loving to learn

Let me 'splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

2012-02-12T10:56:00.004+11:00

These words, from the glorious movie The Princess Bride, have been flying around my head for the past week, as I've wondered what to write here, in this space.

How to 'splain? How to describe the past month? How to describe moving out from the white water ride that has been my journey through severe depression and crippling anxiety, into the mostly-smooth water that seems to be my Now?

Well, there really is too much—so, so many tiny details. Steps back, steps forward, steps back again. So, let me (try to) sum up.

I'm heading into better.

I've spent the last month head-down, treating an illness that I've realised is real, and can be as life-threatening as any I've heard of. Sound kind of melodramatic? Not when I look back at what Rock Bottom was like. It was terrifying. I didn't end up in hospital, but I got close. I didn't try to leave off being, but I got close.

Yup. Terrifying.

And it was heartbreaking too, because I have an amazing family. Like, extraordinary. And I have love. Gobs of it. To feel so bad with the life I have—that told me this was an illness. To have doctors and counsellors calling almost every day, to have a mental health team come to my house, then call every few days to check in, a team who got concerned if I didn't call back—that cemented it.

I have always known logically that depression is an illness, but looking back, I think I believed I could just will it away. When the signs started to appear again, I thought, "I'll just flip it. I'll just think of the good things; I will find the joy. And if I want it to disappear, then it will." Poof! Gone! Magic.

Not so simple.

I have been very ill with a very real illness. It's all encompassing—it's chemical, neurological, psychological, physical, and environmental. It's not something I can just wish away. And I'll probably always be dealing with it. For the rest of my life, I will always have to monitor and keep up my seratonin levels, exercise exercise exercise, eat right, and check in with a counsellor or doctor on a regular basis. If I stopped all the treatment and self-care I've set up, I am certain I would get sick again. Maybe not immediately, but sometime.

But I am one of the lucky ones: this is treatable. Isn't that amazing? That's what the psychiatrist said—This is treatable. It is fixable. Those were such welcome words.

The best part? By treating this illness, by asking for help and doggedly claiming wellness, I get to be part of the grand adventure that is "Saving My Life." Yes, it feels that big. Hand in hand with kind others, I am saving it.

And every single day, I am finding my way out.

It feels…it feels…?

Like waking up.

These are some of the things I've been doing to find my mostly smooth water, to find my mostly better.

These are my small steps forward:

First, I asked for help.

I have spoken to doctors, counsellors, naturopaths, acupuncturists, and psychiatrists.
I've talked about everything with my husband.
I've explained things simply to my kids, so they aren't confused or scared.
I've talked to friends and family, and let them know how much they mean to me.
I have reached out. The support has been unfailing, and incredible.

I go see a psychiatrist every week.

He's the kind of capable that feels like someone is literally holding a net beneath me. His office is in the oldest building in my town. It's gorgeous. It has a wraparound veranda and an inner courtyard filled with ferns, lush plants, and a huge old fig tree; its branches reach out like the curved arms of a dancer. So beautiful.

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I should mention: My psychiatrist has assessed me thoroughly, and last week said that I do not have Bipolar Disorder II. I have all sorts of other medical-sounding labels, but I don't have that. Howabout that. Howabout that?

I'm about to start treatment with a clinical psychologist.

He specialises in anxiety, and does something called ACT — Acceptance Commitment Therapy. It's based on mindfulness—a lot like meditation is based on mindfulness—and that's about all I know, for now. But I have so much hope for it. I hope it'll help me mend the breaks inside me, the ones I've kept blocked and locked forever. (Think of someone holding their hands to their ears and saying, La! La! La! La! for oh, about 35 years.)

I have begun natural therapies.

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Woah, acupuncture—it's been extraordinary.

On the first session, the guy stuck a pin into some magic spot and instantly I burst into tears (and no, not because it felt like an ice-pick but because it was like a tap someone had turned on, or perhaps like a fire hydrant that broke, for all the neighbourhood kids to dance around in).

The acupuncturist looked kindly at me and said, "I think you've been holding that back a long time."
As I kept on bawling, he said, "Let it out. You're in a safe place here."

Every time I get pricked and more hedgehog-like, I feel better. Each time, the effect lasts longer. At some point, the treatments will get further and further apart, and I'll only have to look like a porcupine now and then, for maintenance. That's the plan, anyway.

I'm taking a supplement that has this seratonin booster in it called 5-HTP. It's a natural seratonin replacement and it's helping. My supplement has other things too, but I can't remember the technical names, all of which help lift me up. The cool thing is, my doctor was the first to recommend it, years ago. (I love when doctors believe in, and suggest, alternative remedies. Isn't that how it should always be?)

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I'm drinking Anti-stress Ginseng tea every single day. It brings a single word into my life: Clarity. That's the word it makes me feel without fail. Clarity.

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I make a protein smoothie every day (usually), 'cos I've read that protein helps keep your seratonin up. Right now my smoothies have berries, banana, nectarine, spirulina, oat milk, and big ol' spoonfuls of pea protein powder. That's a lot of mixed colours! Mix yellow, orange, white, pink, red and dark green together, and yep, you get a dark grey smoothie. It's the look of wet concrete. Mmmm Mmmm. It's kind of like drinking wet concrete, too, but I imagine goodness going in, some kind of golden loveliness, and just like that, it turns yummy. For real.

I am exercising.

Every day. It has been wonderful. I can say absolutely now, that exercise is a truly effective treatment for depression. Not to say it's the only solution, or that it resolves underlying traumas or suffering, but wow, it makes getting better easier. It makes living finer. Clearer. Better. Add it to your day, your every day, and you feel wellness rising. Literally.

My mum loaned me her stationary bike (longer story: she actually loaned it to my sister a year ago, who—the moment I asked to borrow it from her and knowing I was in crisis—got the bike to me the very next day. I love my family). So if I haven't gone for a brisk walk or a swim in the day, I get on the bike. I ride hard for half an hour. I drip sweat. I drip! I ride hard enough that I can't talk while I ride (unlike people in the movies who do all that chatting, flirting or plotting while they jog). It's glorious.

I go to a meditation class.

Every Monday evening I go to my class with a friend. We sit and mindfully breathe. We listen to a talk on an aspect of life, like happiness or acceptance. And then we meditate on an idea, like love, or breathing out the dark and breathing in the light. I think some sessions I've gone to sleep… but it's a peaceful almost-sleep, with the WahWah sound of the teacher's voice floating in the background like waves on a beach at night.

I am still homeschooling.

I think some people thought perhaps I should stop. Even I wondered it, briefly. But the minute the school year started and we went back into our routine, everything settled into place. We have had small weepy moments, like anyone might, but so many more good ones. We've been to the movies, we've read, we've played music and talked about dna, electron clouds, whales getting beached, learned about kittens who can glow in the dark. (True!) We even made a silent movie! (Now that was fun.)

The best part: we have SIMPLIFIED. We've stayed at home when we were expected to go out. We haven't gone to all the groups. We have let go some classes. We haven't said Yes to absolutely everything. The days have space in them again. Sweet, sweet space.

I have been listening to music.

Which has been like curling into a lap. I put the headphones on, and I'm a cat padding my paws into the soft belly of someone, curling around and around, purring, 'til I am a warm circle. Complete, clear, contained.

(And just this moment I found this video of a song I have completely fallen in love with and listen to every day. It's such a beautiful video—gave me goosebumps.)

Iron & Wine: Boy with a Coin

Finally, I have been given a script for medication.

I keep it in my wallet. I keep it there as my back-up plan to my back-up plan. I have accepted that if I try all these natural remedies, do all the things I've listed above, get all this help and still get sick again, I will fill that script and start taking medication again. I will not be ashamed. I will not think I have failed.

It's like a dance, you know? (Though in the beginning it was more like a race, under water, with an anchor tied to my waist).

There are so many steps—so many of them back and back at first—then there is the slow gathering of sound and movement and that sense of rightness and tranquility…as you learn the steps you need to keep the dance going. You learn to keep upright, to move with all those around you. To keep a rhythm like a heartbeat, like a life. A good life.

You learn to move with yourself, peacefully. To see the space ahead and all around you. To feel light again. You smile to see yourself, dancing.

•

And THANK YOU.

Such deep, big, heartfelt thanks to Karen, Simone, Deb, Lyndell, Ingi, Kim, Debra, Nikole, Susan, Jackie, Misty, Tracy, MJ, Lou, Kimberley, Joanne, Greg, Jan, Alicia, Clare, Sally and Sally, Suzie, Theresa, Hi Kooky, Jessica, Jessie, Adam. Thank you for reaching out, for your comments, your friendship, your messages of love and support. I have felt every warm hug, every smile, every kind thought and prayer. Thank you.

And thank you. To my American Mom and Dad. To my sister. My mother. My son. My daughter. My husband (who listens whenever I need to talk). My husband (who loves me unconditionally). My husband (my funny, gorgeous, inspiring man). My beautiful family. Thank you.

where I have been

2012-01-16T22:15:00.001+11:00

Oh, there you are…!

and here I am…

and you look so far away and yet so close
because so many days have been like holding a telescope the wrong way 'round.

Making the days of splashing and beaching and camping and swimming and reading and family time and relaxing
seem so close
and so far away
all at once.

So close I can almost touch it.

So close that some days, the wall of glass lifts and I feel the good that is this, my beautiful life.

Other days…most days…
the world has moved away like it's on trolley wheels and set up stage
on the other side of the wall.

And no matter how hard I've tried, or how much I've willed it, I can't seem to make it through the glass. To feel the good and the beauty and the fine I see, right before my eyes.

This.

is depression.

This is crippling anxiety

and dim, shapeless fear.

This is fog and muddle,

hopelessness and panic and sad.

This

is the part

when the world slides away, or you think it does.

When you find you've somehow stumbled and ended up deep in the hard dark;

when you realise you are, in fact
spectacularly unwell.

This,

is when you call for help.

You do. You do. You must.

You call for the counsellor.

She in turn calls the Black Dog Institute to see how quickly the Depression Clinic can see you. She calls you during the week to check how you are. She calls on the weekend. She says, "Call any time."

You call for the naturopath.

She gives you herbs and checks on you within two days. She wakes up, she says, thinking about how you're doing.

You call for the doctor.
You visit him and he in turn immediately calls an acute care mental health team. They come a few days later, visiting you at home. (Imagine a S.W.A.T team, rappelling—with the kindest eyes—through your window). They in turn call psychiatrists. They find one who can see you as soon as possible. They call you back the next day. They check up. They check in.

You call for the psychiatrist.
He is calm and calming. He suggests medication. He says, "Know this—this is treatable. There is every chance you will get better." He says you need to come see him, every week for a while.

You call for your sister.
She takes you out for the day and has you do silly things, like let her teach you salsa dancing in the movie theatre, right there in front of the screen and with all the people arriving, while you wait for the previews to start. She makes you laugh, and she listens, and together you buy matching t-shirts that you wear for the rest of the day. She drives you home when you miss your train, all the way from Sydney, a three hour round trip, just to see you home safe.

You call for your mother.
She checks in almost daily. She visits and pays attention to every word you and your children say. She says how much she loves you, loves you, loves you.

You call for your children.
You talk of worry holes and how they can grow. You tell them that you are sick, and getting treatment, just like someone with diabetes, or a broken leg. Then you tell them you have to cancel a promised, planned, so-exciting overseas trip to see family, because you are so unwell. And they understand. They understand. They love you, love you, love you. Love pours from their sweet hearts.

You call your husband's family overseas.
Well, your husband does. He tells them the trip is postponed. He says, "But we love you so much." And they say, with immeasurable kindness, "We love you so much too. We understand. Just work on getting better." You feel their love palpably; it flies all the way over the desert, over the ocean, right there to you.

Most importantly,
you call for your husband.

And, with trumpets blaring, he comes riding in. There, do you see him? On his white steed, galloping. Armour resplendent. Spear raised. Flag flying.
He comes for you.
He is there, every single moment you need him. He is your white light. Your saving grace. Your true love.

And there are more calls you can make.

To friends—you remind yourself you have them. They will come—you know they will—when you call.

You have the sea too, and the mountains, and the rain.

The dog, who lies on your feet by the couch. The kitten, who lets you lie next to her and hold her paw. The frogs, who have made a home in your pond. The cat, who lets you kiss the top of his head.

Online friends. There they all are: she and she and he and she. Here is love and care and kindness, waiting.

And yourself, of course. You have you.

Calling out,
and keeping on calling.

You tell yourself: Remember, please.

The sky at dusk. How your body feels after a swim or a bike ride. How the sun feels. How the clouds look as they tumble over and over themselves, riding the mountain. The sound of rain on the roof. Your husband's eyes when he kisses you. The feel of your children as they come to wrap their arms around you.

Remember, please, that the fog lifts.

Believe, that it will lift again, and again, and rise until one day…
you will be so busy smiling, the skin beside your eyes crinkling,
so busy laughing with your children and cooking and learning and loving…
it will take you ages to notice the fog has completely gone.

Love to you all.

'tis the season

2011-12-24T13:59:00.000+11:00

Oh, it's been so busy! Hasn't it? Don't you think?

I remember a day somewhere where I lay down and had a nap. It was amazing.

Since then and before, we've been flat out.

What with? What with-n't I say!

(oh, I know that's not a word. I know)

Three story compilations edited and published into little books. One book was of stories by my lovely Tuesday writers workshop, another was of my son's stories, and another was of my girl's (along with sweet illustrations). I thought it would just take a minute to put these together. How funny!

A trip to Sydney where we got to stay in a hotel RIGHT downtown, something I'd never done before. A whole weekend of browsing, present buying, bus riding, movie making, food eating, caroling, hanging out with my mum, and running around in the hotel like silly monkeys. It was so much fun.

Creating dozens of little crocheted bookmarks to give as gifts. Another thing I thought would take just a minute!

Bike riding, on my mum's borrowed exercise bike. I'm supposed to ride it every day. When I don't feel like it, I think, well, I have to. It's part of my get-well-package, like insulin or heart pills might be. Or at least a bit like that.

Getting presents ready, especially for loved ones over in the US. Yes, you heard me right, dear people in Arizona. Your gifts are Officially in the mail!

Getting ready to host Christmas with my sister and my niece. Now the under-the-couch area has been vacuumed, along with the corners of all the rooms, where cobwebs had grown like little spring flowers. The study/guest room that used to be a study/guest room, but had become the place we folded laundry and shoved stuff when people were coming over, is now a study/guest room again. Thank you, beautiful husband. It looks so lovely I might use it as a study again. Imagine that. Plus, food has been bought. And not last minute either: like, two whole days ago. Now we are sitting and waiting for them to arrive. We are twiddling our thumbs and peering out the windows.

There's been jolly and not -so-jolly walking hand in hand. It's the anniversary of two family members passing away. There have been other difficult moments. I've seen my counsellor twice and she has been extraordinary in helping me sift, find the joy, hold it up to the light.

And there's been silly. Just plain laugh 'til you cry silly. I love that part.

We've got jingly reindeer antlers ready to wear; we've got green and red napkins that match the candles; I am planning to bake and host and play games that make our sides hurt with laughter.

I am peering out the window. The stockings have been hung with care, at the least the ones for the pets, on the exercise bike.

Let the joy rise!

And to you all, I hope this season brings love in bucketloads, and peace and the kind of smiling that hurts your cheeks.

a particular day

2011-12-12T23:56:00.004+11:00

I almost missed this.

sunset
Samoa, December 12, 2010

With ten minutes to go of the day, I suddenly realised today is the anniversary of my dad passing away. He has been gone now for 11 years.

One year ago, we stood by a rock pool in Samoa, a deeply spiritual place, and spoke of him.

The water was so still while we were speaking. Just before my sister opened the box with his ashes inside, just as she was talking, a wave washed into the pool and lapped at my sister's ankles.

We spread his ashes over the water. As I said goodbye to my father with my sister by my side, I finally cried. Properly, deeply, hard.

And afterwards? We threw frangipani flowers over the water. They smelled so beautiful in our hands.

Love, and peace, to you all.

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feathered angels and soulful light

2011-12-11T09:12:00.003+11:00

Hey, it turns out tawny frogmouths aren't owls at all! I've been misleading you this whole time. Shame on me!

They are so much like owls that many people think they are. But The Owl Pages website explains why they are not.

Still, they were so very beautiful. They haven't been back. Must be off somewhere, making someone else's day. Like fuzzy-feathered, winged, beaked, big-eyed angels. :)

•

We went looking for the lunar eclipse last night. Me in my jammies and ugg boots, my husband in his boxer shorts, standing out on our just-mown lawn under a soulful sky.

The moon was hiding behind clouds, perhaps, or swooning away behind some trees, so we never saw it shine and change. But it was still magical. Standing in that ethereal light. With my husband, in the garden. The frogs chirruping and insects whispering amongst themselves.

Something rustled loudly in the trees. I think our new chooks roost up there. Perhaps they were startled to see humans roaming about their bedroom… I know I'd be alarmed to see them in mine.

We drifted upstairs and slept with the curtains open. Fans whirred in the kids' bedrooms. And the moon quietly transformed itself while we slept, and silver light coated our dreams.

and good things look like this

2011-12-09T00:57:00.002+11:00

Because here, all around, is beauty happening. Right under my nose. It's everywhere. I just have to walk a step and I'm tripping over Sheer Wonderful.

A whole week of wonderful, in fact.

Which I am so glad about. So very thankful for.

Saturday
brought a whole day of Lego League National Tournament-ing. We went up to Sydney and cheered on my son's former lego league team. We cheered ourselves hoarse (at least I did). National champions last year, this year, the team came second.

Second! Woot! Well done! Now they've been invited, again, to represent Australia in an international tournament. And because we were part of the team for the first 2/3 of the season, the coaches and families have (incredibly kindly) said my son can come too, if he wants. How about that? Looks like we might, maybe, possibly, be going to Germany or the US next year. A-ma-zing.

Here's a taste of what the day was like. It was beautiful. Spirit rising beautiful. Kids supporting each other beautiful. We had a wonderful day.

Sunday
brought a full day of Conservatorium Open Day performances at our Town Hall. My husband was there for 12 hours straight…and somehow in all his busy-ness and tiredness, he was still so funny and beautiful. How does he do that?

My son played in three concerts. In this photo, he is about to solo on piano. A grand piano. In the Town Hall. Out there, improvising on the high wire. So inspiring.

Monday
brought the circus. And a boy on a trapeze…

and a girl writing stories on the laptop as I talked with friends.

Later, we took a long walk. There was talking and going all the way to the shops to have sorbet (for a girl) and hot chocolate (for a boy), and then a browse in the library. So peaceful.

Plus there was more talking, talking, talking. We were processing sadness, but in a way that made us laugh and reclaim ourselves. Then there was more laughter thrown in for good measure. So lovely!

Tuesday
brought my mum. The three of us took her out to an impromptu lunch for her birthday.

I love hanging out with my mum. The kids adore her. We are so lucky.

Tuesday saw me thinking a lot about where I wasn't, while at the same time looking around at where I was. I looked at what I had. Who I was with. When I looked, I saw so much smiling.

And Tuesday
brought a family of four tawny frogmouth owls. Right to the jacaranda tree outside our window. They sat there, dozing and dreaming, for the entire day.

At dusk, I took this little movie. At some point in the film, the mama owl feeds her baby. Listen to my daughter being utterly blown away :)

Wednesday
brought a park date with two beautiful families—one family being dear new friends and the other family being dear old friends. It saw children running all around, playing for 3 hours straight.

And afterwards, my daughter said, "I know we haven't known them [our new friends] for very long, but already I feel like I've known them forever!" She was so happy.

But Wednesday night came,

and just like that,

the sorrow rose.

Sorrow I'd been keeping at bay for days—ever since some triggers earlier in the week. Just like that, it rose and sat flat on me.

