Sunday, July 31, 2011

this is how we do it

I've been thinking
…and thinking…
and thinking…

ever since I wrote my post on learning, naturally.

Ever since the comments thread raised some interesting issues.

And actually, ever since I began homeschooling.

Who are we

as homeschoolers

and learners?

Where do we fit? With what philosophy do we align ourselves?

These questions go to the core of how I live.

Because the thing is,

I don't fit.

I don't ever Absolutely align.

I get close, but there's always that part of me looking out saying, But that looks lovely too, just past the self-drawn fence, the invisible wall.

That was me in childhood. In school and in university. I never quite did things consistently. I was never the Same for long. There were dreams to chase, boys (wrong and right) to follow, ideas to have, plans to change, travel to do, so many meandering paths to walk/run/skip down!

And that was me as a parent. Of babies, toddlers, school-aged children. I never followed a single, simple path. Sometimes I baffled friends and family. Some of the simple paths would have been lovely, looking back, but I couldn't see them then.

So now I am here. We are here. On this particular, unusual,
complicated (but oh, so beautiful) path.

We are homeschoolers. And I've found that doing things the Same As Anyone Else is both


and unnecessary.

All I know, all I can know,

is how we do it.

All I have to measure that with, is


Us feeling out what is good and right and true to us, and following that.

When it doesn't feel right—when it doesn't bring Joy—we stop.

And, as I was thinking, and thinking, and thinking on this,

a picture came into my mind.

This is how we do it.

We learn by leaping.

We leap, we launch, we fly.

When we're up there, amongst the clouds, with the view so fine, we say,



Want to go here?

Or here?

Or here?

Sometimes we fly together. Launch ourselves straight ahead, at that one bright speck in the distance (or just in front of us).

But sometimes one of us starts flying, without looking back,

starts Doing and Living and Learning, on his or her own.

The rest of us sometimes See how wonderful that is,

and come too.

Which is how our sewing adventures began.

With one small girl saying,

I want to sew something.

And so she leaped.

Into her adventures in felt. And embroidery, and learning blanket stitch. And making birds and dragons, and owls. Then clothes for her toys, made of paper, cardboard, felt, fabric. And sewing more animals and learning to knit and saying how great it would be to have a sewing machine. And saying, I want to make toys and sell them at the market! And designing, and sewing, and making and making.

In the meantime, I did some asking, some talking, and lots of dreaming.

Which brought us to two weeks ago, when my friend and I were having a chat. It went a bit like this:

     I said, Howabout your boy joins writers workshop?

     And she said, Howabout I do sewing workshop for your boy and girl
     (and my boy too)?
     Together we said, Now wouldn't that be a lovely, creative, energy exchange?
     Yes! we said. Wonderful!

And it was settled. The kids were thrilled.

My girl's leap

led to not one, but three kids

(and two interested, excited adults),

setting off down a long, lovely

path of learning that, so far, has covered



sewing machine parts,

measuring, estimating, pattern making, buying,




finding out how sewing machines work

learning to make buttonholes,

report writing,

and more and more sewing!

We have so much further to go! The kids are part way through their first project, and now

so many new projects are popping up,

like seeds sprouting after the earth has been freshly dug

and planted, and watered and sun-shone.

And in the meantime

and meanwhile

another path opened up last weekend…

A doll-making workshop at the art gallery! YUM.

With this amazing artist

and some of her beautiful dolls.

We were so happy, making dolls all afternoon, sewing our little hearts out.

And afterwards?

My girl began a new, different doll at home.

The two of us were inspired for days;

my girl making the body, me covering it,

and the two of us making the arms and legs…

and then my girl decided she wanted to make a cape for it, 

and my friend cut out a template for her so that she could make capes any time she wanted

and then…

And then, 

and then…?

I was reading a flyer from the fabric store.

$200 off a brand new sewing machine for VIP members only!

Well, howabout that: I am a VIP member of that store. And we have a Visa card—we totally can buy this machine! ("Afford" is another question, for people who think about questions like that).

Which led two kids, one mama and one dad on a path yesterday afternoon

to this beauty.

Which is our next adventure.

All begun

with a single leap

by a single girl.

Leading to

all of us flying.

All of us



loving everything that we've learned, 

and loving how we've learned it.

We learn by leaping.

It's that simple 

and that beautifully complicated!

Just how we like our lives

to be.



