given that video games turn on the opposite part of the brain that is required for learning) and I was encouraged to go back to scribing for my guy sometimes, just as I did when he was younger, so that he could continue to run with his great ideas, without always getting tripped up by the brain to pencil to paper process.  All three kids have also been working with various IsoFlex balls and playing gobs of games to strengthen fine motor muscles, just because it is good for everyone.

At the end of the day what I love most about everyone's special needs (or are they really just normal needs that are unique to each person?) is that realizing the best paths for each of my kids has given us permission to add a whole lot more enjoyment to our days.  Every child needs sensory activities, every child loves to play hopscotch, get a tight hug, crab walk and dig in a box of sand.  Our family gets all the reason in the world do these things more often.  Assignment: fun.

Several months ago, to be honest, I was a bit overwhelmed.  We were doing so well with our school trips and projects and the most interesting parts of school, but there were places where we were lacking and frustrated. For a little while I gave serious consideration to public school for next year, in the spirit of embracing structure and a new support team.  We had all been struggling in our own ways, and everything around me was screaming Something needs to change.  Let it never, ever be said that homeschooling is not difficult sometimes.  It is fantastic, and also quite the undertaking.  Ultimately it was the building of a support team I never could have imagined, and more letting go of what kids had to do at a particular time, that opened a brand new path to us. And now with so many new (and truly, effective) modifications in place, I am more thankful than ever that we homeschool, and are free to grow and learn in our own unique, fantastic ways.

And just like that, here comes Spring already.

We were driving to O'Hare Airport the other day, to pick up my girlfriend who had come in to visit from California.  Heading across the Northwest corner of Indiana and up past the city, I got to watch the late-winter sun set as we drove.  Jack and Marin had fallen asleep, as they always do when we get cozy in the car during the late afternoon, and KJ was reading Harry Potter.  I popped in one of my older cd's, and there was a spattering of Alanis Morissette songs to play.  It made me remember the first time I visited the campus of my alma mater, St. Joseph's College-- falling in love with the enormous trees as well as the ethos of the elementary education program that I was choosing.  I walked into The Hub that day, our little non-cafeteria, where Alanis' One Hand In My Pocket was playing loudly over mounted speakers as her video showed on bulky televisions that were fit into red-framed boxes in the walls.

I've got one hand in my pocket, and the other one is giving the peace sign.

Jump forward a track, that I (everyone) has heard over the years, Thank U.  I had never really processed the words before, even though I can sing them from memory, but my car was calm and toasty, and the sun was setting and I was thinking while this one played.

Thank you India
Thank you terror
Thank you disillusionment
Thank you frailty
Thank you consequence
Thank you, Thank you silence

Perfect timing, I kept thinking.  We are under construction right now, getting everyone's needs figured out and stepping into the next phase of who we are and what we value.  A new homeschool structure, therapies, innumerable adaptations that allow all of us to relax a bit, because we know we've got things covered.  Our footings often feel strained and unfamiliar these days, but also somehow, just splendid.  Remove a layer and we morph into something new.  I'm good with that.  

I played the song six more times, a little louder each time.  I went home and looked up any backstory I could get on the song, and found out that she wrote it after spending the better part of a year in India, learning what was truly important in life, and what was not.  

Alanis explained, "I felt that I lived in a culture that told me that I had to constantly look outside myself to feel this elusive bliss. And I achieved a lot of what society had told me to achieve and I still didn't feel peaceful. I started questioning everything, and I realized that it was all an illusion and it was scary for me because everything I had believed in was dissolving in front of me and there was a death of sorts, a really beautiful one ultimately, but at first a very scary one, and so I stopped. I stopped for the first time and I was overcome with a huge sense of compassion for myself first, and then naturally that translated into my feeling and compassion for everyone around me and a huge amount of gratitude that I had never felt before to this extent."

The song was written in gratitude for all of the difficulty she'd been through, and knowing that I loved it even more.  

The moment I let go of it was the moment
I got more than I could handle
The moment I jumped off of it
Was the moment I touched down

How bout no longer being masochistic
How bout remembering your divinity
How bout unabashedly bawling your eyes out
How bout not equating death with stopping

Thank you India
Thank you providence
Thank you disillusionment
Thank you nothingness
Thank you clarity
Thank you, Thank you silence.

A great one, this week.

Even when I stay up most of the night to make it happen, I love coming downstairs in the morning to find my creative mess left from the night before.  That, and of course a sinkful of dishes and tired eyes looking back at me in the mirror.  If raising kids is a tough job, and winter is adequately kicking my ass (this is true,) then my greatest accomplishment is holding onto myself through the thick of it.  

I am figuring things out this winter.  That was my plan all along, right?  If all great changes are preceded by chaos, then great changes are in the works.  (Great, big ones, friends.)  To be honest, things are not looking, these days, as I thought they would.  Seriously.  On occasion I realize that I begin walking too closely to the middle line that separates Real Life from Norman Rockwell Painting.  In those moments I forget that this is the real deal, and authenticity, which is different from happiness or the appearance of happiness, is what I aim for. I bargain with my girl every day to wear pants and socks and carseat buckles, and hover over my big guy to just focus even though he cannot, on his writing page.  I get tired and lonely and frustrated, and I sometimes overcompensate for what lack I experience.  This stretch of road is not smooth, but instead it is bumpy and full of holes, and the hot, hot sun is blazing on the black pavement as I ride my ten speed bike with the squeaky hand brakes.  I am keeping on the path, though, and stopping to photograph the flowers alongside the road.  

I am doing the best I can, the most honest work within myself and within my family.  Kevin works far too many hours and I am left always without support at the end of long, tiring days;  Marin's therapy is happening, and thankfully more frequently now, although admittedly with little results just yet.  And my older child was finally "officially" diagnosed with ADHD, after all these years of just knowing. That, and a spattering of sensory and muscle tone issues.  Surprise!  

Getting here, to all of this new knowledge and pulling up the courage to begin dealing with and mastering these unfamiliar mountains to climb, has proved nothing short of a miracle.  To get one's ego out of the way, or perfectionist picture for the way you always thought it would be, and not only embrace what is but learn to rely on who is around you, even though you'd really rather do it all yourself, if only you knew everything and were infinitely strong and tireless...  I have spent this winter re-evaluating school options and medication or not medication, and making changes that I can only hope benefit us all in the long run, without the ability to see the end, just yet.  

I find myself oddly grateful for all of this, most especially in the rare morning sunshine.  I have so much hope. We keep on at therapy, and school, and trying, and messing up, and trying again, and painting for fun along the way. Spring is near.  I can feel it.  And I will take it any way it comes.

Sometimes the things we cannot change, end up changing us.