How strange, to be surrounded by beauty and joy, and still be squished by sadness. To spend days with kind, loving people, and still feel sadness there like a prickle on the skin. Like a steady, close buzz. Tinting whole sweet days, just a little,
blue.

How strange, and how perfectly normal, too? Normal, to be joyful, then suddenly, to mourn. To find and reclaim joy, only to forget again and be sad.

I think this is part of grieving.

Not just these new hurts, but old ones too. There they go, all the hard bits of the past, tumbling together with the present, tangled and tumbled, tumbled and tangling.

And I think this is part of letting go.

Of what I thought life should look like, what I thought I needed, and thought life should have.

And I think this is part of accepting.

What IS.

So, here's to sorrow and joy, coming intertwined. The dark and the light, like two walkers. Moving together. Holding hands.

As for today?

Today
brought clarity.

Today brought friends and family, and loving words, and professional help.

It is so clear,
how much love there is.

I am loved. We are loved.
We are.

We are blessed, blessed, blessed.

Today I was driving. Just me, the car, the road.

Beautiful music was playing on the radio.

And in that moment, I felt as though I was

surrounded by butterflies.

.

grief feels like this

2011-12-07T22:01:00.002+11:00

an okay day and a good day and a great day

then a bad.

bad that follows you.

bad like a sinkhole.

an unrelenting urge to lay your head down on the table, wherever you are, whoever you are with.

a night of vivid dreams, and when you wake,
all day you hold one dream close
because in it
everything was back the way it once was.

it feels like
you've fallen overboard. You are swimming, swimming to get back,
but the boat moves steadily away. You can see the lights; you can hear the laughter and the music on the decks. You tread water. The boat moves away.

it feels like missing. You miss your friend. You miss your friends. You miss the laughter, the cups of tea, the times on the couch with small children showing you stories. You miss confiding and letting go. You miss everyone. You miss talking, being, sharing together.

you miss them. You miss them. You miss them.

and all you want is to walk into a forest

and cover yourself with leaves.

So.

What do you do?

I suppose you keep treading water. You keep your head up, as tired as you are.

You look north south east west.

You see,

there, and there, and there,

other boats. How did you not see them before? They are all around.

Perhaps,

you swim.

Perhaps, you hold up a hand.

As tired as you are,

perhaps you wave until someone sees you.

You swim.

People stand at the deck's edge. They throw out a line,

and you pull and they pull. Hand over hand over hand.

A ladder comes down. It takes everything you have, everything that's in you, to grab that ladder. You pull up. Hand over hand over hand.

It takes a long time.

To swim. To wave. To pull. To rise.

When you enter the new boat, this always-there-but-for-the-seeing boat,

you are exhausted.

But all around you are faces,

smiling.

People bring you blankets, warm drinks. They watch over you.

They keep you close, these beautiful people.

They keep you above the water.

how much

2011-12-02T10:39:00.000+11:00

I think I've mentioned before, like here and here and here, how much I love my husband, and what a good man he is.

He's a beautiful person. From the inside to the outside, from the tips to the ends. All the way through.

But he's not just beautiful to me, or to my family. He's beautiful, and dedicated, and inspiring, to many, many other people in his life too.

He is a music educator. He lives and breathes music. He shares this love with anyone and everyone. He is music, I think. Take an x-ray, and you'd probably see notes—notes everywhere! Crowding, calling, laughing, singing out.

Two weeks ago, I got to celebrate and share what this beautiful man has achieved.

Two weeks ago, I was at a 10-year reunion concert, marking 10 years of a jazz program that my husband built from the ground up. A program that, before my husband arrived, had one combo with 5 kids in it. There are now hundreds of kids enrolled. There are combos, ensembles, a school bands program, and a killer jazz orchestra that's about to tour the US West coast. Every month, world-class jazz musicians come to perform. My husband has been involved in music festivals, international tours, and jazz camps. He is incredible, devoted and so hard working. He is completely passionate about what he does.

That night, two weeks ago, I was sitting contentedly in the dark of the concert. Tucked high up on the second floor, in an almost sold-out theatre, sitting with my girl (and without my boy, who was away at scout camp).

I suddenly thought, This is amazing. What my husband has done. What he has helped to create. Because now he has an amazing jazz faculty; he has an amazing assistant and co-conspirator; there are now others helping teach in the school bands program, and the program is growing, growing. Now he is building something with others. Now he's part of a beautiful team.

Emotion rose inside me. I felt so moved. I suddenly thought, Someone should say something. Someone should mark this moment. Someone should thank this man.

And I thought, Perhaps they've organised to give him flowers? Maybe someone will pop onto the stage at the end and say something. Yeah, I'm sure someone will. Someone else. I snuggled back in my chair, there in the shadows.

Then I thought, People are busy. Life is busy. This concert is squeezed in between busy and busy. Hmmm. I don't know that anyone's going to pop onto the stage.

I suddenly realised.

It's me.

I'm going to go on stage. Here. In front of over a hundred people. I am going to thank this beautiful man.

Holy mackerel. Instant nausea.

And so, as the music played, I tried to think of what I'd say. Some words came in. Nausea rose. My skin prickled. I felt cold. I thought of more words. My mouth went dry. Over a hundred people were in this room.

Then my husband said, "This will be our last piece for the night," and the orchestra began to play.

I leaned over and whispered in my girls' ear, "I'm going to go on stage to say thank you to Daddy."
Her eyes went huge.
"Really?!"
"Yep."
Big grin. "I'm coming!" she said, and we both stood.

We went down the stairs, into the lower level. We saw my husband's colleague who was videotaping the concert. I leaned in and whispered, "Do you think there'll be an encore?"
He said, "I think this'll be it."
"I want to go up and say something," I said. "When do you think would be a good time?"
His eyes went huge.
The music ended.
Big, slow smile.
"Now, I'd say."

Now.

And here, for the hearing impaired (because even I can't tell half of what I said in this video!) is the text of my speech. Somehow, I found the right words to say.

I haven't the same volume in my voice as my husband, and I don't know how he does this, night after night, but I wanted to say a few words because the spirit has moved me. Ten years ago, or just over ten years ago, I was a very homesick young mother living in California with a music teacher for a husband, and I asked him, would he please, please come to Australia with me. And he said, Of course. And it was uncomplicated for you because you loved us so much.
And so then he came here, to this country, to this beautiful place, and you didn't know anybody. You just knew my family, and that was it. And on day 2 of arriving, he picked up the yellow pages and started looking for work.
And I've never seen anyone more dedicated or more devoted to his job than you. And the passion you have for music and music education and the people that you teach and are part of—whose lives you're a part of—is extraordinary, and it shines in every single thing you do. And you've helped build something beautiful here. And I've never seen anything like it, and I think you're amazing, and I'm very very glad you came here.

roll up, roll up, summer has begun…

2011-12-01T10:00:00.001+11:00

It's day one.

Here we are!

Summer. Officially! (According to the Western Calendar, that is).

Which means every single day will be glorious. Right?

Are you listening, Sky? Sun? Clouds? Ocean? Wind?

It's day one.

It's my mother's birthday today. I love you so much, Mom. I hope your day is so beautiful you can hardly stand it.

It's day one.

I saw my counsellor/therapist person yesterday. She's my long-time regular counsellor, the one who was living overseas when I needed to see her last year. The one I actually hadn't seen in 3 years. Woah. That's a long time between talks.

She was so lovely. She said, Be wary of labels. (That is, blindly accepting them. Letting them define you). She said, Go information gathering. Look at your treatment options. There isn't one way to do this. And, after she and I talked about all the Stuff…and I said, "This is no way to live. When my life is this beautiful and I'm still this sad, something has to shift"…she showed me her pad of paper, where she had written what I'd said in huge capitals: THIS IS NO WAY TO LIVE.

So. We are agreed. We have a plan.

Something is shifting.

Are you listening, Self? Fear? Brain? Doubt? Universe?

It's day one.

The kids and I have also come up with a Plan. The kids and I have realised that "Mum is like a puppy. She needs regular food and walks." If I don't get walked, I fret and chew the furniture! It's pitiful, really.

So every day after breakfast, we plan to do some exercise. So far, we've walked to the beach and along to the next suburb, then taken a train home (so fun). We've walked around our streets exploring. And today, the plan is to Swim.

Yesterday was supposed to have a swim in it, but instead there were two visits to the vet. One for a very sick chook (who didn't make it) and one for an arthritic dog (who did make it and should make it for years more, but can no longer jump into or out of cars. I need to lift him. He is heavy). Some days don't go to plan. Doesn't mean you give up. Right?

R.I.P Chook. We'll miss you.

It's day one.

I haven't written about homeschooling in ages. Our year is winding down, but the kids haven't lost steam. My girl is flying, and I mean flying, through maths right now. She's got her times tables down. She's learning long division. She's adding and subtracting like a fiend. She knows how to figure out change. She knows her shapes and angles and weights and time and probability. She finished Year 3 maths a week and a half ago, and is now rocketing through Year 4. Who would have thunk it? Seriously. Where's the sparkling apple juice? We need to CELEBRATE!

This last week she's also written a cat magazine, plus created a brochure for a kitten surf school.

And along with the hundred other stories she's working on, she is writing a series of tales about her beloved cat Mittens. Mittens is adorable, annoying and very simple minded. We call her Shmoo. Here's one of the "tails" my girl has written:

TAIL 2.

“Dis is a gigantic drinking bowl,” thought Mittens, peering into the toilet. “It’s vewy smewy.” She leaned over to look and...fell in!“MARRROWWGGLLE!!!” she gurgled, thrashing around. “It GURGLEMMOWW!!! Doesn’t MMOWW!!! Taste MMERRR!!! Dat GUURRGLLE!!! Nice!” She scrabbled out of the toilet and ran off to the other end of the house, dripping wet.
“I don’t tink dat was a dwinking bowl after all,” she said, licking herself. “But if it was, It would need fwesh water.” She walked to the mother of the house and mowed: “If dat’s a dwinking bowl, pwease change da water. It wasn’t vewy pweasnt to dwink.”
The mother of the house wondered why the kitten was so wet.

So funny!

My boy is all about his schedule right now. He practices, he does his maths, and now he has asked to "do history." So I found some cool e-workbooks on Rome that he's really enjoying. He loves knowing what's ahead, this one.

Plus he's doing chemistry experiments, and researching periods in art. He's watercolouring, sketching, painting, writing, reading reading reading. He's doing music, circus, scouts, and art class, and all the time he's watching over his family like a shepherd.

The kids are like a carnival.

You come into their lives and watch them Being. Doing. Learning. Loving. You see all the rides, and the sparkling lights. You see how nothing is dimmed, or if there are dark spaces, they don't stay dark for long. There is talking, laughing; there are games and prizes. Oh, the prizes! You can't believe just how wonderful they are. You carry them in your arms; you are full of spun candy and soft toys and laughter 'til your sides shake. You can't believe how lucky you are to be here. To see this. To be a part of it.

Getting to be their mum, and parenting with my beautiful husband, are without a doubt the best things that have ever happened to me.

It is day one.

Vegie Wednesday on a Saturday: thanksgiving

2011-11-26T13:27:00.005+11:00

Thank you, so much, for your comments on my last post.

Thank you, so much, for sticking around. I am so grateful for that, and for you. I hope to be around for you as much as you have been for me.

I suppose this is a beginning, then? Where I declare Loving to Learn to be about Everything and Nothing and all the bits in between.

I am so glad for that.

And thank you, in advance, for reading a Vegie Wednesday post written on a Saturday! (I think it's clear to everyone now, that my attempts at living a predictable life are futile. Which I think—actually I believe—is okay.)

Thanksgiving: different but the same

Nine years ago, we began a tradition of having Thanksgiving dinner here in Australia. We did it with our neighbours and friends who had lived in the US for almost 2 years. When we decided to do it, we consulted our American expert, my husband, for the Official Thanksgiving Menu. He said:

"There's one way to do it. I'm going to give you a list. These things HAVE to be on the table."

There had to be mashed potatoes. Then some sweet potato dish, and gravy—there had to be lots, no, oodles, of gravy. Cranberry sauce needed to be there, but it didn't need to be fresh. Out of a can was fine. Plus we needed to have "some sort of green thing," my husband said. "It can be green beans or peas. I won't necessarily eat them, but they have to be there."

Of course there would be pumpkin pie. It had to be served with whipped cream AND icecream. And without question, there would be a big old turkey. The turkey was not negotiable.

So that's what we've eaten. Year after year, with this family and various invited friends, for 9 years.

Last year, we were vegetarian, but my husband was on the fence. He was still a meat-dabbler, a turkey nibbler. Last year, the kids and I ate the vegies, and my son and I tasted a single turkey slice each. (And then decided it was not for us, ever again).

This year we are committed vegans (well, that is, if you don't count our eggs from the backyard chooks and the honey we still eat. We're never very good at fitting completely into labels).

Our friends are committed carnivores. Yikes. What would we do? Would we have a big old bird on the table or not? Such a quandary!

Then our friends decided to go away camping for the rest of the year. The turkey/no turkey dilemma was avoided for another year, but it left us wondering what we should do on this special day. Celebrate it? Ignore it? Try and replicate the menu using vegan alternatives? (Tofurkey anyone?) Invite friends, or not?

I have loved our Thanksgiving menu in the past. Who doesn't love knowing that on a single day, every year, you'll put the same delicious food on the table, and share it with loved ones? It's the same fizzy, delighted feeling you get when you put the Christmas tree up. You pull out the decorations, the home-made ornaments, the tinsel. You dig out the stockings. And every single year on Christmas day, you give presents. It's a tradition.

Like all the other important holidays, in every culture, there's a way to do it. There are particular foods you eat, rituals you follow. And I have never ever celebrated a Thanksgiving and not had a turkey sitting on the table when we sat down to eat.

So what did we do this year?

Well.

We decided to re-invent.

We decided that Thanksgiving didn't actually have to have a turkey.

(Crazy, I know!)

We decided, actually, Thanksgiving wasn't about my husband's long ago list of Must Eats.

(But it was such a good list!)

At its heart, we decided,

Thanksgiving is about sitting together with loved ones, sharing gratitude, sharing a meal.

This is true, isn't it? As yummy as the food is, as delicious as that turkey leg used to be for me, and the lashings of whipped cream all over that pie, it's the sitting and the sharing and the thankfulness that matters most.

I can't think of anyone who wouldn't agree.

(At least in part! All you Thanksgiving turkey lovers would say: Yeah. It's that, AND the turkey.)

So this year, for our Thanksgiving, we invited two new families over. Two families who are very dear to us. Two Australian families who had never done Thanksgiving before in their lives. Luckily they had no tradition to be attached to, so we could experiment on them with our very own Vegan thanksgiving menu. Lucky, unsuspecting them :)

Ah, it was a beautiful night.

We had home-made guacamole and corn chips for appetisers. Then for dinner, there was loads of garlic bread, and a roasted pumpkin and sweet potato salad with chick peas. Plus an enormous Vegan Shepherd's pie with green lentils, tons of vegies, and a crisp mashed potato topping. For dessert? Fresh mangoes and mango sorbet.

YUM.

not my pie, but it's pretty, no?
I got the recipe from here and then tweaked it a lot.
Our pie wasn't spicy. Our pie had lentils.

There were 15 of us, and we somehow fitted everyone around two tables, kids mixed in with adults. I had to borrow a pie dish and 8 plates from a friend, and one of the tables had a bedspread for a table cloth (don't tell anyone). We served the sorbet in coffee mugs because we didn't have enough bowls. The 9 kids tore about deliriously all night, and I think a 2-year-old guest might have swallowed the fooz-ball balls (we can't find them anywhere! I hope my friend doesn't find a strange surprise in her boy's nappy. Sorry 'bout that).

We were full, and more to the point,

we were so happy.

As we ate, we took turns saying what we were thankful for. The kids spoke, and the adults spoke. We spoke when we were moved to. We spoke from the heart.

The words we said were beautiful.

They floated.

Thankfulness lay itself on our skin.

It shifted inside us, finding room like children snuggling into laps.

We were thankful all the way through. We were joyous inside and out.

What a wonderful Thanksgiving it was.

What lucky, blessed people we are.

What a lucky, blessed person I am.

(And I nearly didn't go through with this wonderful night. I nearly let my recent health and possible diagnosis, overwhelm me. It would have been understandable if I'd just taken it easy. I lay in bed that morning, after writing my last post, and I thought, I'm not sure I can do this.
My son came and found me, as my kids always do. He lay down and wrapped his arms around me. He knew about my visit to the doctor and he knew some of what the doctor had said.
He said, "Mum, on a scale of one to ten, how much do you want to just lie in bed today, and read, and crochet?"
I said, "I think about an 8, or 9."
"So that's what you should do, Mum. You should do that."
But then I said, "But if you ask me how much I want these friends over, who I really want to spend tonight with, then I would have to say a 10."

Which meant we went for it.

It meant I chose love. I chose joy. I always will. To the best of my abilities, I always will.)

giving thanks: in sickness and in health

2011-11-24T09:03:00.002+11:00

When I started this blog, in the wee hours of the morning almost two years ago, I thought it would be a homeschooling blog. Where I wrote about our journey—for me as a homeschooling mother, and for my kids as learners. I wanted to record our learning, and think about our methods. I wanted to focus on our love for learning, especially our creative learning and how important that was to our day.

Loving to learn was born. No fanfare, just a simple Plop, or perhaps a tiny Plink, and it was there.

I began to write. Very sporadically at first. More and more deeply as time passed.

I found myself writing not just about homeschool, but about parenting too. About choosing Yes in my parenting days over No.

I found myself

walking into Yes.

Into everything that meant. In our homeschool days,
in learning in general,
in our life.

Choosing Yes opened my eyes.

That choice became a turning over of the soil for me. It began a deep digging down and a deep unearthing.

It became clear that I wanted and needed to share more.

I began sharing myself, my own story.

My journey into and out of sadness, and how Choosing Yes was in fact a part of a bigger picture.

That of Finding Joy.

Seeking and finding joy, is for me,
the way I try daily to save my life. To lift and fill it.

This blog has become something Else.

In writing it, and in the passing of time, I have become something,

someone

Else.

I am

a grown up

a writer

and a mother,

but I am ALSO

and have become

a homeschooler

a learning 'facilitator'

a student—of art, crochet, cooking, maths, astronomy, physics, history, knitting, sewing, gardening and lego robots

a cook, a cleaner, a dog washer and the owner of two fairly challenging cats

a lap (available at any time)

a vegan

the mother to two bright young artists, writers, inventors, and musicians (who are an inspiration to me)

and the wife to one extraordinary, beautiful man.

I am also

officially,

someone suffering from clinical depression.

As of this moment. As of Right Now.

And

as of yesterday, after a visit to my doctor, and a long long talk,

I am also possibly, probably,

someone with bipolar disorder II.

I am someone who will have to get treatment. See a counsellor, see a psychiatrist, go to naturopaths and to doctors. Someone who must seek help. Someone who might have to go on medication for life.

Where does that fit? In this life of mine that is

so beautiful?

So full? So blessed?

How is it even possible?

And how does that fit here, into this blog?

Where and how do I write about that?

Really. Without people squirming and looking away?

How do I write and not think: This is too much. This might make people see me differently. That label is not for people like me, is it?

Is it?

It must be, if it is true. If it turns out to be part of who I am, then it is. As much as any of the things on my list of Me.

On this day, I am either moving into good-bye, because writing about this was never what this blog was meant to be about.

Or I am beginning a new journey here. Where I write about finding the joy, more and more. Where I show our day-to-day and our Good,

along with the Hard and the Healing.

I wonder which one it should be.