Thursday, July 28, 2011

love is in the air

My son has a new love.

It's shiny and colourful,

big and bold;

it's filled with information, pictures,
little tid-bits of Stuff that interest and excite him.

It's a…

Maths Textbook.

Yes. It's true! One of Those, being used in a house of life learners/ unschoolers/ natural learners!


Because it's exactly what my son wanted.

He finished the first two books of Life of Fred and was ready for a Fred break.

He read as much as he wanted of The Number Devil, for now.

He read all the Sir Cumference stories, plus A Place for Zero, What's your Angle Pythagorus, the Multiplying Menace books, Pythagorus and the Ratios, and Rabbits Rabbits Everywhere.

He played games on Mathsisfun and Coolmath. He had tried online learning through MathleticsStudyladder and Mathsonline (none of which he was into at all. He is, we have discovered, not an online learner).

He played Monopoly, Uno, and Mythmatical Battles (which is a card game he loves).


he wanted more.

So I said, "Would you like a book, a maths textbook? Something you can read, and work through at your own pace?"

(This being exactly what he didn't want, for ages and ages. But he loved maths and wanted to learn it. Hence all the living maths books and games!)

"Oh!" said my son, "Yes PLEASE!"

Okay, then. One maths textbook coming right up :)

I pored over the internet, read about different types of books, tried to see what books had the type of exercises my son liked. (No excessive repetition, no endless drills, lots of open-ended questions, lots of information, high level thinking, and colour). I thought I had one picked, then thought, How can I buy one online without getting my mitts on it, touching those pages, seeing exactly how it works, and most importantly: showing my boy and having him say, Yes or No?

Which is when serendipity stepped in.

A trip to Sydney was already planned for last Saturday, and was almost entirely open ended. My son suggested we go to Kinokuniya, the book store. He'd gone there with his aunt for a special birthday treat a month ago. It was now, officially, "The Best Book Store Ever!" according to him.

Well, I think he could be right! It was MASSIVE. And filled to the brim with books, and couches and cushions and people browsing, and that delicious energy you get from being around words and people who love them. It was scrumptious.

And it was perfect for a mama looking for a maths book for her boy.

I went to the Maths section. SO many books! A smorgasbord, really. I found two Year 7 books that seemed close to what my son liked. I called him over. We sat together, and opened those crisp pages, breathed in the New Book smell. Ah. Sigh. He loved the one with the information boxes telling him unusual facts about numbers and mathematicians and discoveries. He loved the colour. The small, manageable sections. The text. The look and feel and heft of it (that puppy was big!).

It was like picking out a bike—that one so bright and bold and fast looking?

"That's the one!" he said, grinning. "Let's get it!"

Then off he skipped, leaped, flew, to the Graphic Novels section of the store, where we all spent a sweet hour breathing in the wonderful stories there.

First thing on Monday morning, he sat and opened this shiny new world of maths. He asked me where he should write his answers. "A notebook?" I suggested. Together we found a spare exercise book, shiny and new, too.

He decided to begin at the beginning (which, he thought, was a Very Good Place to Start). He sat and worked, I don't know for how long; he worked until he felt done.

"Is that enough?" he asked.

I said, "Does it feel like enough? It's up to you, you know."

Together we figured out that if he does a small section and the corresponding exercises each day (Monday to Friday), he'll easily finish up in a year, if that's what he wants. He can do more, or less, as he chooses. There will be parts he'll know already (thanks to Life of Fred) and he won't have to do them. Some parts might be harder. He might go slower then; he might want to look other things up to help him. And he may not finish the book. That is okay with me, if it's okay with him.

Two days ago, he said, "I'm done for now, but can't wait for tomorrow!" Yesterday he did two sections, because he just didn't want to stop.

This book, and this kind of maths learning

is what my son loves.

He loves having a sense of routine, and he loves learning from books. He loves having a clean, fresh notebook to write in (and it looks unbelievably neat in there! Every answer written so carefully, lovingly. You can tell the work is precious to him). He loves knowing that the textbook is there, waiting for him every morning, to learn more from.

When he does this work,
at his very own table,
where he also writes his stories, designs his buildings, reads his information books, and draws his cartoons,

he is in his Element.

I think he actually radiates joy.

In fact, I'm pretty sure that if we sat beside him as he worked
(but not too close! He likes his space!),

we would walk away golden.