I do know that having been swept hard into the undertow, I'm barely writing. I know that right now, I rarely leave comments on other peoples' blogs. That makes me sad, because I have found so much support and so much inspiration from their (your) words. I know that some days putting one foot in front of the other, thinking of what to have for dinner, finding moments to smile and laugh and really BE with my family, is an effort.

So what does the future hold?

Wellness, I hope.

Joy. I believe.

It will find me giving thanks,

every single day,

for the life I have, the people in it, the love in it.

I know it will see me
walking daily into love.

Today is Thanksgiving.

Today I am scared. I am sad. I am uncertain.

And I am so utterly thankful.

.

why I write sometimes about being sad

2011-11-16T23:35:00.007+11:00

I'm feeling Peace, again, of the 'mostly' kind. It's a welcome feeling. It's kind of fluid, kind of wobbly, mostly kind of nice.

This is what it looks like
I think.

It looks a little bit like acceptance. Like letting life Be.
Because life keeps on Being, doesn't it? No matter what.
It Be's and Be's and Be's. And before you know it, you're Being along with it. You can't help yourself. Life's like a jig you hear—you can't help but tap your feet.

'Mostly Peace' moves, with moods that shift like the wind. A gloomy, gusty wind, sometimes. Other times, a low breeze, calm and soothing. Wind over lake water, bringing the morning calls of birds. Sometimes it brings rain—majestic, maybe, or thunderous. Sometimes it's a rain to dance to. Sometimes, it's just rain.

'Mostly Peace' looks like

looking around. And noticing

all the love that's here, in the room and outside it.

There's a whole lot of love, I've noticed. How beautiful that is to see.

'Mostly Peace' isn't 'All-the-way-through Peace.' I'd be lying if I said, 'Hey! All I see is sun!'

Because I think I've come to realise something very important.

Depression, that mysterious thing—the thing that can topple a person, bring them to their knees—the thing that sometimes (maybe even Often, or Usually) you get to leave far behind—is a part of me. As much as any other part of me might be.

I used to be so afraid of that. I have been as afraid of being sad as someone might be of shark attacks or spiders or bears.

I believed that sadness, suffering a pervasive, often inexplicable sadness some days, and succumbing to it some days, meant I'd failed. I'd failed at being Normal. At being happy. At Life.

But that's not possible.

Because look: I am here. Aren't I?

Living it.

I get out of bed, almost every single day. I cook, I eat, I talk, I laugh, most of the time. I love my children to the ends of the earth, all of the time. I love with all my heart. Faithfully and foolishly. Giddily and always. This much and this big.

I walk my dog and don't walk my dog. I weep and I don't weep. I feel hollowed out and devastated and then I don't.

And still: I am here.

Even on the hardest days.

And in this moment, I want to explain why I write about this thing called Depression.

This thing that is Being Sad.

I write about it because

living, truly living,

matters so much to me.

I write about it
because I think,
If even one person reads this and feels less alone or hollow, then my words have done something
good.

I write about it
because there are lots of us.
If you close your eyes and feel the threads of us, here we are—a translucent web, connected. Truly, you and I are not alone.

I write about it,
because what I care most about, and believe is possible

is the getting UP.

Finding the joy.

I write about that often, don't I?

More than that—I write how I find it.

Sometimes it's in something as simple as stirring porridge. Sometimes it takes a beach and a dog and holding hands with someone small. Sometimes it's hearing a bird call or seeing how light moves through a leaf, altering it. Sometimes it's in a movie, or a moment on the couch with your hands around a cup of tea. Or in talking to people you love, or sharing a meal, or getting a hug just when you need it most.

Joy is there. It's always there, waiting.

I write about looking UP.
Because I have spent months sometimes, looking down. Look up, I tell myself. I say it and say it. Look up, if you can. Even if it's only a little. Look up.

And I write about living

as much and as big as I can,

even if some days the Big is kind of small.
Even if all I have inside are small steps.

Those are wonderful. Those steps can be the most important ones you take.

I write about it all because I am so very glad for This.

This Peace, and Mostly Peace, and Elusive Peace, and the Peace that comes and surprises me just when I think I might never see it again. It's waiting there,
a lot like Joy.

I think sometimes they sit together, you know? Peace and Joy. Like two old men at the bus stop. Just waiting for you to pass by, and pick them up.

.

into the light

2011-11-11T22:28:00.001+11:00

And quite suddenly, the sun comes.

You're looking out over the open ocean, perhaps, or a range of mountains, or some other open space. Looking out into the distance, out to the East. You're stamping your feet against the cold, perhaps. Blowing on your fingers, feeling kind of giddy. Because you are up early, mindfully. To see something extraordinary. To be a witness to light,

rising.

You see the clouds change first. They are the heralds. They hark and marvel at the light. They stream in pinks and golds. Streaks of change, the idea of it, marking the sky.

Then, there, just over the horizon. It comes in a glimmer to begin with.
Slowly, slowly, a band of light appears. A glow.

Something, here and now, is happening.
Something is possible.
Something different.

Something magical.

Suddenly it is here.

The sun appears.

Bold. Glorious. New.

And the sky shouts.

Light! Light!

Light arising!

The birds wheel and marvel; they careen into that blue like daredevils.

Light! they call.

Light arising!

And there you are. Tiny. Awestruck. Standing, watching, your mouth open, your heart lifting. Because you are witness, here and now. To something extraordinary. You could watch this every day and you would never stop marvelling, being thankful, feeling blessed.

You press yourself into the light—it opens its arms and lets you in.

Peace be with you,

on this special day of ones,

and beginnings!

Peace be rising.

Peace be by your side.

Look at how it shines

2011-11-10T01:01:00.001+11:00

What do you do?

When you are a writer but you can't write?
When just looking at words exhausts you, and inside, you feel filled with silence?

What do you do when some days you can hardly speak or move because the Sad is so big?

When you can see joy, so clearly—it's right in front of you—but it skims over you, past you. It can't get in.

What do you do when you feel thin as clouds?

What do you do when you know you should feel your good life deeply, you should feel it well, but you can't? It's as though you are outside yourself. Watching the smiling and the good things and the sweetness but you can't get to it. You know, logically, the joy is there. You want so badly to have it inside, to keep it close. You wish for it—you will it inside. But it slips by.

Two nights ago, my son said, "Mum, do you think you'll ever feel happy again?"

All I could say was, "I think so, sweetheart. I hope so. I'm working on it."

How hard that moment was.

What do you do when the loss of a friendship brings back your whole history? Everything you've ever feared and everything that was devastating about your childhood—here it is again.

But now you're a Grown-up and you should be able to take it, shouldn't you? Where is your armour, woman? Where is your bounce? Why are you lying down? Why aren't you fighting?

Damn it, get up.
Why can't you stop crying?

So.

What do you do?

Well, I guess you start right here. Right now. With something simple. You make yourself raise your head. You look around. You point yourself towards the good that is. Whatever you can see.

Here, you point. And here

and here.

My girl's birthday was on Friday. She's 9 now. She is so beautiful to me.

She had such a great day. She got a windmill house and tiny toy cats to put inside. The paddles of the windmill actually wind up and move. How amazing is that?? Guess how big her smile was all day?
It was this big.

I just held her close and breathed her in.

We went to Taronga Zoo in Sydney on Saturday. With my niece who makes every day technicolour. She is so cool. My kids loved being with her. We laughed and gave hugs and saw tiger cubs! My kids got toy animals from the zoo shop and played with them the whole car ride home. AND we found vegan gluten free pizzas for dinner in Newtown—one of the hippest areas of Sydney. What a fine day that was.

Then it was my birthday on Sunday. My very own. I got cuddles and sweet presents (toy foxes and owls from my kids. So gorgeous). Dear friends came for lunch. They sang happy birthday to me in three part harmony. Can you believe it? It doesn't get more beautiful than that.

After our friends left, I walked the dog. Slowly, slowly, just the two of us, to the park and back. And then—as the kids read peacefully on their beds,
and my husband took a nap—
I went
quietly, privately,
to church.

It's not something I regularly do, or grew up with (religion and faith were not my parents' thing at all). So now I'm a grown up, I visit places of worship with wonder. I go to church services like they're an Event, like an art opening or the ballet. Each time, it feels special. Every time, I feel like a tourist, wondering how and where I can fit. I sit there taking it all in, my mind and heart open.

Just before the service started, I met a woman who has read my blog all year, who has sent me the kindest emails, even given me a book. I walked up and said, "D__? I'm Helena." We hugged like we'd known each other for years. What a gift that was.

The kids were waiting for me when I got back.

"Where did you go, Mum?" they asked. "What did you do?"
I told them, and they said, "That's great. That's cool."

Because, if I've taught them anything, it's to explore.
To learn, to reach for things bigger than them, to dream. To let everything in.
To be open.

I try to live that, with everything I am.

Then on Monday, I had to face our loss all over again.

Friends were meeting up for lunch, but not us—we couldn't be a part of that circle any more. On Tuesday, our regular group met, but we aren't part of that any more either—I can't see how to go without causing stress.

All the lift I'd found—the positive I'd tried to build over the past three days—disappeared.

Monday and Tuesday were deep and hollow.

And I blamed myself completely. I felt (and still feel) so sorry—even without knowing exactly what we did. I keep thinking, Somehow, I missed something. Somewhere, there was a moment I could have turned this around. I could have been finer, more together, been a better friend. I could have fixed it. And then I wouldn't have this loss. I wouldn't be here, on the outside.

Childhood all over again.

Days like these you think, How do I get out? Where do I go?
Where are the ladders, where is the light?

You look out and think you see nothing.

But yesterday, in all that hollowness, I took my kids to the pool. We swam and relaxed, and in that moment my girl—who has steadfastly refused to have swim lessons—suddenly figured out how to breaststroke. Just like that.

On Monday, I took my son to circus class. He laughed with his friends and learned to spin a plate. He loved that.

Tuesday afternoon, I ran my after school writers workshop. Those kids are so fantastic. Every single time I see them I am glad.

Last night I had a date with my husband to the movies. The film was lovely and sweet. I curled my arms around my husband's arm and he kept his hand resting on my leg.

My mother watched the kids while we went out. She is so beautiful. She is staying close—like a mama bird with her wing out.

Each day I have cooked for my kids. I've taken them to every place they needed to be. When I have seen friends, I have smiled.

This Friday is lunch with friends, old and new. I just know it will be filled with Lovely.

Tomorrow is another swim, with other good friends. Another swim to go with the one we had on Tuesday, and the one we had today, out in the glorious summer sun.

As for this moment?

Well, the frogs are croaking outside. The dog lies, splayed out, on the cool tiles. My husband is reading upstairs in bed.

The children lie in their beds with fans blowing on their skin. Their cheeks are so soft. Their smell—I could live inside it. And inside their kindness, their sensitivity, their thoughtfulness. Inside their pealing laughter. Inside the way they reach out to me,

with their wings out, sheltering.

Ah.

Look at this.

What I have.

What we have, together.

Such beauty.

Look,
I say to myself.

Look, please.

Look at how it shines.

vegie wednesday: a book and a burger

2011-11-02T22:48:00.004+11:00

Here we go, my first Vegie Wednesday post! I meant to start last week but…didn't.

Life's like that, isn't it? All unpredictable and pebbly sometimes?
But you keep on. At least, you try.

So yesterday marked day one of moving on. And today? Well, it's day one again, like tomorrow will be. Fresh and unbroken—a field of unmarked snow. Perfect for making new prints, unlike any I've made before.

Anyway, on to Vegie Wednesday! Here goes nothing, as they say…!

So I read this book the other day.

Now, there are books you read and think, "That was awesome! I couldn't put it down!" Then there are ones you think, "Yeah, it was okay, but I didn't like the part where the guy did that thing and it didn't seem that believable and I thought the language was kind of trite so anyway, meh."

And some books? Well, they change your life.

They are written in a way that completely resonates with you, all the way through. It's like the author is sitting there and simply talking. Quietly, he or she reaches in and rearranges you—the way you see things, the way you live your life, the way you want to live your life from this point on.

This book was like that.

This is the first, and probably only non-fiction book for author Jonathan Safran Foer (who wrote a book I loved, called Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close). He wrote it because, as a dabbler in vegetarianism and as a new father, he wanted to know about the food he gave his son. He wanted to know, specifically, about his meat.

He researched this book painstakingly for three years. He interviewed cattle ranchers, turkey and pig farmers, activists, members of PETA and even a vegetarian who is building a turkey slaughterhouse. He read exhaustively on the subject of animal farming—hundreds of articles, reports and books. He visited industrial farms, family operated farms, and animal sanctuaries. He went deep inside the subject and came out altered.

His book is not, in fact, one huge argument against eating animals. He actually becomes friends with a number of ranchers and farmers. He never says, "Meat is murder!" but he does say this:

The way most animals are farmed today is cruel and destructive. To the environment, to communities, to people and, especially, to the animals themselves.

Foer writes that industrial farming, the farming that represents over 90% of our pork and chickens, and over 75% of our beef, didn't exist 100 years ago. Farms have become corporatised, animals have become mere products, and many independent family farms have disappeared.

Foer presents clear evidence that this type of farming harms the environment in countless ways. He shows clear connections between factory farming and public health issues—such as our growing resistance to antibiotics, the spread of food poisoning and outbreaks of disease.

As for the way the animals are treated—at best, they are treated as commodities. At worst, the treatment is inhumane. Most of these animals lack anything resembling a normal life. Their suffering is often extreme. And this, quite simply, is how most factory farmed animals live and die.

Some of Foer's book is incredibly hard reading. It should be. I mean, we all know, in some part of ourselves, that if we had to face the reality of the modern meat industry, we'd find it a terrible thing to watch.

It's hard learning, but Foer never stands up on a soap box and shouts at us to change. He doesn't say, It's all or nothing! Do this! Do that! This way is right! This way is wrong, wrong, wrong!

He just states what he learned. Bluntly sometimes. Conversationally most of the time. Then he states what he and his family chose to do as a result of his learning, what path they chose for themselves personally.

Foer chose to become a vegetarian. My family and I, who were already vegetarian, have chosen to become (for the most part) vegan. But Foer says you can make a difference with other choices—like, by simply eating less meat. You can also make a difference buying your meat from ethical farms, family farms, local farms. You can read the food labels, do research, be informed.

Foer says, "Our day to day choices shape the world." They do, even though we sometimes feel so small and insignificant. I really believe they do.

He also writes this:

"Compassion is a muscle that gets stronger with use

and the regular exercise of choosing kindness over cruelty would change us."

When I read those words I thought, That, there, is the muscle I choose. The one I most want to strengthen.

Compassion. First, and most.

This book made such a difference to me. And I've read so much about the subject since. I'm still learning, investigating, making up my own mind. Our family is traveling the path that fits us,
but

there is no single path to walk.

I love that a book changed me. I love that a writer changed my life. That's how it should be. Books should do that to you, don't you think? Otherwise, they are just marks on a page. Otherwise, we are just people holding paper.

Now. Who wants some lentil burgers?

We made them this week. Oh, they were deliciously divine. They were lip-smackingly scrumptious!

They kind of surprised me with their yumminess, as the last two attempts at vegie burgers haven't been so great. The previous ones needed a LOT of sauce :) But these… well, they were moist, didn't fall apart when you looked at them, and were totally tasty. A very welcome addition to our new menu (which we keep adding to, so watch out!).

Here's a link to the recipe and a fancier picture than mine, so you can salivate some more:

I should mention that for our vegie burgers, I forgot to add the bread crumbs (or rice crumbs in our case). I think you don't need them and it might have made them a bit crumbly. Our burgers were really moist and moldable (just how you want your food to be, right? Moldable. Yes.)

Okay. That's it for this week's episode of Vegie Wednesday. I truly hope you enjoyed it. :)

If you want to share any tasty vegie things you've had recently, please do. I would love to think of us cooking together, leaning over the stove, sniffing, tasting, testing. Then sitting down, together, to eat.

Isn't that a beautiful thought?

.

let's begin

2011-11-01T22:48:00.001+11:00

.
Here's to
JOY.

And to moving forward.

Here's to letting go.

(of expectation, of outcomes, of the past. Of as much Stuff as you can)

Here's to living what is,

which is not always what you plan, or dream of, or wish for

but surprises you sometimes

with how very beautiful and true it can be.

Here's to beginnings.

To the rest of Now.

1. 11. 11

Here's to moving on.

Into clarity,

into light.

Into
LOVE.

Love.

Love without end.

'The greatest degree of inner tranquility comes from the development of love and compassion'

H.H. the fourteenth Dalai Lama

walking in another's shoes

2011-10-29T00:57:00.002+11:00

Such a happy day we had, she and I.

Her brother off on his jazz adventure today, his dad in tow.

leaving us to four days of Us, together.

Day One saw

she and I,

planning and designing the template for some wolf toys we'll be making out of felt tomorrow!

Which included looking up wolf images on the internet

which led to us

watching silly kitten videos on Youtube (as you do)

and making a little movie of our own, of our cat trying to crawl through a too small box. (Don't know if we'll end up putting it on Youtube, but it sure was funny)

Day One saw
she and I

eating lunch together in companionable silence because for a while there she went into a deep and thoughtful daydream about a book series she read and loved (The Wednesday Tales, if you'd like to know)

And then out we went walking the dog.

She and I
talking and laughing,
laughing and talking, and

then she made me laugh so hard I bent over

and she said so simply,

"I love hearing you laugh, Mum."

Then out we went in the afternoon

to buy felt for our toys and a new backpack and a fruit smoothie treat.

She and I shared a single smoothie—she passed it over to me time and time again without me asking,

which made my insides slip and my heart tilt.

Somewhere in the day, I think it was while walking across a field, there in that brisk wind, waiting for the old dog to catch up,

she said

so simply:

"I had a dream about them last night." (About our no-longer friends, you see)

I said, "How'd it go?"
and she said,

"It was my birthday and they were there. I was so happy we were friends again. They gave me a card and a toy paper dragon. Then… I woke up."

Ah, my beautiful girl.

And then it was dinner time,
and afterwards we snuggled up together on the couch, just

She and I.

Watching How to Train Your Dragon together, our knees touching and her spoon clinking against the bowl as she took tiny bite after tiny bite of mango sorbet. And the cat was on my lap and my girl kept leaning over to pat him, saying, "Oh!" and "Oh!" because he was so peaceful lying there and she loves him so much.

And then
it was bed-time. We two girls in our Just Us house, pottering about amiably upstairs.

Lights out, and I had my arm wrapped around her. We lay dreamily talking of the toys we would make tomorrow, and

then she said

so simply:

"Now I've got no-one to show my toys to."

Ah.

My beautiful girl.

So…
we began to talk.

Of the friends she still had, the ones she could still show things to. Of the good she still had. But we talked more of loss.

Because that's what she was feeling biggest, there in the rising dark. Hurt and confusion and sorrow. Out it spilled into that dim-lit room, as the cat licked himself on the spare bed, his leg lifted into the air like a furry dancer.

We talked for over an hour. As she spoke it hit me how old my girl was becoming. How here in this moment she was growing. Her voice was clear and calm; she asked if we could write them a letter. So we did—I went down and got the computer and she dictated. A whole page of feeling. A page saying, "Please, could you explain? Because I don't understand."

Afterwards she said, "Put a smiley face in there, Mum. So it doesn't seem mean."

We didn't send it straight away. We talked more.

We found ourselves talking about what could be the issues, trying to figure it out for ourselves. We talked about what part we might have played.

And as we talked, we walked into a sense of understanding.

We put ourselves completely in the shoes of our once-friends. We imagined ourselves walking where these friends might have walked; we imagined their path and how they might have felt. We imagined what might have made them come here, to this place that no longer had us in it. We imagined why they might have needed room and time away from us.

We saw it as though—for a moment—we were them.

And suddenly my girl said,

"Oh, Mum, I think I know what it is. I understand now! I don't want to send the letter any more. I want to give them space, Mum. We should give them space."

"And love," said I.

"Yes, let's send them love. Space and love. That's what we'll do."

And then she said

so simply,

"It's time to go to sleep."

So I kissed her and left her

with the cat looped like a spiral on the spare bed

with the night-light glowing green

with the fan on

and with her

at peace.

Ah.

My beautiful, beautiful girl.

.

(Tomorrow, I'll take photos of us making our wolves. I can't wait to share them here with you. And thank you so much for your comments and kind wishes. Thank you so much for the love.)

dear friends

2011-10-26T08:44:00.003+11:00

I want to share a story with you.

Once upon a time there was a woman who was once a girl. From almost the time she began to remember things, she

felt.

She felt the strangeness and wonder of new countries, one after another after another.

She felt the newness and isolation of going to 8 different schools, each time needing to make new friends, each time feeling so very different from the people around her.

She felt the confusion and fear that came from a home life that was often unstable.

She felt the slippery path of panic when she thought about life, the meaning of, the inevitability of death.

She was 8 when she began to have anxiety issues. She was 13 when a family friend said, "You are too sensitive. Don't be." She was perhaps 15 when she thought, "I wish you could freeze time. Just stop this, this being. Take time to get your bearings, then wake again." She was a child when life sometimes seemed impossibly big and impossibly hard.

But she kept on.

She lived. And had some extraordinary adventures and made many mistakes.

She grew up and met an incredible man and had two beautiful children. She felt everything for them so big and sometimes so hard, that now and then she was nearly swallowed by feeling. She wobbled, she stumbled, but still she kept on.

In all this, nothing changed in how deeply she

felt.

To this day, to this moment here and now, nothing has changed in how deeply she

feels.

Which means this woman, the once child, is constantly heart-open and sensitive and sometimes laid bare with feeling.

It means that she has,

—that I have—

thought, "How do I live in a world so filled with things that hurt? Everywhere I look, there is suffering. The hardest to bear is the suffering caused by human choice. In the the treatment of children, of adults in crisis, in the treatment of animals, in the treatment of the land and the sea and the sky."

How does she

—how do I—

go on?

Well.

I suppose it is with

tiny steps.

Tiny step

by tiny step.

And sometimes actually, by bigger steps. Sometimes skipping. Sometimes holding the hands of loved ones. Sometimes leaving footprints in the sand as waves roar beside. Sometimes with the wind at her back, driving her on, sometimes running with her arms out, dreaming of flight.

And sometimes, you make decisions that make the steps feel light, and sweet and fine.

Sometimes you make choices that put you on a path away from suffering. You choose the path that doesn't cause or bring hurt.

Those steps are beautiful.

Those are the steps that make me want to write my Vegie Wednesday posts.

Those are the steps that make us search for vegan cheese, and adapt to putting oat milk on our cereal. Those steps bring us to polenta and bean mix for dinner, and insanely delicious lentil burgers.

And there are other steps too.

When my kids see me donating to charities and organisations like Oxfam, Greenpeace and Medicines Sans Frontiers, they see me making choices that can help ease pain.

When my kids see my husband rescuing the enormous (enormous!) huntsman spider from a bedroom and releasing it into the garden, they see someone mindfully choosing a path away from suffering.

Those steps are

filled with light.

But you know, we aren't perfect.

Sometimes we mess up. Even if we don't mean to. Even if it's the last thing we ever want to do, we hurt others.

Sometimes the choices we make don't prevent suffering; they actually cause it.

Here, right now, is the path where I am walking.

Two days ago a friend, whose family we love, and have treasured being around, told me they no longer want to continue our friendship. It had been coming for a while, with them gradually slipping away. I didn't understand why—I was simply asked for space and gave it. So it's been a confusing and difficult time for me and a strange time for my kids. When the decision came, so very finally on Monday, it was devastating.

The reason? I guess it could be summed up as, "It's not me, it's you. More to the point, it's your children."

As a mother (as any mother knows), hearing criticism of your kids can be incredibly painful. But the issues raised were issues I believed we had resolved. When they came up a long time ago, I had spoken with my kids. They had listened, and agreed to change what they felt they could or should change. And then they (we) thought the issues resolved, let go.

I remember at the time thinking, "Ah, this is a bit tricky." I thought, "I guess this is the sticky stuff that life and interactions with other human beings brings you into. But the love gets you through, right? You ride it out, right? The hard stuff. Because at the core," I thought, "there is love." So perhaps I didn't work hard enough to sort it all out. I didn't realise that what seemed simply sticky to me, and would pass, was actually impassable for them. I made a mistake. I am so sad, so sorry about that.

My kids are not malicious kids; they are as sensitive as me and love as big and deep as I do. They would never have intentionally hurt their friends. But it seems they did hurt them. And I did. We did. And it wasn't mended in time, and now it's too late. Now, my kids are baffled and sad. As for me? Well, I am broken-hearted.

Tiny

steps.

I wrote a post about this on Monday, and then deleted it. It felt too raw then. It feels too raw now. Thank you to Jessica and to Deb for the comments you left. Did you wonder where your words went? They were incredibly kind and supportive, and I am so grateful to you for them. I can put them back in the comments below, if you want? Just let me know.

And dear friends, I hope it's okay if I write about Vegie Wednesday on another day? I can call it, "Vegie Wednesday on a Friday" or something clever and inspiring like that. I'll be sharing my recipe for lentil burgers and writing about a book I read. I do hope you come by. It would be so lovely to have you here.

.

I raise my glass…

2011-10-23T23:35:00.003+11:00

to our slower days!

Our taking time out and off days,

our finding balance days;

our days of not doing everything, and doing everything

at the exact same time!

Because you know what happens, don't you, when you make room?

Well, 'Everything' springs out…it can't help itself.

All the art and projects and music and ideas and reading that we were trying to find time for, that we were squeezing into our spare spaces…

there's room for them now.

Time has opened up, laid itself out like a rug,

and we have sprawled over it blissfully, like cats in the sun.

So there was time last week…

For one man to celebrate his birthday

and for us to give him banana fritters for breakfast

and give him our goodies, all wrapped up

and to walk on the beach with him

and take him out to dinner in his new shirt and tie.

It was a glorious day (for all of us! And it makes me wonder, with all the joy this man brings every single day, whose birthday was it really?)

Happy Birthday, mr beautiful. I love you.

doesn't he look handsome in his new shirt?

2. There was time…

For a girl to be given an early birthday present from her Nana last Sunday

to go see Mary Poppins!

In a gorgeous theatre in Sydney,

with two dear friends and a brother and a mum and a dad and a Nana and an aunt!

Plus we had divine Thai food in a restaurant before the show.

It had this wood carving on the wall, which was carved out of a single piece of wood. Wow. (That's a lot of elephants in the room)

And there was mango sorbet for dessert after the show

and we caught the train there and back

(which was so. much. fun)

Oh there was such joy bursting out! Three girls and one boy were laughing so hard sometimes they had to call time out on the jokes

just to breathe.

This was the Best-est Ever Day I was talking about last Monday. It was the kind of day you keep close; you take photos of it, inside your mind, all day. The kind of day you don't ever forget.

Thank you so much, Nana. I feel so incredibly lucky, having you as my mom and as the Nana to my kids.

My cup runneth over.

3. And there was time for…

Joining a food co-op!

How fun it was, to browse inside this tiny store, getting to know how it worked, meeting the people working and shopping there. While my boy did his music lessons, my girl and I scooped gluten free pasta into brown bags, filled jars with pistachios, baker's yeast, and organic popcorn, and we smiled at the babies.

I have never really been a whole food/bulk food kind of person before (didn't know where to look, how to start, how to move into a food world of organic, whole and simply good). Now it just makes sense to go that direction.

A new path will do that to you—have you noticed that? You decide one thing, then all these interesting opportunities, contacts, friendships and discoveries open up right in front of you, because this new path and you are a Fit. In this and SO many other ways, this journey is just like our homeschool one. (And how that makes me smile!)

4. There was time

to hunt for vegan cheese…

and we found it! Scrumptious pizzas on Monday night. Hooray!

(Pizza should get its own star in Hollywood. Don't you think?

Or be awarded the Nobel prize for Awesomeness. Really)

5. And there was time

to go to the library,

and come home with bags full of beautiful books.

The Element Encyclopedia of Magical Creatures

Theo Gray's Mad Science

and The Big Ideas That Changed the World.

Awesome books that my kids have been poring over for days.

Yum.

And I truly believe libraries are some of the most magical places on Earth. You step in and come out different every time. At least, with different exciting possibilities, whole new worlds in your arms. I can't think of anything better.

6. And there was time

to write for days and days and days and days and days and days and days!

My girl is over 2,000 words into a chapter book she's writing on the computer. She's typing it all herself! She does it first thing in the morning, often straight after breakfast, at all times through the day, and sometimes at night instead of reading. She is a word girl on fire.

And it's a great story—we're loving each instalment. Today we talked about illustration, and she and I started doodling the characters. That turned into her sitting at the table, drawing page after page of characters and scenes from her story. She had such a big smile on her face.

My boy is working on a longer piece too. It's set in this ancient, mythical land and is really complicated. It has him translating English into Spanish and Latin, and juggling a whole bunch of different characters. I've been talking to him about editing recently, about how to use dialogue to create scene, and how fun it can be to pare down a section to its finest bits. He's completely interested—loves getting feedback, just like his sister.

I feel so inspired around them both. It's so great talking to them about their stories. I feel like we are three writers, all of us driven, all of us excited, all of us equals.

7. There was time too,

for a visit to a Buddhist temple with a friend

which was delicious

and peaceful

and just plain fun.

Are you full yet? 'Cause I'm not done!

Because

8. There was time

for a boy to create a piece of music, a jazz piece, and play it for his dad.

Who then wrote it out on manuscript paper

and then they worked on it together and wrote it out on Sybellius (a music software program) and together they edited it.

The plan is to arrange it for my son's combo, and perform it at the end of Term. Kind of awesome, I think. We've been singing this song for days!

9. There was time for

a boy and a girl to go to art class, where they sketched copies of portraits by other artists.

A girl was happy with what she did (and doesn't want me to post it here. She's pretty private that way)

And a boy took his sketch and artist's copy home

to continue working on it, and working on it, and working on it.

A boy in his Element (at least, in one of his Elements!):

10.

There was also time for a girl to go to a birthday party

and

for a whole family to go another birthday party straight after the first birthday party!

I tell you—we are social animals :)

11.

Of course, there was time for a bike ride.

Bliss.

Enough said. (I was too busy zipping along in the sunshine with the kids careening in front and behind, all of us exploring, talking, laughing, to take photos!)

And finally…?

(Yes, I'm stopping after this!)

12.

There was time for a boy to rehearse with his Latin Jazz Ensemble, which he just loves.

This coming Friday, the Ensemble are off to perform at a National Jazz Festival. Their band director is none other than mr. beautiful! In one of their songs, my boy will be solo-ing on timbales. Boy, is he excited.

My girl and I aren't going, because two days of driving and two days of concerts just aren't my daughter's thing. (Not yet, anyway)

So the boys are off on A Grand Adventure,

and my sweet girl and I will find, you know, a few fun things to do ourselves. :)

(We are actually off to this festival on Sunday. We can't wait. Another train ride up to Sydney. Lots of yummy food! Not that I'm ever driven by my tummy. No no, not at all)

Ah.

We're all of us so excited.

For the future, and for now.

For our fine adventures—

the ones we take on together, and the ones we do alone—

and for

having time to savour them.

Vegie Wednesdays… a Beginning

2011-10-19T08:12:00.002+11:00

What I would like, is to have each of you here right now. All of us in a room together, just smiling at each other. Beaming ridiculously, grins bursting out. Because that's how I feel in this moment. Heart full of gratitude, wanting to see your smiles and to share mine with you.

Thank you for your support. Thank you so much.

But seeing as you aren't here, in this room with me this moment (and why did that wish not work? I closed my eyes and everything!), I will send my smiles and overflowing heart out into the air and into the ether. I will send energy and light and love on the four winds.

I hope they find you. And find you well.

So, onto business! :)

This is the beginning of a new idea I have.

Because we are going through a fairly life-changing, soul-changing, mind-changing journey here, it's tempting to write about it all the time. You know how it is? Like when you've read a book or a film you wish everyone could see. Or you've had an adventure and you want to show all the pictures? You want to sit everyone down to your slide show, share with them the smells, the sights, the sounds, the tastes. You want to sit and talk for hours about how you feel and how the adventure has changed you.

But maybe not everyone wants to hear about the journey, or maybe they're tired. Maybe they want to hear a little, then go to bed, or, you know, do their laundry? Maybe people want to hear about the other parts of your life, outside the Voyage that Made Everything Different. Maybe they want to know about your days, the walk you had on the beach, a moment with your kids that made you smile.

It's about balance, I suppose. And though we're leaning far and fully into our New Path, I understand it's good to look around. Notice the other stuff. Write about the other Stuff. It's important.

With that in mind,

I'm thinking that I'll write about our Vegie Adventures on Wednesdays.

I'll write about the things we've learned, the books we've read. I'll write about the hard stuff and the good stuff—stuff that involves delicious recipes, and tales of hunting for vegan cheese. I'll write about how we're feeling and coping with a diet that is so different and new for us (but becoming more normal, every day). I'll post links to things I care about and to information, to resources, articles and books, and to organisations I believe are making a difference. Some of my words might feel heavy. I'm hoping most of my words will bring light, along with new ideas and a simple view into how a family can live this journey. I want it to be a space where Real and True can sit alongside Hope and Respect and Love.

All this?

Wow.

On a single day labeled "Vegie Wednesdays"?

Yes, I say!

I mean, there's R U Ok day, and there's Daffodil Day and there's Talk Like a Pirate Day. Look at the difference those single days have made.

And they have. In the best possible ways.

I hope I can make some kind of difference too. This issue matters, so much, to me.

(The issue being, in the broadest biggest sense, the respectful, humane treatment of all living creatures on this earth. In the smallest sense, finding ways to eat that don't cause suffering to others).

So I know my day doesn't have quite the ring of those days, or the reach.
(And I know the name isn't so crash hot, but I can't think of a better one right now! Suggestions?)

But, and this is what matters really,
it's a start.

It's something, which (I've heard and so they say),

is always more than nothing.

So I'm launching this Day officially, right now. Cue the champagne bottle on a string! Cue the orchestra (or should it just be a drum roll?). Cue the marching band and the release of the doves! Cue the scissors and the ribbon.

Smash! Bang! Parrump! Flap! Snip!

There. That's done.

And now I'm off to make pancakes with oat milk and fresh laid eggs from our chickens,

who are
this minute,

pa-cark!ing loudly outside as they search for grubs in the grass.

(and if you can't or don't have eggs, here's a recipe (my first Vegie Wednesdays link!) to some vegan pancakes. You could totally use nut, oat or rice milk in place of the soy. I haven't tried this recipe, but I should, don't you think?)

Soon, my girl and her sleepover friend will wake and come sleepily down the stairs. My boy will be tousle-haired and have his black pants on as always. My kids will smile and come, as they always do, for morning cuddles.

The dog will roll on his back some time today,
and wag his tale in the delicious sunlight.

We'll go to buy my son's new Scout shirt and eat a yummy vegan lunch at the Buddhist temple for a treat.

Music will get played.
And stories will be told.

Toys will have silly voices given to them and they'll have adventures. And a whole lot of laughing will happen. I know it.

It's going to be a beautiful day.

:)

Next week: I'm going to write a review of the book I just read. It's called Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer. It was extraordinary and painful, enlightening and heartfelt. Which is kind of like life at its purest, isn't it?

.

building happiness

2011-10-17T17:35:00.001+11:00

Hey, guess what: I have now have another thing to add to my list of

Top Favourite Physical Sensations.

It'll go there on the shelf with

drying my face with a towel after a shower. (Bliss)

taking off my socks in bed when my feet have finally warmed up (Yay)

getting into bed when the sheets have just been changed. (Utterly Delectable)

wrapping my fingers around a cup of tea. (Mmm)

the moment of sitting down on the couch, with that same cup of tea, just after the kids have snuggled up to sleep. (Tranquility)

taking off my shoes and socks at the beach, and scrunching my toes in the sand
(especially when it's Spring and you've been in socks and shoes on the beach all winter, and finally, finally, it's warm enough to take them off!) (Yum)

the shiver of cold on my toes when I walk into a wave. (Ah. Like the tingle I get when I taste a rare fizzy soft drink and my brain goes Weeeee. Oh, that should be on the list too. There you go, fine moment, get settled in.)

Ah. It's a great list, isn't it?

So what could possibly be fine enough to add to a list as scrumptious as this?

Well, it's this:

putting on your jammies and slippers after a full day of adventure with your family, when your body is tired but so happy, when you're brim-ful of Best Day Ever-itis.

Oh, the feeling of soft fabric, the warmth of your slippers and socks, the sigh as your body settles in. (SO! SNUGGLY!)

I will write about the day we had very soon. It was truly a wonderful day (in fact it was a whole weekend of lovely) but for now, I'll let the list be.

So it can look at itself and feel kind of pleased, kind of proud, kind of special

for being the

Only Thing That Helena Writes About, For Once! (Because You Know How She Can Go On)

:)

I hope you are all having a beautiful day! We sure are.

(How could we not? A whole day at home. Practice, Maths, new islands on Poptropica. Going on a mission to find vegan cheese! Cancelling band to read library books on the couch. Peace. Space. Beauty.)

Thank you! Plus: Saying Yes to No.

2011-10-14T13:03:00.001+11:00

I am incredibly grateful for the beautiful comments I've received on my last two posts (and received as emails and on facebook too). I have loved reading your personal stories. I've felt so connected, supported, heard. That means so much to me. I wish I could come to each of your houses and give you a huge hug.

You know what's been the coolest? That no-one travels the same path, and yet, we are having this conversation; you are telling me of your own choices and supporting mine. That's kind of a lot awesome, I think.

Life here has been so full.

I'm pleased to tell you our bodies have adjusted to our dairy-withdrawal. We are eating so well, making sure to have lots of healthy snacks to avoid the Insatiable Hungries. We are full of energy and feeling great. The food has been awesome!

Here's some of what's been going into our tummies so far:

Pear porridge made with organic oats and oat milk. Yum!
Pumpkin soup with gluten free garlic bread. Delish.
Pasta primavera with red lentils on gluten free pasta (stirred through with a dash of oil and teensy sprinkle of salt, where once I put in butter and parmesan). Oh, divine.
Pad Thai with home-laid eggs and fresh-squeezed lemon. Swoon!
Fresh gluten free bread with kidney-bean and vegie spread, topped with home-made guacamole. My favourite.
Rice cooked in vege stock with slices of tofu (GMO free). My daughter's favourite.
And Nachos, real nachos without cheese, just lots of bean mix, guacamole, and the chips all crunchy from the oven. Mmm, my son's favourite.

Sound good? It is good. It all feels good to eat. I'm feeling healthy and my hungry tummy is always satisfied. No more cheese cravings! Not a single one.

This food journey is getting betterer and betterer. I'm so glad we are on it.

Now for the down side

(which, thankfully, is now looking up. Such a blessing).

I hit an emotional wall last week.

Perhaps it was the physical challenge of the changes in our diet,

perhaps it was the emotional challenge of the sad/difficult learning I've been doing,

perhaps it was the time challenge of having so many things on our schedule (recently made fuller with Lego League),

but suddenly the Busy was too much.

It took me down.

It grabbed and pinned me. It left me unable to sleep, unable to get out of bed, weeping at the drop of a hat (and all other moments too). It left me standing in my kitchen on Wednesday—while the kids read upstairs—crying so hard I couldn't cook dinner. Instead I wept into the tea towels and thought, So this is it. I am so overwhelmed and anxious, I can't even cook a meal. Please someone come and take me somewhere quiet, with only walls or trees for company. Please make the Busy stop.