Monday, July 25, 2011

part of my heart

I was thinking about my favourite city in the whole world last night.

A friend sent me a link to a video, and because I had to wait 'til morning to watch it (silly internet plan that gives me almost no evening downloads, and which I have to change),

the city must have slipped, singing, into my thoughts, to keep me company.

San Francisco.

Where my parents met and got married.

Where I lived for two and a half years.

Where I met my husband and (a little further North and beside a beach), we got married too. With so much smiling and so many happy tears!

Where my son was born. (Ditto the tears. The smiling, and the crooning of jazz into his hours-old ears)

Where, Before Kids, I lived in Hayes Valley, and would walk to work, past the outskirts of the Tenderloin, past the nightclubs with their sidewalks getting hosed down, past the men and women sitting with their signs on the streets.

Where I would ride my bike up and down the hills, heading for the sea.

Where I would head to and through Golden Gate Park, sometimes ending by the water, sometimes ending on a bench in the Australian section of the Botanical Gardens.

Where I would ride my bike all the way to Golden Gate Bridge and over the water. The Bay bright all around.

Where I would head north or east on a clear day and hike the Marin hills, the Oakland hills, day after day, striding. The air was so pure, it seemed. In spring the hills would be carpeted with wildflowers.

Where I would sit in coffee shops and listen to people play guitar and talk. I kept my notebook close and wrote the words other people said. And what they wore, and how they looked and the smells and sights and sounds.

Where after work I'd walk over glass and chrome bridges, walk between buildings, through and through, to the nearest cinema. See something French or something sweet (or both), and afterwards? Drift back over a city now sprinkled with light. Suspended above cars rushing and twinkling, their back lights red like kisses.

Where I would browse the hundreds of book shops and listen to writers' talks. I saw Alice Walker in a church once, and I heard an Irishman argue with Jeanette Winterson in a hall. The words vibrated the walls.

Where my friends and I would trip the fog-slung streets and eat and drink and laugh and listen to music and talk 'til morning.

Where I met a boy and we walked through North Beach and ate pizza and he listened to me in a way that was beautiful and spoke about music and art and made me laugh and my insides tilt.

Where my son took his first breath.

My city of Becoming. Of Being. Of Beginnings. I love it so.

I finally got to see the video this morning!

It is a video of a man who recreated San Francisco in toothpicks. I have been to everywhere he made.

He dropped ping-pong balls into the structure and as each one

rolled past and through each landmark, through each dear space that sang of Place of Place of Place,

my past lit up, moment by precious moment.

And made me smile :)

Saturday, July 23, 2011

learning, naturally

So here in Oz, 'unschooling' or 'life learning' are often referred to as

Natural Learning.

There are ways the terms are a bit different (because each carry their own histories, philosophies, websites, magazines, support groups and so on and so forth!). But I think of them as similar (maybe even the same) because at the core of each one is

child-directed learning.

Learning comes naturally to a child after all; it's part of who they are. Intrepid Explorers. Endless Questioners. Whole-Wide-World-Travellers. Figurer-Outerers.

Kids are naturally inquisitive. They naturally want to find things out. They want to seek and discover and claim for themselves, in their own way, naturally.

And when a child learns what they want to learn—when they are allowed to explore their own paths and interests—the learning goes deep. The learning sticks. Naturally.

Now, what a child wants to learn mightn't be what a grown-up thinks is important, or worthwhile or even make sense. And it's often not part of the planned sequence of educational events that you've mapped out carefully in the night hours to please the Education Officials when you register for homeschool!

But it's valid. And worthy. And helps a child become the person they naturally want to be.

I've also found that my kids are happier when they learn what they want to learn.

Joy. Before, during Discovery, and after. I can't think of a better result than that!

Now, this is going somewhere (No, I'm not done! You know me; I do like to go on and on).

I also, actually, think there's a place in child-directed learning, natural learning,

for grown-up input.

In the form of research, when a child expresses an interest in something

(looking up websites they might like, finding books at the library that relate, finding classes that they might like to take, asking friends for ideas, spending hours thinking and brain-storming!).

In the form of putting information and opportunities in front of a child

(that they might not have been aware of, or been in a position to find/organise).

In the form of suggestion

(such as trying new things, extending discovery to ideas they mightn't have thought of, and learning new skills. It can be as simple as, "Hey, I've got an idea. Do you want to…?").