I thought of calling my husband home from work. I thought of calling a neighbour. I thought, But how do I explain this? This heaviness, this sorrow, this sudden, complete loss of hope? I can't even speak.

I stood with my phone in my hand. I wept until I didn't. And then, I picked up the kitchen knife and finished cutting the broccoli.

Over dinner, with my kids and I sitting there, I said to my children: We have to give something up. I'm not coping at all. And I began to cry again. Not a wild wailing, but that simple leaking you do when you're just too tired or laden to hold tears in.

My children stopped eating. My girl came and sat on my lap. My boy stood and patted my shoulder. He said, All right, Mum. We'll stop something.

I said, I think we have to stop Lego League.
Okay, said my son. We'll drop it.
(My girl had already dropped it last week, saying she just wanted space and quiet and time at home. She is so perceptive about her needs. Kind of inspiring).

Could it be that simple? That I could talk to my son and daughter and they'd take one arm each and ease me out of my Stuck and my Hopeless and my Lost?

Could it be so simple as them saying, "What will make you feel better, Mum?
And me saying, "Space, and bike riding."
And them saying, "That's what we'll do then."

For that to be

the beginning of better?

Yes, it could be.

I spoke to the Lego League coach and his wife (who have become such good friends), and they completely understood. His wife is a beautiful person; she listened to me as I talked and cried. She said supportive, understanding, endlessly kind things. (Thank you, so much, dear friend, for that and all your other kindnesses. I am so grateful).

I then wrote an email to my homeschool writers workshop group and said I'd be running it every second week, instead of every week. Because, I said simply, I need to be less busy.

And then I decided that some days we would always keep free. They would be precious at-home days. Not to touch. Just for us (and bike riding).

And I decided that, as much as possible, we wouldn't commit to doing anything before 12. So that every single morning could be spent at home.

Which sounds like a lot of Nos, doesn't it?

But this didn't feel No-like. It didn't feel negative. It felt lighter, better. Like a load lifting.

And then came a surprise Yes, inside all the Nos.

My son enjoyed Lego League and didn't want to drop it. But he has wanted to do Scouts now for almost a year. He couldn't because we were too busy. Turned out, the things he most loved about Lego League were the things the Scouts do (like physical challenges, adventures, doing something as a team, being part of something, and doing something independently from his (sometimes weepy) family).

So he joined Scouts last night.

Another thing on the schedule?! Yes, but here's the difference. It's something I don't need to carry.

My son wasn't overwhelmed by the busy—I was.

My husband can take him to his Scout meetings and pick him up. I don't need to be responsible or help the way I was with Lego League.

So I get space to breathe,
and a need and want is filled for my boy. This is (and will always be) known as a Win-Win, Smile-Smile! It's Happy squared.

Now imagine me looking around inside this new space, looking left, right and up, my neck craned.
"So…" imagine me saying. "No looks like this, huh?"

It looks kind of a lot like Yes.

Like the simple Yes of

Claiming Space.

The space
that gave us time yesterday morning

to practice music, and for my girl and I to do fun maths on the computer, and for me to sit with my son as he completed a chapter in his maths book, and for my son to do some work on his Space Journal (which he has decided he wants to finish) and for my girl to write a story.

And time after lunch

to ride our bikes along the track by the beach, with homeschooling friends, to the park where homeschool group was meeting. It was so sunny and so fine, with the wind in our hair, the path whizzing underneath our wheels. (And have I ever mentioned that exercise, for me, stops depression in its tracks? It's better than any other treatment I've ever experienced. It's my life-line.)

And time for a popcorn top-up, to get a girl through piano lessons,

and to keep the kids going at art class. Where the kids created portraits out of different materials—foam, fabric and string. They learned about print-making, and in the coming weeks will use their portraits to make prints. Ah, they loved it.

And last night, as my boy began his Scouting adventure,

my girl and I sat at the dining table making clay animals.

We sat and made a dragon and a fox. It was so much fun. We talked; we laughed. We had peace and space and time—all the things we wanted.

My son came home from Scouts just full to the brim with happiness and contentment. They'd built scout chariots, and spent the night running around outside. He'd hung out with old friends and met new people too. He was so pleased, so excited about the coming term events (Camping! Something wild called a Wide Game! More knot tying! Swimming! Catamaran Night Sailing! Wow.)

And it all felt so good.

I felt hopeful.

And the good I'd been feeling on our new Vegan path

joined with the good of Claiming Space

and Better

began.

new world

2011-10-10T21:53:00.001+11:00

I don't know if I've mentioned this, but

I love to learn new stuff.

I'm sure you couldn't guess from, oh, the title of this blog, or the things I talk about. Like our homeschool discoveries, our freedom experiment, our journey into life learning, and choosing a life of As-Much-Yes-As-We-Can-Stand. In fact I'm sure my announcement comes as a complete surprise!

Well…
now you know. :)

So it has come as quite a shock to find that our New Adventure Into Veganism

hasn't been 100% fun.

Since starting homeschooling, I've come to find—to my delight—that learning on our own terms, almost always brings joy. So I'd come to think learning would always do that. Bring joy. Lift us up, fill us, bring us light.

So I wasn't expecting this new journey to feel so hard. Or for my body to take so much time to adjust, in every way.

It's had to adjust to learning challenging, difficult things,
to not eating things it had come to love,
and to be occupied for days with things Serious and Life Changing.

I've never been great at the Sad/Serious Stuff. I take it so much to heart; I take it on board. I sometimes let it collapse me. This time has been no different.

And yesterday, as strong as my resolve has been,

I felt close to caving.

We went out for the afternoon to buy some goodies from the appliance store, and

we got SO hungry! We forgot to bring snacks, so we drove home, tummies rumbling, and we still had to get some vegan-y stuff at the shops. Which involved going down the dairy aisle to see what sort of tofu and soy yoghurt we could find (that had no GMOs, was not overly processed, etc), and

Oh.

We saw the cheese.

The cheese! Glowing there, the cambembert, feta, cheddar, ricotta.

Calling their sweet siren calls. They looked just gorgeous there, on the shelves.

And Oh!
The Instant Pining!
The Terrible Longing!
Hungry now more than ever!
Oh!

In a way it was kind of funny, our drive home from the supermarket (having resisted, just). All my son and I could talk about was cheese.

We simply could not stop talking about cheese.

What cheese we'd eat. How much cheese we'd eat. How we'd never stop eating the cheese if only, if only, we ate cheese. It was pitiful!

(My daughter and husband were strong. Somehow (perhaps they'd had tofu stuck in their ears?) they hadn't heard the Song of the Feta, the dulcet tones of the Edam, the Call of the Brie…they made it through the dairy aisle hungry but unscathed—they were the lucky ones!)

So what did we do when we got home?

After we crawled in, sand in our mouths, there on our hands and knees, just about to crack, hungry to our very depths…?

Well, we ate, of course.

We ate fresh-made, still warm, gluten free bread I'd baked before going out,

with delicious dairy-free spread and organic apricot jam.

I made a fruit platter of pear and apple and orange and strawberries and we discovered that a strawberry eaten together with a pink-lady apple is seriously divine.

We gobbled up pistachios

and then I made air-popped popcorn in our new, just bought, handy-dandy air-popping-popcorn maker!

It was all so scrumptious. Utterly filling.

Slowly we uncurled. Slowly we unclenched, and slowly we returned to our Selves.

And we looked about in this new world

and we called it

Good.

And today

my son and I hardly thought about cheese at all!

:)

(having read this over, I can hear people out there saying, "Dude. Why didn't you just eat the dang cheese?" Well, we've decided we don't want to. It's complicated. We don't want to eat anything that's connected in any way to the suffering and/or eating of animals. And even in the most humane circumstances, dairy food is connected. So that's us, what we've chosen for ourselves, and that means we aren't eating the (lovely) cheese.

I found a recipe yesterday though, where you can make your own. How exciting! You just need agar agar powder, and nutritional yeast, and the feather of a gryphon and the eyelash of a fairy… It'll be a piece of cake to make. Now, where's my chef's hat?)

different

2011-10-08T14:58:00.005+11:00

Oh, it's been so quiet here, hasn't it?

We have been making some really big changes in our lives, and I've had a lot of thoughts in my head (let's imagine the hamsters on the wheel going super super fast! Extra hamsters coming in to carry the load. Extra wheels. A whole fairground of scampering, whizzing thoughts. It's crazy in here right now)

but I haven't known how to write about them.

Because our changes are making people say, "Why?" and sometimes, "Really?" or, "That's hard to hear." I think perhaps I'm making others feel uncomfortable.

So I've gotten blocked when it comes to writing here. I've worried that maybe writing about our changes might make people feel sad or irked or lectured to. It might seem I'm saying, "This way of living is the only way." Or, "What you're doing is wrong."

But then I think, I need to talk about it. And let other people make of it what they will. All I can do is write who I am and my own truth.

Isn't that the point of all this, after all?

Anyway, here's the thing:

we've decided to go almost-all-the-way vegan.

Other than the eggs our sweet chickens provide for us during the day while they roam our garden, we won't be eating any other animal products. When we're home or when we're out.

We've already been vegetarian for a year and a half, but now we're cutting out the other stuff. Which means we are now

meat free
eggs (other than from our chooks) free

dairy free

and because of our tummies,
wheat free too.

It's the combination of all these limits and things-we-can't-eat that have made some people say:
"But how will you survive?" and
"Oh! No icecream! No lasagne! No ricotta pancakes!"

And everyone has asked,
"Why??"

So, after saying, "Actually, we've been eating well!" and
"Actually, we can eat all those things, just without the dairy":),

I have said Why.
And it's tough going.

Because our Why comes from some recent hard learning,
not just by me, but by my husband too,
and then shared (very carefully) with our children.

Really hard learning about factory farming
(also called "industrial farm animal production").

About the impact intensive farming has,
not just on animals, but on our health too,
and on the environment.

It's big stuff, and if you throw in watching video footage of animals in factory farms, it's devastating.

After you've learned about it, it's hard to think about anything else. And it's big enough stuff that independent research groups, the UN, non-vegetarians, journalists and non-activists, are getting in on it, saying:
"Hey! This isn't working! Not just for animals, but for humans too—for the whole planet, in fact. This is not sustainable, this is not ethical, and this is not healthy."

I've never, ever, pushed our vegetarianism before. Even though our choice was based on ethics, it was deeply personal. I didn't talk about it. Almost no-one questioned it.

But now, just like when we started homeschooling, we're being asked, "Why?"

I get that. People want to know. They are curious.

And I suppose just like when we started homeschooling, I could say, "It's a personal choice. We think it's best for us," or somesuch. After all, when we started homeschooling I mostly said, "My daughter was unhappy at school. We pulled her out. She got happy. My son asked to join us. Now we are all very happy."

I never said, "We're homeschooling because the education system doesn't work for everyone. Because teachers are underfunded and overworked, because schools work to a formula that can't cater to the individual, because there's barely any room for creative learning and independent thinking, because it's a broken model that can limit and damage children's sense of worth, desire to learn, and future life."

Yeah, I kept that all to myself. :) I simply mostly said, "This way fits us better."

So I could be saying that about this choice too.

Why aren't I? Why, when I open my mouth to reply to the questions,
do these measured words come out, words people find hard and don't necessarily want to hear?

Because once you take your perfectly content vegetarian self to a lecture
that makes the argument against eating animals bigger than you ever imagined,

and you then look up factory farming (and "industrial farm animal production") ,

and spend days and days researching it (the cons and the pros),

and you find overwhelming evidence to say This Isn't Working,

and

you see the scale of suffering animals go through
to mass produce and feed people something they don't need to eat so much of (or at all),

you just can't say, "Oh, it doesn't fit us."

You (or at least I) say, This is Why.

This week I've discovered that learning can hurt your heart.
Some learning carries Hard on its back.

And if you talk about what you've learned, you have to be careful. You want to avoid becoming so bent on your own mission, so fixed on the answer that fits you, that you can't see the myriad options in between All and Nothing. I don't want to ever do that. And I never want to make people feel bad for the choices they make.

But there are things I believe, and hold dear.

For one, I believe you should live your life like you mean it. Don't hold back just because something is hard.

Two. I believe you should live your truth. Seek it, follow your heart and your gut.

Three. I believe you shouldn't beat people about the head with your life or your truth, but (especially if people ask), you should be free to speak it.

Four. You should remember to speak that truth with kindness, with compassion, with as much knowledge as you can gather, and most importantly, with the understanding that everyone has a different path, a different way of seeing, their own learning to do and choices to make.

Five. I believe in treating all living things with respect and with compassion.

Oh, I believe that last one so big. Bigger and brighter than ever before.

So. This is my truth. Our journey. Shared here—with love and hope!—in this space.

I know once we get used to this new path, the nerves will settle.

That we'll feel joy and steadiness,

the calm that comes from knowing we are doing something that truly fits.

p.s.

We're eating really well, you might like to know! Really yummy stews and soups and thai food and pasta. Oat milk is delicious in pear porridge! Not only that, I realised we were eating cheese with almost every lunch and dinner—now we're not. I'm sure that's better for us. My husband, this very minute, is working on a cheese-less pizza. We've tried batch one, and now he's working on idea #2. He's gorgeous, pottering about in the kitchen :)

p.p.s:

Here are some more links, if you feel like checking them out…

Animals Australia

http://whyveg.com/

Interview with Jonathan Safran Foer (author of Eating Animals)

http://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/interview-jonathan-safran-foer-20110915-1ka2s.html

Report by Pew Charitable Trusts "Putting Meat on the Table: Industrial Farm Animal Production in America"

http://www.pewtrusts.org/news_room_detail.aspx?id=38438

wish you were here!

2011-09-30T23:57:00.007+10:00

I thought I'd put together some

Postcards from the Land of Sweet and Slow

—a.k.a. our lovely holidays!—

I do hope you like them

A Date with a Boy

Where we

then

(Yes, that's us on a bus! We locked our bikes up by the beach,
then took a free bus into downtown. So easy)

and

(What?
Doesn't everyone assemble newly bought lego games
in the restaurant as they're having lunch?)

and

credit

then

(mmm, caramel mudcake with cookie dough mix-in for him,
and chocolate with raspberries for me. …It's a hard life)

and

again!

Now that was a fun day.

(My husband took lots of photos of his date with our girl,

but hasn't downloaded them yet.

I know they had a beautiful time!)

Games Games and more Games

Battleships

Mancala

Heroica

Our new great love.

It's adaptable—you can even create your own rules.

We have played it over and over for days!

Nick Toldy: Legend of Dragon Peninsula!

Found on a website called agame.com which has tons of other really fun games.

Role playing, adventure games, physics games, silly games
(like Snail Bob—so funny).

This one finds us problem solving for hours. It's magic.

Imaginary games with our new collection of

Lego Mini-figures

(a certain mum couldn't control herself and now we own 9.

Don't let her drive to the toy store to get more! We need to eat too, you know!)

Friends visiting

and visiting with friends.

Alas

no photos!

So just close your eyes and imagine the smiling

and the noise

and the food

and the talking

and the running up and down the stairs

and the made up games played in almost every room

and most importantly,

the laughter

Delicious home-made lunches

(wow—so much spinach!)

Walks with sticks and

a happy dog

(who got washed today. Thank goodness)

and finally,

Music

which looked like this

and this

and this.

Every day
has been the perfect mix of busy and not busy.

Every day
has been just lovely
and

just right.

I hope you are having some
just lovely and just right days too.

After all, when you find days like these
—when they plonk themselves right there before you, grinning—
they heal
and carry
and give such light.
Don't they?

holidays!!

2011-09-26T23:09:00.002+10:00

What?

Really?

Homeschoolers don't have holidays, do they?

I've been asked that, more than a few times,
over the years.

Each time I say,

Yes, oh Yes, oh YES!

Or more calmly:

"We do, actually."

Today was the first day of our Spring holidays…

and it felt so good.

There was reading for a boy, in bed, 'til 10 am
while his sister and I ate pear porridge and talked and planned and dreamed…

There was a quick check-up at the homeopath for a boy

while a girl played on Webkinz

and a dad cleaned up the back AND front verandah
(thank you so much, mr beautiful)…

Then there was more reading for a boy (4th hour? 5th?)…

while a girl taught her mum how to make these beauties:

Aren't they just glorious?
(The friendly dragon in the back is mine. The one with danger in its eyes is my girl's)

Then there was a visit with friends who'd been overseas,
so while the kids played upstairs and downstairs,
downstairs and upstairs,
we two mums got to talk, laugh and smile for three whole hours. So lovely.

And gluten-free bread
was made and eaten hot

with organic apricot jam from Belgium
('cause that's how we roll, baby!)…

Then more reading by a boy (6th hour, 7th hour…? Could a day get any more blissful?)

while a girl and a mum finished up their dragon creations

(making and attaching wings, making a stand for them so they can look like they're flying…
Don't they look like they're flying? Don't you see the wind in their hair? Look at how happy they seem!

'Cept for the fierce one. He looks like he'd like to eat the cat)…

Then it was time for a home-made pad-thai dinner
created by dad (again, thank you)

and a family tv-watching session afterwards,
to watch Junior Master Chef
(because a kid on it is a student of my husband's and a friend of my sons. How exciting!)

My two non-tv-watching kids
gaped at all the ads
(Wow. There are so many! Why are there so many? Wow, here's more!)…

so we muted the tv in the ad breaks
and asked dad to make up all the voices.
Then we cried laughing.

At which point
it was time for showers,

and just a bit more reading (hmmmm, 8th hour, I think?)

and excited talk about tomorrow
while snuggling with kids in the dark…

because tomorrow I have an all-day date with my boy
(bike riding! pizza lunch! movie!)

and a dad has a date with his girl
(toy shops! lunch with dad! maybe a swim?).

Yum.

I love

these beautiful days,

these
regular, run-of-the-mill,

just the same as everyone else's (but not, of course),

holi-days.

Whether we're supposed to have them, or not.

:)

(ps.
we actually have many days like these in the un-holidays too. Just to be clear!

The only real difference between our holidays and unschool/lifelearning days is:
there's no music/art/writing class/organized event to go to every day.
There's almost nowhere we need to be, for two whole weeks!

And if you've been reading my last few posts you'll know—the break from "needing" to be somewhere comes at just the right time.

Ahh. That's me, breathing deeply. And smiling. And waving. Do you see me? I might be kind of small …some of you might need your binoculars :) )

keeping Yes

2011-09-25T01:49:00.005+10:00

So I've spent days recently, thinking I need to say No more.

Or even, like, once.

You see, it kills me to say No to almost anything. If I do, then I totally agonise. I dwell. I pine. And then I often change my mind. Go running after whoever I said No to and say, Wait! Wait! Nix that No! I'm in!

Because I generally see Nos as doors slamming on Possibly The Most, Awesome, Adventures Ever.

I see potential adventures everywhere. They're hiding in every corner, you know. Just like ninja bunnies, waiting to jump out at you yelling, "Surprise! Here's the Most Awesomest Fantastic-est Adventure Ever! Bet you're glad you didn't stay home ironing your socks!"

The only real Nos I've said are the ones where Yes has been out of my control. I remember every one, and they still have the ability to make me sad.

But what with feeling so overwhelmed recently, so over-commited, I thought
perhaps I should say No to even one thing.

We should drop something, I thought. Anything. Just to lighten the load. Others do it—dear friends know how to say No. How hard can it be?

So, I said to my boy. "Howabout we drop some music? Just one class. Howabout Wind Ensemble?"

"Oh, no!" he said, "I get to learn all the percussion instruments then!" (And 'Oh, that would be a shame,' said my husband, 'That's a great class for him.')