Natural learning, when it flows for us,

feels right for all of us,

grown-ups and kids alike.


The other day, after a wonderful sewing workshop (instigated by my girl, who had asked and hoped hard for sewing lessons),

I said (and felt free and happy to say):

"Hey, I was thinking it might be fun to write a report about our first workshop."

Really? my kids' faces said. A report? I may as well have suggested eating three limes one after another. :)

But I continued, undaunted!

"I thought I'd show you how to plan one, so that it's super easy to write afterwards. It can actually be really easy to write, if you make a plan. And I thought you might like to add photos, if you wanted. I took heaps of photos. You want to see the photos I took?"

Yeah, they wanted to see the photos! Who wouldn't? So we looked through them, and I said, "I think it'd be fun to write something, then type it up and paste the photos in here. What do you think? I think it'd look cool."

My girl said, "I'd want to draw my pictures."

"Well that sounds good too. I reckon this could be great. You want to try it?"

Hmmm. Well. If you're going to suggest it with such a big eager smile, Mum, then we s'pose we'll give it a go!

So we mind-mapped first. Cool circles with information inside. And each time we added something to the circles, I said, "See? This is great. Here are all the things we did. Wow. Hey, we learned a lot."

I said these things genuinely (and anyone who has met me knows I get into things, the smallest things, get excited like a kid, even about report writing. I'm kind of crazy that way :) ).

Then we took the information in the circles and on a new piece of paper, made a Plan. The kids leaned over my shoulders, they listened, closely.

I talked about introductions and how each paragraph would cover a new topic (which wasn't so new for my son, but was new for my girl). I talked about how essays often have a bit of a formula. You know: Introduction, Topics, Conclusion. That sort of thing. Then I told them a funny thing an instructor had said about essays in my Master's program: "In essays, you Say what you're going to say, Say it, then Say you've said it." (Yep, it's a bit like that!)

But then I said, "Once you've written out your plan though, you've made a template. Then you can totally make your report your own. Give it your own voice, and your own style. Add whatever else you like."

And my son said:

"Mum! That's exactly what my drum teacher said yesterday!"

And my husband, who was putting on his shoes nearby, said:

"Yeah, that's how jazz works. You have the form, then you make it your own."

We all stopped then, and smiled at each other. How seamless art is. Music and writing so alike. The making so much the Same.

I LOVED this moment.

This is when the learning I suggested, became the learning

my children owned.

This is when they took their mind-maps and plans to their tables,

bent their sweet heads over the paper,

and wrote reports that were distinctly theirs.

This is when they learned a skill

I thought was a good skill to learn,

but did it with joy and willingness.

This is when they, actually, believe-it-or-not! had fun.

I typed out my boy's report, and he played with the fonts and the layout, checked spelling and paragraphs. He inserted photos (which he formatted himself), printed out the report, then did detailed, hand-drawn illustrations. It was a beautiful report.

My girl hand-wrote her whole report, neatly. She illustrated everything (no photos for her). She didn't have titles like her brother—it was all one fluid piece. She wrote three pages. Again. Beautiful.

And two days later, when the reports were completely Finished,

the kids stood on each side of Dad, showing him. They were so pleased with themselves. Pleased as punch, pleased as peaches.

I got to teach my kids something, AND I taught it to kids who were open, eager, and ready to try something new.

It felt exactly how our homeschool should be.

It flowed.

It felt, all-the-way-through,


Wednesday, July 20, 2011

on a day like this

that begins, with the rain…

you lie and feel the sheets, your skin waking.

Then your toes. Your hands. Your eyes, open.

You see your girl, lying just an hand's stretch away. Her eyes flutter, open.

She smiles. Ah.

This is the beginning of the day.

From this moment, I resolve to take note. The whole day, mindfully.

Today, I will drink it in.

The patter of the rain outside
as my girl and I lie in bed and say hello to our morning together.

We talk, and giggle, quietly, so we don't wake my son, who may or may not be sleeping in the room ten steps away.

How nice, we say, the rain is,
and to hear it, here, under these warm blankets and with each other.

My girl asks how clocks work. "'Cause I don't get it," she says.
"What?" I say.

So I wave my arm in slow loops in the dusky light, describing the circle and how time is marked inside it.
I talk about how the day was divided by someone, somewhere, long ago. I talk about 12s and 60s and 5s. I say, quietly, how marvelous the cogs and wheels are, each helping a hand find the hour, the minute, the second.