Jazz Band? "No! That's the only place I play piano." (Ditto, said my husband)

Concert Band? "Please No!" (aka: That's crazy talk, Mum!)

Jazz Combo? "Double, triple No! That's my all-time favourite."

('Yeah, dude. What he said,' said my husband.)

(To be honest, my husband didn't quite say all that! :) He thinks my son's music schedule is okay, but he listened to how I'd been feeling and said, 'He'll be fine if he drops a class. Whatever you think is best.' He's lovely that way.)

Anyway, we decided for now that all music classes are safe.

That's cool, I thought; I can drop something else.

What about art?

My mind instantly said, No! Way! I love our art classes. I love the kids' teacher. We've been going for five years now and going there feels like Home. And after years spending a quiet hour and a half reading my book, I can now choose to join in, any time I ask. This is commonly known as a Win Win. Or, Joy Joy, in my case.

What about our two homeschool groups?

Oh, but there we see our friends. There I have a chance to catch up with other mums who make me laugh. There we sit in contented togetherness as the kids dash about like fireflies.

What about music lessons?

Well, that wouldn't make any sense. The kids love them. My son even said the other day about one of his teachers, "He doesn't even feel like my teacher, Mum. He feels like my friend."

All right then. Howabout sewing lessons with our neighbour and friend, with her son who is one of the kids' best friends?

Well, that doesn't even feel like a lesson; it feels like we're playing. On Friday after the kids finished sewing their first! ever! shirts! we took a break to all draw each other without looking down at the paper. We were doubled over laughing. How do you say No to that?

Writers Workshop, then; the one I've been running for nearly two years?

But the kids are on the edge of something wonderful—we're about to work on longer projects. They want to write books, these kids. They want to meet every week. They come in and words pour out. They inspire me. Every single time we meet up, I feel bigger, brighter, lighter afterwards.

So where does that leave us? Lego League.

Where every time we go the kids have a blast. Learn so much. Be independent. Invent, explore, brainstorm and play with their friends. Where the leaps in learning are huge, where they get to achieve something kind of beautiful together. Where the tournament day, the one they spend two months preparing for, is unbelievably cool.

You see how hard it is?

The hardest part, well…

it's actually the best part. It is the sweet silver lining.

I see how much joy Yes brings.

Almost every Yes brings us

Creativity.

Beauty.

Flight.

It brings us concerts, and art, and workshops, and impromptu hikes. It brings us visits with friends, hours at the library, going to plays, doing Something Completely New almost every week.

It takes us on camping trips and to meet new people. It lets us try new things on for size to see how they fit.

It brings us life learning.

And it gives us unexpected moments of total bliss. Like our sewing lesson on Friday. I almost cancelled that; I almost said, We don't have time. I almost missed being doubled over laughing at approximately 11am with dear friends.

But while seeing just how beautiful Yes is, for us,

this week I realised

there is room for No.

No doesn't have to break my heart. Little Nos can happen, and joy can still come.

We can say no, once in a while, to homeschool group. Stay at home or go to the library instead.

We can say to an invitation, "Not today; howabout next week?" when we've got a delicious project on the boil.

My son can miss a music class now and then, or we can do some rearranging so that one particular day isn't filled with 2 and 1/2 hours of lessons and rehearsal.

I can say, See You Later, to my computer, when my girl comes up to me and says, "Can we do something right now? Together?"

I can let things go, in small day-to-day ways,

to fit in the Yeses that mean the most.

So that when my girl asks, "Can we make a cat suit? Can we write together? Can we build a house for my toys out of real wood?" I can say,

Of course!

So in celebration of the joy No

and Yes

can bring,

here is a taste of what both

brought us this week:

art by a boy and by me

(and by a girl, but she said, Don't put it on your blog, Mum!)

me drawing him

him drawing me

finished shirts!

swinging at Lego League

planning with the team at Lego League

presenting a speech at Lego League

a writers workshop party

watching a play (created entirely by kids)

a game of Creationary

and running around at Relay for Life

while a dad played with the band.

Lovely, no?

I mean, yes!

:)

scrambling out from under

2011-09-22T07:29:00.002+10:00

Hey, wow. In my attempt to catch up on everyone's words, after having been Out for the Count, Snowed Under, Teetering on the Edge and so on for days, I found another wonderful post, this time by MamaTea, about a "bad day." Here 'tis. And it has links to other people sharing their hard times too. The key word being, Sharing. Opening up and seeking light.

I love the way the Universe works. That it (or rather, It?) knows that these are exactly the honest, real words I need to read right now. Thank you, Universe, and all the beautiful people striving, hoping, dreaming, in it.

We took the whole day off yesterday. I cancelled two activities, and two were already over for the term. That left us with the entire, huge, sun-filled and glorious day,

from the moment we woke, to the moment we went to bed,

to do whatever we liked.

It would be a massive understatement to say:

We had a good time.

What did we fill our day with?

Well, there was

music practice

(with my girl saying, "Mum I didn't know practice was so fun! I can't believe I ever thought it was boring!" She's writing music now, on staffs she draws in the back of her practice book. Gorgeous)

and maths

(my girl loves knowing her times tables. She knows even the 12s. She keeps asking me to test her. We do it in the car, over breakfast, just as she's going to sleep. She is so happy.

my boy LOVES his maths textbook. It covers what he needs while simultaneously going sideways and up. It shoots for the moon; it pushes you out of the box. He's calculating angles in his head, learning about the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and two days ago he began exploring the Geometer's Sketchpad, which looks incredible. What a perfect fit this book is, for all of us (because you know I'm sitting next to him, figuring out the maths too!) )

and science experiments

(we got litmus strips and tested the acidity of a dozen foods, mostly dairy for a project my boy is working on. We checked ketchup and feta cheese and even checked our spit! It was so fun. Did you know that strawberry jam is as acidic as lemon juice? And that my son runs a bit alkaline, so I'm going to have to do some research on what THAT's all about. More learning to do :))

and drawing another book of made-up creatures

(this time my girl is writing details about each creature. Their diet, predators, what they look like, their mannerisms. It's beautiful and funny. Just like her)

and making a big big batch of pasta sauce
to freeze and make scrumptious lasagne with

(because we're trying to go whole food, natural food, made from scratch as much as possible. The result of more scientific research, for another project we're working on!)

and making a scrumptious lasagne

(which was delicious. But not quite as delicious as the last one, which had home-grown spinach in it— a gift from a friend. Isn't that a beautiful gift to receive? Time to plant our vege garden, I think)

and snuggling with the cat and kitten

(who has gotten fat! It's like she's swallowed a balloon. We laugh at how she walks, but she doesn't care. She's impervious to all jibes and any kind of training (like, Don't get on that counter! Don't scratch that chair up! Don't climb on my head.) )

and reading reading reading

(my son is re-reading the Harry Potter series. He spends every spare moment inside his books. Reading is his down-time, his safe space, his quiet zen retreat. As it has been for me, all my life. Lucky me, him, us)

and writing

(my girl and I met up again for a writing date! It's becoming our regular thing, now. Yesterday my boy joined us to work on a presentation for Lego League. We sat writing together, and the joy rose up).

It was a beautiful day.

With nothing and everything in it.

We didn't even leave the house (except to check our experiments. We set up our Lab on the trampoline! As you do).

We were lifting ourselves back to health.

Or at least trying.

Every day being new and all,
and

filled with promise.

ps I'm experimenting with writing less and not fussing over each word for hours. How am I doing? More Less required? Just you wait. One day I really will just post a photo. And then I'll go and write about it in my diary, just to let the words out. They're like puppies, you know. Regular walks needed :)

a simple thing

2011-09-21T08:36:00.001+10:00

First, thank you.

You know what for :)

Second (but really, an equal first), I just read Kelly's post about a particularly wobbly day. I so appreciated her honesty and openness about not always getting it "right," about feeling uncertain and panicky. How lovely to read her words during a time I've felt particularly unsure and overwhelmed. (Words I could then tack on to all your supportive, lovely comments from my last post.)

One of the things that has felt hardest recently is the simple Getting To Places.

I'm not sure how I did it when we were at school, but I remember the tightness in my chest. Having to find the uniforms, prepare and pack the lunch, make sure the homework was in the bag, and the constant sense of "We'll be Late Late Late!". That tightness is with me a lot of the days now and I am seeking some way of letting some things go. Or, if that's not possible, moving towards an Acceptance of what simply Is.

I counted and my boy has 10 separate commitments or obligations to get to per week. That's the minimum, before visits with friends, trips to the library, concerts, sewing lessons, excursions, or frolics on the beach. Is it me, or does that seem like an awful lot??

The other day I got very flustered. The kids were supposed to be somewhere at 8.45 but at 8.30, having been told they needed to get up early, and with clocks in their rooms, they still hadn't left their snuggly beds and books. I got cranky. I said Cranky Mum things. You know the kind, where you use words like "Always," and "Never" and "Aaaaaagh!" Statements that are almost as unproductive as "Please Get This Day Off Me."

That night, as the dust was settling on the day, and I was saying good night to my boy, I apologised to him for being such a grump.

And this is what he said:

"Mum, you don't need to be sorry. You had a good reason to be cranky. Please don't apologise every time you get cross. You were right."

And then he wrapped his arms around me and hugged me 'til it was time to go.

Oh, the tears welled up.

Because I am

blessed, blessed, blessed.

finding balance

2011-09-19T22:15:00.002+10:00

A whole week just went by. I was so very quiet here, wasn't I?

After a rough couple of weeks, where it felt like my flu would never ever end,

I finally got mostly better.

And found myself completely overwhelmed.

Yep, all the way through. Simply 'Being' felt like swimming through mud. I was exhausted at the very idea of trying to catch up on all the things I'd missed, let go, forgotten, not been able to respond to, wiped out by trying to meet all our commitments.

Struck by the need—rising suddenly and so clearly out of the muddle—

for balance.

For healing.

For time and silence and space.

For other things besides

rushing to get to classes, rushing to get Things Done, trying to keep the house from imploding,

trying to keep up with my own words here and with the words of others
(such precious others. Not responding to your words felt like I was letting you down. Which then fed the muddle and made my brain go even blanker).

My girl recently said,

"Mum, you spend so much time writing your blog, but no time writing stories."

It's true.

She also said,

"It feels lonely here." Here being the corner of the living room where I've spent so much of my free time on the computer—writing my blogwords. Good hours and hard hours and satisfying hours and sometimes anxious hours.

I think my time here in this corner might have become a bigger part of my life than it is supposed to be.

I also think our time Bustling and Hustling to do so many things—albeit fun, exciting, sociable, educational things—outside our home has become larger than it is supposed to be.

My girl told me last week that she really, really, really wants to write stories with me. And she wants to make toys with me. She wants to do art with me. She has so many ideas. So many things she wants to do.

But there's not enough time! she said. She got very serious. And kind of sad.

How can we do the things she wants to do?

For that matter, how can I do all the things I want to do?

Because we need time for our projects. All of us. I need to return to my stories. I need to create. Make art. Play music. Sit and talk for hours without worrying about the Next Thing on the schedule. Without trying to Do Everything.

So we talked about making more time. Finding time. Doing all the things we dream of. We talked about marking space around our classes and commitments,

placing a sign on the door saying,

"Creation in Progress!

Please Do Not Disturb."

It is what we need, and what we're going to do.

So, even though
Overwhelm hit hard this week

(and I fretted so much internally and was flustered with my kids and short with them, and simply Could Not Sleep sometimes),

Hope rose regardless. It rose from the dreams of my daughter, on her speaking her mind, and on her reminding me of my own dreams.

It lifted me high on Saturday.

On Saturday, we went to a wedding that was so utterly beautiful it made the Universe sing and feel right and I knew good things really were possible. During the reception (which was spent in a stunning backyard in the sunshine) there was also a walk to see flowers with new friends, and tree climbing, and so much smiling! I was with my family, and I was surrounded by loving energy. All of it was soul-filling.

On Sunday,

I finished the latest Septimus Heap novel. I drew; I made art for hours. I practiced piano for the first time in over a year. I went to a movie. By myself! Then did the grocery shopping (by myself!). That night I returned to bouncy children and dinner on the table, made by this beautiful man.

On Monday,

we had the whole day free. Nowhere to be. For the whole day.

Today, my daughter discovered she knows ALL her times tables. Every single one from the 2s to the 12s. She said, "My smile is too big for my face!"

I sat with her the whole time she practiced her tables, and as she did a maths assessment to see how she was doing. She is completely on track with her maths. She is ahead in a lot of places. More smiles! She feels like a superhero, I think. I am so insanely pleased, because this time a year ago, she was frozen solid, fearful of anything to do with numbers. What an amazing turn around.

I sat with my son while he worked away on angles in his maths book. Together we flew through the questions. He said, "I really like doing maths with you, Mum." I said, "We can do it like this every time, if you like." Yep, I think we'd like that.

Then, my boy went and did a bunch of maths games on the internet, while my girl and I

found our writers notebooks

and wrote stories together at the table.

BLISS.

There is literally no other word for how it felt.

And of course,

today we went to the beach. It was as beautiful as the last time we went. And the time before that.

Water + sand + space + laughing children + sunset + dog =

Healing.

I feel like I'm finding myself again.

I've started making those wild green smoothies that Soulemama and Jessica have raved about. The kids are loving them!

I've started The Artist's Way, which probably five separate people in my life have mentioned and suggested I look into. Finally, I have begun the journey.

I've started going to bed earlier. Like, around 10pm, instead of at 12am… 1am… 2am…ie: Sillier and Sillier Time. I actually think me not going to bed 'til the Wee Hours led to me getting so sick. No more, I say!

I spoke to three incredible women at the wedding, who are involved in a meditation/yoga method (school? movement? I'm not sure what the right word is). They were three of the most peaceful, accepting women I have ever met in my life.

And tomorrow night, I
will be starting a beginners course in their yoga/meditation practice. Which I found, here in this town, under my very nose. Thank you, Universe, for your beautiful serendipity.

I am finding a

balance, for me. And for my family.

I'm not sure what it will look like, ultimately. I'm not sure I'll be here as much, or perhaps in the same way.

I want to be able to write about our lives, but not miss living my life in the process. I've realised I need to do other things in my free time besides sit in this corner, writing my thoughts, visiting you all and saying hello. (Though it is an incredibly uplifting and inspiring way to spend my time).

Perhaps I'll write less often? Perhaps I'll find a way to write less? (I'm not sure if I'm capable of that!). Perhaps I could take less time to create a post, instead of the hours I usually spend (literally hours and hours. Crazy, I know). Perhaps I could be less of an editor, and just go with the words that appear under my fingertips? Perhaps I can comment on the posts of others in under 15 minutes per comment! (Again, it takes me ages.) Perhaps, once in a while, I'll even let a single photograph do the talking.

Could I really? Am I capable? Is it possible?

I think,

Yes.

These are the words of my future.

Possible. Capable. I can.

Along with, I Will.

And Yes!

And Let's: Make, Do, Dream, Be, Achieve,

Reach.

All while steady.

While breathing.

While balancing

from rock to rock to rock to rock.

In rhythm with myself.

a tale of woe and joy and greeblies

2011-09-12T14:11:00.001+10:00

Far far away in the Land of Us there lived a worn and wrinkly Princess.

Let's call her Helena, shall we?

Princess Helena, or Mum, as the kingdom lovingly called her, was stuck in the Tower of Unwell. She'd been trapped there for ages and ages and ages and ages. Like, for 11 whole days. Her hair had grown longer (at least longer than it had been 11 days ago). She lay in her bed and gazed out at the trees and the clouds. She longed to be free of the dreaded curse that had been placed on her, in the form of virusey greeblies invading her system. Those greeblies were having a full-on extended vacation, it seemed. She swore she could hear them giggling from her lungs and throat where they'd set up deckchairs, where they were drinking pina coladas and doing bombs in the pool.

On day 4, a Monday, she lay on the bed, and called faintly for help. Her voice was trembly, her face pale. Imagine the swoony putting of hand to the forehead and some pitiful moaning.

"How are you going today, Mum? Still sick?" said a fair Prince from the doorway.

"You need something, Mum?" said a wee Princess bounding up behind him.

Both little ones came up and gave Princess Helena a soft peck on the cheek.

Ah, that was nice. Made her feel a teensy bit better straightaway.

Kids decided to keep Princess Helena company that day, and every day. Books were brought up to bed, and read as the hours became days became week-and-a-half. The cats scooched up close, purring and their paws intermingled.

One extra-special day, the maths books were brought up, and the term

Bed-schooling

was coined. Now that was a sweet day.

Princess Helena wasn't always in bed in her tower. Sometimes she had to go out,

to Lego League and to band practice and art class. She brought the tower of Unwell with her—it floated along, with her encased inside. Behind its invisible walls and from its hopeless height she coughed pathetically in chairs and on couches.

Princess Helena even made it to a show on Friday night, to see a music film and concert with her children. It had been on the calendar for months—there was no missing this one. And the film was so magical and so extraordinary she forgot for a while that she was unwell. It was about music and about the Spirit—two things dear and close to the Princess's heart.

Her children breathed it in. When the Princess brought the little Princess home early, they said together, How wonderful! How beautiful! And that night, her girl fell deeply asleep before Princess Helena had even said a proper goodnight.

On Saturday morning, with the tower slinking along silently, and the greeblies tittering behind their hands, she made it to another concert.

This one, was the young Prince's first solo jazz recital. Accompanied by his father, the King of Tunes and Grins and Assorted Loveliness.

This was worth lifting oneself up from bed for.

Look at the joy on the Prince's face. Look at how he smiles as he plays!

And then the Tower called again, hit hard immediately after the concert.

Straight to bed for Princess Helena.

It was worst on Sunday. Which was the day the Princess felt rotten. And sad too, because it was a day of remembering sad things. She crept into sorrow and sat with it. She allowed herself to feel it, because as the film said, and as she knew, a little, already:

"On the other side of suffering, is happiness."

She took her asthma puffer hour after hour and tried simply to breathe. She felt. Big and deep and oh, so very much.

And that night? She slept through the night for the first time in days.

Which brings us to today.

Today the Princess is finally on antibiotics.

Today the sun is shining.

Today the young Prince and wee Princess (not so wee; she's almost 9 after all! But bear with me; I'm almost done) are watching Kung Fu Panda on the Tower television. The Prince has a very sore throat (oh no's!) and together they are drinking super juice. Spinach, carrot, orange, pear and apple (or just home-made lemonade if you're a much-bigger-than-wee Princess).

Today the King took the morning off work to do the grocery shopping. (Thank you so much, mr beautiful).

Today the sickness greeblies are beginning to sound worried. Not so much tittering. Not so much dancing by the pool.

Today the Princess imagines them scurrying about. Sorting their belongings, finding suitcases, scrabbling in their pockets for directions to the next Tower, and a tip for the drinks waiter.

Today is day 12. The day after 11 and before 13.

Or day 1.

Depending on how you see such things.

10 years

2011-09-07T21:33:00.003+10:00

Ten years ago today, we arrived. A little boy, a woman, and a man.

Arriving from the US to begin a Brand New Life in Australia.

Bleary-eyed and plan-less, we were driven to my mother's house up on the hill. I don't remember much about the day except we

went to the sea.

And I have a picture in my mind, of my husband standing there in the water, thousands of miles from home, gazing out.

My husband had never been to Australia before, but agreed to move here

because I asked.

Kind of beautiful, don't you think?

We didn't have jobs waiting for us, or a home, or any sense of where in Australia we'd ultimately end up. We just moved here.

And arrived on September 7, 2001.

I remember thinking, Wow. That's so close to my seven year anniversary of being away.

Because almost exactly 7 years before, I'd left Australia and run off to America.

To be with a boy, and to follow a dream of becoming a writer, and because staying felt so much harder than leaving.

I arrived in the US on September 11, 1994.

September 11. It was my arrival date, and 'anniversary-of-being-far-from-home' date, for 7 years.

Every year that went by, I'd take note of that date, and think, Another year! And: "I wonder when I'll ever go home?"

By September 11, 1995, I had travelled through Europe with the boy I'd followed, and was living in Rome with him for three months. I remember feeling lonely more days than not.

On September 11, 1996, I was living in Seattle, trying to make the best of a relationship that was never meant to be.

Just after September 11, 1997—the boy and I having broken up—I left Seattle and headed south-west. Drove across the country in my little VW, with just two boxes and two bags to my name. I had no idea where I would end up. Which was scary and beautiful, both.

September 11, 1998, I was living in San Francisco. I was renting a room in an old Victorian house, writing, studying, working part-time and playing lots. I would ride my bike to the tops of hills and float down.

September 11, 1999, I was pregnant with my son. But I didn't know it yet! I was starting a new job, living in the city, and I was deeply in love. My baby boy was no bigger than a bean.

By September 11, 2000, I was married to my love. We were living in the East Bay, and I spent all my days with my baby boy. I was also at the beginning of a roller coaster ride with post-partum depression that swept me up and dragged me under. But I loved my son as hard and big as it's possible to feel. And my husband was my lifeline.

So then, September 7, 2001 found us here.

Blinking and newly arrived.

I remember thinking, Wow. It's almost exactly 7 years to the day.

Here we were, starting our unmarked, unmapped adventure. I thought, "September 7 & 11—these dates I will remember always."

Four days later, the world changed.

In the middle of the night (but morning on the 11th in the US), my mum came and said quietly to my husband, Come look at the television. Something terrible is happening.

My husband's home, my other home, was altered forever.

So many sad and shaken days followed. I don't know exactly what my husband felt, but I imagine he felt lost and raw. Unmoored. We held each other and grieved.

And my simple anniversary became another thing entirely.

September 11 represents so much now.

Sorrow, hurt, anger, retribution, loss.

Loss beyond measure

of so much, of so many,
in so many places.

But it represents more than this.

You have to believe there is compassion, too.

Understanding. Connection and kindness in great waves.

Humanity.

And in this moment, four other words call out. I hear them, clear as bells.

Building.

Rising.

Rebirth.

Joy. (Finding it. Remembering it.)

Those are the words I hear. The words many carry now, and choose to hold close when the date swings by again, again, and we
stop to remember.

And those words

are the ones our 10 years here have come to represent, too.

Building. A new life, a family, a home.

Rising. Out of a darkness that nearly claimed me.

Rebirth. The three of us becoming four; finding my heart, my happy, my words again; stopping to see how the sky turns so many kinds of blue.

And Joy. In being, creating, cherishing, living fully. In waking every single day, so grateful to find

I am, and we are, Still Here.

So on this day, September 7, 2011, a day that is special to us,
I celebrate.

Ten years here with this man, in this beautiful place, with these amazing adventures behind us and new ones waiting.

On this day I say:

Look at these children we made, and the home we created together, and the work we do, and the people we love, and the roots we've put down!

Look at the gifts these ten years have brought us.

Look at the joy.

Honour what it's built on.

Treasure everything we have.

sickday

2011-09-05T18:37:00.000+10:00

I'm sick.

Like,
lie in bed all day kind of sick. Where you cough lots, find it hard to sit up, you nurse a super sore throat, sleep lots, have your husband come home to hang with the kids for a few hours, and have your lunch brought to you in bed by a sweet boy. The kind of sick day you could maybe enjoy,

except for the fact you feel so sick.

I have no idea really what the kids have done today. Other than

make me a sweet get well card/box,

A home-made pill box,
where each pill-looking thing was part of a get-well message written on little scrolls.
Beautiful.

play on the computer, create a paper airplane with a feather attached to see how it flies, practice music, go to band, talk, help, write stories, watch a movie,

and read and read and read.

Really, almost nothing, right? :)

On a sick day, when everything hurts, when you can't keep your kids entertained, help them with their projects or get them to places they need to be, and when you can't even look after them, your mind goes to Worry easily. You think—does this count? As a learning day? Am I a good homeschooling mum? Am I failing? Should they be at school? Etc etc and Ugh.

Those are the sounds a sick Me makes. But the sounds a sick person makes aren't reliable. Neither is the Worry we swing to when our guard is down.

Whereas the Happy my kids feel, the kindness they show, the contentment shining out

are all real.

I know it even through the fog.

And a sick day had cats in it. Keeping close. Keeping company. Which I thought was nice.

a love letter

2011-09-04T16:52:00.000+10:00

to the man who is the father of my children

to the man who listens to every word we say

and lets us know we

matter.

to the man who always puts

family first.

to the man who is endlessly

kind
funny
fascinating
inspiring
honest
insanely dependable AND
exciting (yes, you can be both!)

and the best father I have ever met in my life.

I can't even put into words how lucky I feel, how blessed my kids are to have this man for a dad,

and what a gift he is.

So here's some photos of the father of my children,

opening his Father's Day present…

Happy Father's Day, my love.

Thank you for being so beautiful.

running, rising, soaring

2011-09-01T23:35:00.003+10:00

Images are flitting through my head in flashes,

like lightning hitting the backs of clouds.

Picture this:

a hill, with ordinary houses dotting down and down the incline. All is quiet—
birds and children dozing.

Then

a rumble. Growing louder, louder, louder. Turning into a roar and you see

a driver-less semi-trailer barrelling down the road. Just like that. The houses blink, astonished and the birds are blown backwards in surprise.

And

right behind that truck, you see

a runner, coming down the hill. Fists and legs pumping, red-faced and barrelling too…so close, so close,

running

until he and that crazy truck are out of view.

Which is kind of how
our days are right now.

Today we went hard from 8.30 'til 7.30. No, we didn't go back in time! (Tho' wouldn't that have been fun?)

We left the house at 8.30 in the morning and returned at 7.30 at night. And the day was like a basket full of fireworks, an apron full of frogs, a day

of running to keep up.

But with such smiles on our faces!

Because it was a day made of

Lego League and brainstorming ideas and my boy and my girl and I showing our very first PowerPoint presentation (about an Invention that is way too Top Secret to share here, for now) and trying new, Lego-y things and doing a team-building exercise that had children falling over laughing. And fresh-made muffins and tree climbing and children bent over tables with their heads together. Three hours together and we were all of us like photos spread on a table, our corners overlapping.

And then,

staying to have lunch after the meeting, talking with friends,
three kids still not sick of each other, playing and talking, talking and playing, outside.

And then,

going to Homeschool Group, to the playground by the beach. A beautiful combination :)

As we mothers talked there in the sun, warming ourselves like happy cats, we could see

the ocean lying in front and

a pulsing pack of kids playing all around. Playing so deep and so fine, calling to each other, following each other,

so all together we formed the great Us.

We of the Homeschool Wild.

And then,

we went off to the shops to buy pants.

Huh. There's nothing poetic about that!

But wait—it gets more interesting.

Why the pants, I hear you ask?

Because a boy who busked on Saturday got offered a paying gig with his band!

And they were playing tonight.

So off we went and tried for cheap pants, but the cheap pants shops shouted, "It's Spring now; Pants are out! Shorts are in! You snooze, you lose! Suckas!"

So the fancy pants shop was our only, and Last, Resort. And such fine fancy pants we found. (On sale, no less. 30% off. Doesn't get much better than that). My boy looked Slick.

Which meant that
while my girl

did art class,

my boy played in his new fancy pants, with his four friends at an opening for a barbershop/retro cafe.

My girl carefully, intently dabbed colours onto paper, deep in her element,

and

my boy lay into a groove that made the air shiver.

How did I know this? Because I got to see both. Watched my girl paint, then we joined my son and husband at the gig.

Cup runneth over.

We are so lucky.

We carry art on our backs, in our hearts; we wrap ourselves up in it. It keeps us warm in winter, cool in summer. It makes us rise off the ground as though we have little people firing us up inside, so we take off over the treetops. We soar.

Which means, a day that could have

wiped me out,

fed me instead.

After all, you don't know for sure that the runner won't catch that crazy runaway truck. When the hill flattens out and the truck loses steam… There our runner is, slower now, but calm. Looking around, a little, a lot. Knowing that

it's not the catching, but the running (or walking, strolling, skipping),

the keeping going,

and the living

meanwhile,

that matters.

Don't you think? :)

credit

seamless

2011-08-30T01:20:00.001+10:00

Today feels like the weekend! she said.

Which didn't surprise me,

because today was filled with the same Flow and Good and True,

as the weekend was.

The weekend was made of

busking

(again!)

(where a boy made more than double the money he made last week. He is now saving for an iPod touch—which, if he ends up buying it, will be the only electronic game-y thing in our whole house! He has the taste for the good life, now. Tomorrow an iPod touch. Next month, a Porsche :) )

playing at the beach

(with a very old school friend my girl hadn't caught up with in weeks, maybe even months. They picked up right where they left off. Which made me so happy. Creaking inside happy—you know the kind?)

performing

(with friends and a dad, in front of about a hundred people. I think I'd better get used to this, our weekends filled with my boy following his passion)

washing

(a dog on Sunday morning. Who then had to, just had to, roll on the grass. Don't you wish you could do that after a bath?!

And I should mention: it was just my husband and I who popped down the road, to the dog washing station at the pet food store. We left the kids at home alone for the first time ever. Both of them were contentedly reading and didn't want to come. I showed my son where the phone was. Reminded him where our phone numbers were on the fridge. We were back within 20 minutes, and they were fine. Right there, another milestone was reached in the journey—the one that is us raising our kids, then letting them fly. WOW.)

playing

(a new strategic card game created by my girl. Think Yu-Gi-Oh, or Mythmatical Battles, but with kittens. Very cool… It wasn't simple—there were a lot of rules to learn. There were power food tokens you could earn to claim back a defeated kitten. And you had to play smart—these little darlings had some serious attack and defence powers and could take you down. )

learning

(how to work our new sewing machine. It's finally out of its box! Hurrah. We learned to fill the bobbin thingy up and thread the needle. We even sewed. We went crazy with learning.

Though I have to admit: at one point we nearly gave up—the bobbin thingy filling part was kind of hard. We thought we'd have to wait and ask our trusty sewing teacher/neighbour/friend for help. But then, we found an inner strength. We persevered, and figured it out. Boo Ya!)

reading

(all Sunday afternoon—one boy and one girl crawling completely inside their books. My son is re-reading the Percy Jackson series. My girl finished with Artemis Fowl (about a 12 year old criminal mastermind who befriends the world of fairies as you've never imagined them), then moved on to Little House in the Big Woods. Kind of a funny transition, don't you think?)

riding

(by me. Just me. On my bike because I had to. Because the sun and Outside and the beach called. I rode along the bike path that runs along the water, all the way into town. Where I stood by the ocean. Just me. Breathing.)

watching

the chooks wander about. Looking for grubs. Scratching. Free.

the flowers blossoming on the peach tree. Must be Springtime… Lovely.

Ah.
Our weekend.

You could measure each fine moment in dollops. Like

honey. Like fresh whipped cream
plopped on scones you've just pulled out of the oven.

Delicious.

And today?

Well, it was more of the same :)

My girl reading an Australian history book at breakfast, about indigenous life before white people came.

My boy practicing piano and drums, then working through his maths textbook, the one he loves. We're up to angles now. He drew his answers in the shapes of fish and 3-D pyramids… As you do!

My girl drawing more pictures in her Book of Creatures. All original, and gorgeous. I will have to ask her if I can share them with you.

My girl and I reading a maths story book together on the big bed upstairs. The cats coming to join us. The two of them licking each other, then sleeping nestled in each other's paws.

My girl going to practice piano and finding dad had run off to work with her music. Not to worry—more time for sewing!

(We're sewing toys, using the sewing machine. We thought we'd have one finished today, but need to fix a few things. Bigger legs! Sew the legs on first, then stuff body! Go bigger all 'round! Be prepared for a nice, steep learning curve! Breathe.)

My son, designing and building a bird feeder. Lots of trial and error there too. Best thing was looking out at him, sitting on the back verandah, drilling and carving with his pocket knife. The chickens roamed by periodically, to check whether the wood chips were worms.

Then the beach.

The beach. The beach!

Jumping the dunes. Striding with the dog (well, he lagged to sniff and poop and say hello to the other dogs). Sitting while the children played.

Floating in Time.

And band practice for my boy, and maths talk with my girl about making change and her Getting It! and dinner all together at the table… my husband making us laugh 'til we pleaded for him to Please, stop being so funny. :)

And a movie date with my husband as the kids read in bed.

And
now…?

Quiet.

This is how a Monday can be

just, and exactly,

like a weekend.

Open. Full. Of wonder. Of discoveries and delight. Of adventure and simplicity, both.

Just and exactly,

(and so very simply)

a life.

linking, as I do, with Owlet

and her unschool Mondays…

and for the first time with Amanda,

and her lovely weekending series.

this week

2011-08-27T10:27:00.003+10:00

What a week it has been.

So busy—so up and down

and down and up.

This week,

in the spirit of More! that I referred to in my last post,

I learned to program a Mindstorm robot

with my girl and her friend.

(The Lego League coach did a Girl's Only training session just for us.
Wasn't that lovely of him?)

I felt the sparks of my brain light up,

as we went through new step after new step. It felt kind of fizzy and delightful :)

In the end I watched, as my girl and her friend got the robots they'd built and programmed (with my help!)

to complete their first obstacle course. They looked at each other and beamed.

This week, in the spirit of More!

I did art class with my kids.

(The art teacher always says Of Course, when I ask to join in.
Isn't that lovely of her?)

We did a still life, with pots and pans, painting only in shades of grey. Looking for the light, the dark and the in-between.

At one point I thought, This is terrible. I'm doing a terrible job. I'm going to take this painting down and throw it in the bin.

Then I thought, No. You. Won't!

Remember, I told myself. It is the staying, the doing and the being here in my body in this moment that truly matters.

This week,

I went to a funeral. For my uncle who'd died suddenly on a ferry. Just like that.

The moment in the service that did me in was my aunt,

standing before the packed room saying,

'I didn't get one second. Not a single moment, to say goodbye.'

So she asked that we say goodbye, together.

And it struck me,

that out of a life this adventurous, this full, a journey filled with Go! and Do! and Change!

the greatest legacy my uncle left,

the feeling that was the strongest—so vibrant it shimmered in the room—

was how much he was loved.

Then,

I planned my own funeral

(…doesn't everyone? Or is it just me…?).

I wanted it filled with colour.

I told my beloved sister and husband so.

I told them: I would like ribbons. And bright flowers and music. SO much music!

And people beside an ocean
with gulls catching the wind.

That's all.

So if I have no words and no time to say goodbye,

the colours, the music, and the sea can do it for me.

This week,

it's been kind of quiet here, in my land of words,

as I've tried to sort through some Stuff.

You know The Stuff, don't you? It's different, but so much the same, as other people's.

The Stuff that blocks, trips, leaves you hollow. The Stuff you try to shift.

Which means I've been quiet in the spaces of others too. I am sorry for that. I love coming by to see you. When I stop by, I truly feel like I'm popping in for a cup of tea.

Though I haven't written, please know I still love being with you. Please know that I come by.

While sorting my Stuff out, I've felt alternately busy and blank. I've been weepy and muddled, and

distracted best by all the amazing kids I spend time with in the week,

and the kind grown-ups.

This week,

well, I suppose right now, actually,

I feel like

I am the still field.

Waiting.

Healing.

All around, in the fields to my north, my south, my east, my west,

—the fields that are my kids and their friends,
their projects and their happy lives—

I can hear bees buzzing.

I hear the thick swish of someone walking through corn.

The crick crick of crickets and the peeping of birds.

I can see bright colours, wildflowers everywhere.

I can hear the push of green up through the soil, blades of grass and new shoots.

I can see sunlight streaming.

I see children running,

doing a dizzy twirl that eventually tilts their laughing bodies onto the ground.

I hear their laughter like bells.

I see

a swallow swoop down low.

So low I see its eyes

and soft edges.

How funny, it must think,

to see a lady in a field, sitting so still with her face up to the sun.

Waiting.

This week,

I wanted to share the music that has been my week's soundtrack.

With all its downs

and glorious ups.

The whole album is SO beautiful,

in every way uplifting and wild,

strange, sorrowful and true,

it might just be the entire playlist for my funeral.

especially

this one.

done and doing

2011-08-22T14:34:00.002+10:00

I think we're done with Space.

I mean,
I think we're done with our Unit, the kids' space journals,
the thing I thought would take maybe a term.

We're into term 3 and we're not "finished." As in, we haven't finished answering all the questions we came up with in the beginning.

We are this close to being Done.

But you see…

the kids are full.

They don't suggest it, and when I suggest it, they balk at doing it. I think it's become a bit of a chore for them. A thing to Get Through.

So I think it's time to stop. As unfinished as we are, I need to let it go!

And funnily enough,

even as they've lost interest in 'completing' their journals,

they're still learning about space, about the make-up of the universe,

just not recording it all. Not writing down every little leap in understanding, every bit of information, all those facts.

They're just absorbing it.

My two sponges.

My girl said (two nights ago,
just before going to sleep),

Mum, I've learned so much from reading that To The Moon and Back book!

Oh?

Yeah. I'm not done, but I've really liked it. Right now I'm in a boring bit, but I think I'll read some more.

This book is about a group of Australians in the 60s, who were given the job of tracking the US Moon expeditions from a station in Australia. It sounds fascinating. It was lying on her bedside table, just underneath her latest Septimus Heap novel. Close by, ready.

She wants to watch the movie Apollo 13 now too. Because I've talked about it, and because she read about it in her book.

I didn't even know she was reading it. It was one of her library finds the other day.

Kind of magic, don't you think?

My son is done with his journal too.

He has spent 6 months reading about Space, every book we could find from the library. But according to our list of questions, he's not Finished with his journal. He still 'needs' to write about Comets, Black Holes, Dark Matter and Space Exploration. Not to mention the cool idea I had of writing about the main Astronomers in history…!

It all sounds great,

to me.

He's older than my girl, working at a Year 7+ level these days, so perhaps I should have him finish?
So he can learn to complete tasks, maybe?
Or do something when it's no longer fun?
Or to squeeze every single drop of Learning out…

'til the Most! Comprehensive! Study! of Outer Space! is Complete?

Or maybe

instead,

I should leave it be.

Maybe…

he should walk away and travel along
the many other, wonderful twisting paths that drive him and make him so excited.

And maybe, just maybe, one day he'll return to his journal, those pages of information and go, 'Oh! I could add more now!'

Or not.

The learning will still have happened.

So what's he been up to instead of Space Journaling?

Well, poring over The Elements book that just arrived.

Which details all the elements in the universe, with lush pictures, and fascinating information. He loves loves LOVES this book. Keeps reading parts out to me. Curls up with it on the couch. It's his companion, right now.

This morning he told me all about Chlorine, and how poisonous it is. He said people used it in World War 2 to try to kill each other. When one side tried to use it, he told me, they'd poison themselves half the time. But the little amount that goes in pools won't harm you, he said.

Ah. He talked and talked and talked.

credit

Kind of magic, don't you think?

And what am I up to,
now I'm not asking the kids to finish their Space Journals?

I'm letting go

some more.

Of the idea that something has to be

finished

to be valid.

That something has to be written to be learned
(even though that's, almost entirely, the way I've retained information).

Of the idea something has to have an Official End, marking the time you Officially Move On to something new.

And,

well,

I'm also wondering.

Why didn't I do a journal too??

If it's the idea I had
(which the kids loved for a long time),

and the way I learn

and it's about something that interests me,

I wonder why I didn't go on the journey too.

Hmmmm. It would have been SO much fun to do one. With my own art and words, my interpretations and information.