We talk about watches. Would she like to wear her dad's watch, the one he never wears? Or, it might be nice for her to have her own watch. Hmmmm. We lie there, imagining this.

And move on to a list of all the things she says Yes to.

I list one thing after another after another. And she still wants to hear more. It must make her happy to see herself in such a way. A girl of positives. A girl who has her arms wide open.

We lie, and listen to the rain. A song comes into my head.

Simon and Garfunkle. I start to sing.

"I hear the drizzle of the rain
like a memory it falls
soft and warm, continuing,
tapping on my roof and walls."

My girl wants to hear more. So I sing more.

And then I sing another song, a new song for me that I can't get out of my head. Fleet Foxes. The few words I know, but all the notes. There in our burrow, the notes lift and fall;

they make pictures in my mind.

Breakfast then. I watch the chickens roam across the grass, rain falling on their red heads.
One chicken comes to the door. Pa-cark! Pa-cark! she calls. Where's brekkie, then? Pa-cark!

I read my new book. My gift book. Which is about thankfulness, and about finding the joy. Well, howabout that. She knew, didn't she, the lovely woman who gave me this book, that the words inside would resonate.

The kids both in their beds, reading by lamplight, as the rain falls.

Something pure about the warmth, the steam, the quiet in there. I have that Fleet Foxes song still in my head, and there, underwater, I sing it.

As I dry myself, I note (as I have many times before), the feeling of the towel over my face. It is one of my most favourite, of all time, physical sensations. I feel remade. Fine and clear, each time.

Kids bound downstairs. The day revs up. Time to gobble down breakfast
because our new project begins today!

Sewing workshop. With my neighbour and years-long friend, who just this day, will officially begin her and her son's homeschooling journey. Awesome.

Could there be anything better than striding down our driveway, fresh and perky and bouncety, to start something
unknown and filled with potential
with dear friends
who live just across the road

with the air washed
and the day shining?

We learn about fibres
and fabrics
and the difference between woven and knitted and matted and my friend's son at some point offers us some tea.

He hops up to stand on the kitchen bench, and rummage in the cupboard for teabags.
Hops back down to find the cups and toss the bags in.

He pours the hot water

with such confidence, such joy.

Thank you, I say, for thinking of me.
Thank you, I think, for a drink with such beautiful energy inside it.

My children practice stitches on the sewing machine, and all three children lean forward to see.

One stitch does a swan! Another a flower! This machine contains magic I am sure. Some fairy waving her hands inside.

My hands warm around the cup.
My friend talking.
Us at the table.
Kids in the other room, now, playing lego. Everything

exactly as it should be.

We leave when the Official Homeschool Person arrives to assess my friend's homeschool plans. What a beautiful man he is. Everyone in the community loves him. He remembers my kids, who he met two years ago. I feel fizzy with excitement.

An hour and a half later, I get the text. "Two years!" (The maximum time you can receive for homeschooling before registration is required again). Perfect.

Now. Kettle on. Pasta for my boy. Rice for my girl. I pull out containers, leftovers, bits and bobs and fix a salad. Impressive how high I can pile spinach leaves, cannelini beans, corn, cheese. Each bite just Right. 'Cept for the one that drops onto my new book. Oops.

My kids and I reading at the table, our books beside our plates.

Here, hold this moment. Here, with two hands. Hold it close.

My girl reading out to me from her book about rivers. My son leaning over the newest Septimus Heap story. Me looking up from my book to hear my girl. Her lunch forgotten as she tells me about the Rhine.

And then, we move on.

To my girl reading. My son practicing. Me at the computer, trying to write the kids' homeschool portfolios for my own Official registration.

The kids work on their Space journals. My son drums on the table with his hands. My girl hums. My son bounds over to tell me the names of the moons of Uranus, and I tell him they are characters from Shakepeare's plays, and he tells me those names are in books by Diana Wynne Jones, another of his most favourite writers.

We are a weave, aren't we?
Our learning like ribbons dipping under, over, under, over.

The cat sits right by the heater, with his nose nearly touching. He is like the sunbathers in summer, roasting and toasting themselves.

The dog lies on the carpet (he shouldn't).

The day moves. I write some of the history of the past 2 years—what we have learned in Science alone takes up 5 pages. (I don't need to write so much, but I can't help myself!) How busy we have been. How grand our days.

Now. I drive to my son's music lessons, the kids chattering behind like squirrels.
The rain returns.
My boy leaps out when we get there, to the place he loves. He strides up the hill.

My girl can't stop talking and laughing and telling stories in silly voices.
She is just giddy with joy today.

I tell her how happy she makes me.
I bask in her smile.

At home, we have hot chocolates together
(with marshmallows for her).

I don't do anything but listen to her, as she talks.

She and I finish up something in her space journal. Did you know Neptune is blue because it has so much methane in its atmosphere? Must be all the pigs.

Did you know, Saturn spins completely around every 10 hours?

Did you know, did you know, did you know?

That if you watch closely, each moment as it passes,

the sound of her voice
the words in the book,
the feel of the spoon as you stir the hot chocolate,




On the drive to pick up my son, then home,
the rain falls harder. I focus. Feel my hands on the wheel. Lights glitter between drops.

My daughter says, "I love you more than the stars."
My son says, "I love you more than all the dog's bottoms."

Dinnertime. The children clear the table

smiling, talking, laughing,

as I cook.

And the act of cooking feels lighter, lighter inside me.
It feels less
and it feels more.

After dinner.


Cat is curled in a perfect warm clump in my lap.

Daughter reads on one couch.

Son reads on another.

Kitten is wrapped around a heater.

Dog is on the carpet, again.

Music falls into my ears.

And time


I can see…

on a day like this…



and accepting,

with gratitude and with

your heart

wide open,

lifts you
like a bird rising

—effortlessly, calmly—

into joy.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

between moons

As we drove home we saw

there, over the ocean,

the moon full to overflowing.

There! we pointed. Look! we said.

And the ocean below glowed silver.

Silver and black ('cause of the clouds floating dreamily, clumpily 'cross the sky). Boats dotted the sea like pushpins, and we could see for miles.

And all around us was the night, the whoosh of the car on the road bends, the bright dots of our town in the distance, the kids happy and chattering, and the silver


Another moon. Another turn of the earth and the passing of time.

Made me think.

Of the things I have loved between full moons.

Things not yet written about,
things that made me smile,
things that made me sing inside,
lit me all the way through,
things lived and loved by me and those I love.

Fine moments where I


And noticed,

here, and here, and here.

Just how extraordinary this all is.


where one world pulsed 
under another

we found
 a new way to see

lay stillness 
light, and

was a girl's new, found-at-the-markets and loved! golden coat

my girl said
Look, Mum. Isn't it amazing?

the sun shone brilliantly, blindingly 
as the rain came down

two firemen worked out inside a Sydney firehouse.
One on a bike, one running,
talking back and forth
as we walked past. 
The night was so still.
They didn't know we were there, watching them
live their private moment 
as we lived ours. 

a boy
gathered flowers

was a winter walk
beside the sea

Walk and sea: two things I love so much I wrap myself 'round with them. 
I say, I will love you always.)

and here… 
was a delicious fresh-from-the-garden salad lunch
with friends and…

(oh, I smiled and smiled!)

Between the moons were

resonating, inspiring words too. 

Written by many lovely friends, but 'specially for me this month, by 

MJ and


(If you can, and haven't already, please do read them. They are such fine words.)

And between the moons, 
just two days ago, I received

a book given by a person I didn't know, with a card saying my words had made a difference to her. I can't think of a more beautiful gift.

I was floored.

Between the moons were
firsts, too.

A new bike! Sleepover in Sydney without parents! Knitting learned! Science workshop without mum! New friends made! Old, dear friends choosing to travel into Homeschool land! Hooray!

So much delight.

And through it all,

as the moon made its journey and found its way back to


Was the laughter.

I don't know if I mentioned 
that this month. 

Laughing 'til we cried,

after we cried
(and there were tears. From both my children, plentiful, large, sometimes to the very depths—made my heart creak with wanting to protect, yet wanting them to feel wholly),  

making others laugh.

Finding something to smile about
in the smallest moments.

each time I felt myself 
rise and rise

grow bigger,
greater, and

'Til I was full and bright.

Between Moons
is going to be a series, I think.
Of things (Small or Big or Both!)
noticed and treasured.
I'd like to do it, each lunar month.
Perhaps, during this, or some future full moon, you might want to join me?