So, while I don't like to look back with regret, I realise
I missed an opportunity.

To write and record and invent and marvel, with my kids.

I was with them, but I wasn't immersed like they were. I was the observer, the facilitator, the collaborator. But I wasn't a co-creator. I wasn't a Do-er like they were. I sat with them most days, and some days we were in it together, watching a video, or talking about something amazing.

But for the most part, I was on the outside looking in.

Thinking
that
was the right role to play.

Now, I think: This could change. I could change. Even more than I already have.

I could jump in. More.

Immerse alongside them. More.

Learn side by side by side. More and more and more!

It could be Kind of Magic

don't you think?

:)

I'm linking up

with Owlet today,

as always!

I liked it…and not just 'cause I'm his mum

2011-08-21T02:19:00.001+10:00

Five young people

busking their hearts out.

Want to see?

I 'specially love the little boy dancing, part way through.
And look at my boy's right foot. Playing the invisible bass drum. Gorgeous.

Yeah, I was proud.

But I didn't hover!

Played it so cool in fact, that we wandered off for a bit and I missed one of his solos.

"What? You didn't see me trading 4's, Mum?"

No sweetheart,

I left you to the adoring crowds. :)

linking up today with Stephanie's

lovely Saturday's Artist

stuck and unstuck

2011-08-20T08:42:00.000+10:00

I didn't mean to not write for five days. Usually I have about a thousand words ricocheting around my brain at any given minute. Usually they pour out…

but my brain got stuck.

Do you ever have that moment when a fear hits so hard it actually leaves you breathless?

I had that this week. A 25-year-old, recurring fear reared its head, leaving me unable to write here (or anywhere much else for that matter) for days.

I felt quite paralysed with it. I was okay if I was around people, and thank goodness for my children, for friends meeting up, and children playing, and the laughter—all around—of kids and grown-ups I treasure. Then I could float serenely on their company.

It was during any downtime that the fear would slide up soundlessly. Tap me on the shoulder. Lean forward and whisper:

I'm still here.

I had all these words to write—especially about the comments in my last post. Right there was a conversation I really wanted to have. I've been writing my replies in my head all week (really!). Been going to the computer, freezing up.

Because right then the fear would whisper:

come feed me, won't you? Or at least try to battle me. Make this interesting.

It sure takes a lot of energy feeding or battling fear. And when you hit the wall, and think you'll never be free… ah. The hopelessness that hits. It takes a lot out of a soul. A lot out of my mothering, my living, my loving, my laughing, my Being.

But.

While the fear has been splish-splashing around in my brain,

SO many good things have been happening.

SO many.

I've been watching, as though from far away, but sometimes, in moments of relief, blessedly close up and present,

my life.

My daughter

who last Thursday, joined this year's Lego League team with her brother. She listened to the coach's presentation, listened to me as I detailed the work that would be involved, what might be asked of her. She said, I want to do it!

She went off to do the team building exercise—she got tangled up with other kids, who were then told to untangle themselves. Which meant physical closeness, the potential for getting hurt, a huge sense of not knowing what might happen. All these things have completely blocked her before. But this time? She was in the thick of it. Smiling, but even more beautifully—laughing. It made my heart sing.

My son

who painted a painting in Art class that blew my mind. His art teacher said, "You get it. You have it. All that's left to do, is get even better." He looked like he might rise from the ground and float away.

My kids and others

who met up for homeschool group and frolicked (yes, frolicked!) in the indoor swimming pool for hours. I loved that they had the time to play for hours. I loved that these kids, ranging in age from 6 to 13, played completely together, making up games, supporting each other. They were friends without boundaries. I thought, so clearly then, I love homeschool.

And all through the week,

my children.

Who played and made up stories, and created and read and spent days pealing with laughter. I saw that we were so lucky.

My kids get to live a life where the creative arts—their passion—take centre stage. They get to truly explore visual art and music and writing and reading in their day to day lives, be fully immersed, be Artists. It's what they love, and how they learn, and nothing blocks that. That is beautiful.

My children

who all week have given me kisses, cuddles, talked to me, kept me company. They've asked for my attention and given theirs—wholly. They have been kind, loving and so gloriously interesting!

Which means…

I've been frozen and unfrozen, both.

Trapped, in quiet time, in a determined battle with a fear so old, and so useless it's a wonder it hasn't shriveled up by now. Ah, it's a tenacious little sucker. But today I have the upper hand. Today. Today, this moment. Now. The Upper Hand. You listening, Fear?

And free, in busy time, to watch, and love, and learn. To see how it's possible to overcome fears (thank you, dear girl. You are an incredible inspiration to me). To delight (in the music! the art! the imagination!)

To remember. To see. To feel blessed.

Today, I am going to go and watch my son busk in the downtown shopping mall. It's his first time. He was invited by some high school kids to play with them. Kind of excellent! He's quietly, completely, chuffed about it.

Today, I'll be hanging out with my husband and daughter. We're going to get hot chocolates and watch the buskers. But only a bit. We won't hover—we know that would be uncool!

But I'll be watching, and noting. Delighting. Keeping my Upper Hand the hardest and the best I can.

the Real World

2011-08-15T22:08:00.004+10:00

Okay, enough with the dreamy—isn't life lovely?—posts. (Well, at least for this moment!) It's time to get down to Business.

We saw a fight today.

A real one.

Downtown, walking to our car from the shops.

Two grown men directly across the road from us, screaming expletives at each other.

It escalated,

until suddenly there they were, punching each other, one with his shirt off, chasing the other into the road, testosterone ripping the air.

It was scary.

I told the kids to turn away. It happened so fast. Our car was just past where the men were, so I couldn't think what to do—this was the way we needed to go. We backed up, we crossed the road away from them. Stood with a bunch of others, all waiting, poised. Ready to run, call the police?, I guess.

But the whole thing was over in about 2 minutes.

With no-one hurt (luckily),

one man running off, screaming ugly, ugly words down the street, shaking with rage. The shirtless one strutting back and forth, slowly putting his clothes back on. Life resumed. Weirdly, like nothing had happened. I mean, you've got to keep going, right? To your car. To your life? You've got to keep walking.

But the kids were rattled.

We talked about it, all the way to the car,
and into the car,
and on the drive home.

Somehow we made our way back to joy—turning the Ugliness we heard and saw into something silly, something manageable for an 8 and 11 year old.

But I was rattled too. And for the first time I thought,

If they had been in school they wouldn't have had to see that.

If they went to school…

I could take them there (to that nice neighbourhood, with those nice kids, trees everywhere, so peaceful),

in my car.

I could pick them up, drive them to whatever Activity was booked for them,

then take them home.

A neat life.

Weekends could be spent in beautiful spaces only, with us protecting them,
and they might

never know how ugly the world can be.

But that isn't the life we live.

We see things we don't want to see.

We meet strangers doing strange (and sometimes scary) things, talk to shopkeepers struggling to make a living after floods/a cyclone/a Financial Crisis, see kids on the street wagging school and smoking cigarettes.

We hear ugly words.

We talk about it all,

day-to-day life, world events, sad histories, people being Unfair and Unjust.

We live, truly, in the Real World.

Which is funny, isn't it? That people say homeschoolers are isolated and shut off from Reality. They say, What about the Real World? What about when they get out into it?

What's that you say?

The Real World—that unpredictable, fascinating, incredible thing? The thing we experience every single day as we go out into it,

exploring,
tasting,
trying,
seeing,
talking,
processing?

We can't avoid it.

It educates us,

every, single, minute of our lives.

Which is
what we chose. And just what we want it

(for better, for worse)

to do.

linking, as I often do on Mondays,

with Owlet… :)

Between Moons

2011-08-13T01:23:00.000+10:00

It's that time

again,

when you delight to see the moon looming, rising serenely over the water and go,

Look!

And you stop to note how here, and now, the sky is bold blue and purplish

and the lamp, there, glows green

and the backs of cars blink red

and the moon's white makes the colour deeper

and the moment becomes bigger than

This.

Larger than the getting into the car and the getting home for dinner and the getting ready for bed and the Getting On.

It's

like a pause button.

And I think,

How am I? How have I been between the last moon and this,

how were you, and we?

Well,

there was hard and beautiful, rolled up together, like two cats curled.

And a gift,
soul-touching and resonant,

from someone else (Kimia, thank you).

(At the end of this talk, when she is standing there…? Beautiful.)

And time with

a sister

for a whole day! In the big city. Doing grown-up and silly, silly things. Laughing 'til we were bent over. Discovering each other again (it being the first time we'd hung out, just us two for a whole day in a Very Long Time).

And

kids who have blown my mind, truly this past month, with the words they have written in writers workshop. Blown! My! Mind!

Their energy makes me write harder, better, more, too. It makes me feel lifted, so that I write things I care about. And I feel so lucky, to spend time with people like these.

And

Someone I adore, dealing with things I wish I could do anything about…

the only help I can give from so far away, is
love love love love love. Great gobs of it, sent in steady waves.

And

a cat in a sun patch.

And rows of orange hats
(and green letters and yellow escalators and pink bags. Yum)

A big dog in a shopping mall

A girl dancing on shadows

A paper rocket

A vine of bottles

2 cats. 1 lap.

A stick in sand

The sky! The sea!

Long languid days where the air tasted,

lip smackingly

of Spring.

Two dazzling children

And the colour of night coming.

You try to catch these things,

these moments,

try to press them between pages, try to hold them, but they, in truth, slip like shadows out,

and dance out of time.

All you can do is note them as they pass. Each small thing and say, I am glad I saw you, felt you, photographed you, thought you, wrote you, held you,
loved you,

lived you.

All you can truly keep
is how
pleased you are to have been there.

All you can say is: Thank you.

Stand up and Be

2011-08-10T20:31:00.002+10:00

It was Census Night last night. A Very! Important! Night! where we all got counted
like

little beans

and put into our slots.

We, the population, played our part in history—

all umpteen million of us sat at computers or scritched away at tables, diligently filling in our forms—

so that People could then look back and say,
Australia in 2011

had:

X-amount of grown-ups, X-amount of kids, X-amount of Buddhists, X-amount of brick layers, X-amount of people needing help to pee, and X-amount of millionaires.

But they won't ever know how many homeschoolers there were,

because

there wasn't a box for us.

Nothing and nowhere for us to write:

Homeschooler.

No spot to slot into and be noted.

No rock to scratch our initials in,
nothing to say:

We Were Here!

The question on the form asked if

you were studying at an educational institution.

Either you were, or you were not.

That was it.

If you said yes you studied full-time or part-time, it asked, Where?

You answers could be:

pre-school, primary school, high-school, university, technical college or Other Educational Institution.

No open-ended Other with a simple box you could write "Homeschool."

No.

You just couldn't dodge that word.

Institution.

Now, the last I heard or read or knew, homeschoolers specifically and absolutely do NOT study in an institution.

I checked, and the definition of

institution |ˌinstiˈt(y)oō sh ən| is:

noun1 a society or organization founded for a religious, educational, social, or similar purpose

Hmm.

There may be four of us, plus two chickens, two cats, lots of goldfish and a dog living here, but I'm pretty sure we're not a society or an organisation.

As for being Founded: I'm not and never have been. I just got born, grew up, had adventures, chose with my kids' permission and to their delight, to have them learn outside of school.

So it seemed kind of clear:

our education—all the delicious leaping and learning we do— happens in nothing like an Institution. But just in case my dictionary was wrong, I checked around.

Freedictionary.com says an Institution is

a. An established organization or foundation, especially one dedicated to education, public service, or culture.

b. The building or buildings housing such an organization.

c. A place for the care of persons who are destitute, disabled, or mentally ill.

Well, nup, to a, b or c.

Wikipedia says it's

any structure or mechanism of social order and cooperation governing the behavior of a set of individuals within a given human community. Institutions are identified with a social purpose and permanence, transcending individual human lives and intentions, and with the making and enforcing of rules governing cooperative human behavior.^[1]

Huh? And
um,
we don't fit any of that either.

So what to do?

Now, the Census form did generously add that the definition of
"study in an educational institution"

included study by correspondence.

That was awfully kind of them, but that's not how we homeschool.

(I s'pose if my kids just did their work and posted it to me under the door to my room where I lay inside eating bon bons and reading steamy novellas, that might count. Unfortunately though, that's not quite how we roll)

Which left me with no spot to say

what kind of Education we actually get.

It left me, being the stickler for the Truth that I am,

saying, in answer to "Do you study at an educational institution?"

for Every Single One of us:

No.

Which looks to the naked eye like

we aren't any one of us being Educated right now.

Not
him, her, him, or me.

Which is so silly,

because you and I know

we are.

Every day, in countless, joyful, and delighted ways,

we are!

No-one looking back at the Census of 2011,

years from now, or even just tomorrow,

will know

just how lucky we and thousands other Australians are.

And it is so ironic, don't you think?

That we unboxed and unbound learners

had no box to fill.

Maybe that's exactly how it should be?

But in this thing,
this small hands-up, stand-up communal exercise,

I actually kinda would have liked to be counted.

Silly, silly census.

Monday lovely Monday

2011-08-09T09:48:00.001+10:00

I love Mondays.

We don't have to be anywhere 'til 5pm, so the whole day stretches out,

filled with delicious potential.

And for a boy who was feeling very under-the-weather yesterday,

a stretchy, empty day was exactly what he
(and we, as it turned out) needed.

It was a day for

a girl to play piano

and Timez Attack

and for a boy to read on his bed.

A day for a girl to

make a book out of index cards,

and help make a new multiplication game

with her mama (who had had an Idea and wanted to start right Then and There!).

A day for a girl to play the game with her mama

then help make up another game (and play that too!)

…while a boy read on his bed.

A day for a boy to come downstairs and

make a cape and High Priest's hat for his toy dog,

play with his sister,

then read on the couch.

A day for big, gorgeous cuddles on the bed

(with me as the filling and the kids the bread, all curled up around each other like question marks),

then a nap for me

and reading on two beds by two happy kids

(starting to see a pattern here?).

A day for my boy

to go to band (having rested all day and now feeling Up for It)

and for a mama and a girl to come home and make dinner.

A day for a girl to draw at her desk

while a mama made vegetable soup,

chopped vegies and danced in the kitchen

to music so infectious

a girl had to come dance too.

(And this has to be one of the happiest songs ever, of all time)

Ah. It was a glorious day.

Did I mention that I love Mondays?

And Tuesdays too, come to think of it. As for Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays…

Well. I love you all. You are, actually, all my favourites :)

P.S.

I thought you'd like to know:

We've had FIVE nights of happy bedtimes now! Which = one happy family, one empowered and pleased-as-peaches girl, and lots and lots of sleep.

Ah.

(Deep, contented sigh)

rising

2011-08-06T17:27:00.002+10:00

Shhh, now.

Imagine
me

tip-toeing

through this new life, or at least this Shift, this New Thing that is

my child happy at night.

Imagine me

carefully moving through the day
not-quite-believing.

Wondering if it's too soon for cartwheels and fireworks and the marching band?

Imagine.

Two nights
so far,

a girl going to sleep happy. Without tears. Waking. Smiling. Giving hugs throughout the day and

declaring

just how happy she is.

Imagine: the joy

slowly creeping in, where once seemed all dark.

What could possibly have changed?

Well,

I think it began three nights ago, with us being as close to breaking point as I thought we could be.

Well,

actually I think it was me being close to breaking point. After 6 months of loving and talking and supporting and sharing sleeping space and trying this and this, and that and that, it felt like things were getting worse with my girl's sleeping and her fears, not better.

It felt,
quite suddenly, in one single hard moment,
like things would never ever, no way no how, ever be better again.

It felt a lot like despair.

So what did I do?

Well,
(and could it really have been this simple?)

I talked about how I felt.

After that bottomless night, three days ago,

I laid myself bare.

I said all the things I felt,

to my boy and my girl.

I said everything—I didn't hold back. I talked about my limits and my wants. Said how close I was to breaking, with the months of giving so much time/sleep/space, to make the nights easier. I said, It isn't working, what we're doing. And there is only so much I can do and give.

I need your help, I said. I need you to help me make these nights happy again. That's all I want! I said. For the nights to be happy.

I talked openly to my children, as I would a partner or a friend. I talked and

… they listened.

And they talked, too,

while I listened.

(And it was a fluid thing,

this talking, back and forth, to each other.

It was actually like watching

creekwater tumble over rocks,

sliding, winking, drops interweaving 'til you didn't know where one began and the other ended…)

My girl told us of the things she was afraid of. She talked through tears some of the time.

And my boy said,

he used to be afraid too.

Oh really? My girl turned, then. Looked intently at her brother.

And they began to talk,

to each other.

What was he afraid of?

What did he do to not be afraid?

He told her. Not of his most private fears, but of how hard it was sometimes. And of the things we and he did to get him through and past his nightworries.

He suggested things. He said, I did this; it really worked! You might like that too.

Now, suddenly,

we were a team.

A fear fighting team.

Together, we brainstormed. We made new plans. My girl said what she thought could work. We got excited.

There was so much love in the room right then.

We could have reached out… and if we touched it?

It would have been soft, alive.

That night,

the dark came,

but my girl was buzzing. Happy and nervous both—thinking,

This

was the beginning

(rather than the End of the World).

There was her room, cosy, her very own space. It had patiently been waiting for her to come back for months.

There was the planned nightlight, the toys to cuddle, a lamp which she could turn on at any time. Any time, no matter what time it was. A book to read whenever she wanted. There was a clock, so she could see what time it was. There was peaceful music, playing. (Things we'd tried already, in our room, but without my son's sweet blessing)

Here in her own space, in the space she'd chosen to go to, were the things she wanted,

in place.

But more than this:

Here was her choice. Her choice to reclaim her happiness, and give happiness back. To take control. To decide how her future could work. To think and breathe and live! outside her fears.

And more than this:

Here we were and would be, her mum and dad, nearby and always. Listening, believing in, and loving her. Who were honest and open, and who she could be honest and open with in return.

But more than this:

Here was her brother, just next door. A brother who loved her and took care of her (as much as he drives her crazy sometimes!). Someone who made her feel less alone and less afraid. Her hero.

And more than this:

Here was goodness. She could feel it. The possibility of a future that didn't leave her weeping.

And in that moment? In that dark?

Here was

light, rising.

It's rising still.

She has slept, in her own space, for two nights, without fear! She has been so happy and proud.

I keep getting hugs. She says things like, Did you have a good night, Mum? Did you have time to talk to Dad? Did you get lots of sleep?

And she has said, I'm so glad I went to my own room, Mum! I haven't been sad or scared at all! I feel like I left all my worries behind in the other room.

(And I've actually often thought our big room brewed worries, dark worry sprites, all gambolling about and grinning on the bed. I might have us move out too, to the little room next door.)

Last night she was singing as she got ready for bed. At the top of her lungs. It was so lovely to hear.

And the next morning? I came in to say hello and curled up in her bed for morning cuddles. What a smile she gave me. And kisses on cheeks and nose. It made my heart creak and spill open right there and then.

linking with Owlet for her lovely unschool Monday…

in the creeping

2011-08-04T00:49:00.001+10:00

The days are beautiful

and then the night comes.

And with

the creeping dark,

come the worries

and the sense of something Not Right.

Not just for her,

my small girl,

(and we have tried so much, to help, to fix, to heal, to lift the nightcloud that threatens sometimes to swallow her whole. Some nights are easier than others. I have to believe it will get better in time.)

but for

me too.

I don't write so much about it here.

About the dark or the cloud or the load that comes creeping sometimes,

when I get overwhelmed.

When I don't know the answers.

When I am afraid.

When I feel like I've failed.

When I'm not sure I'm helping my kids, being a good parent, being a great homeschooler, being a fine and fearless Me.

I try to breathe, instead.

Wait for the light.

Keep it when it comes. Pin it to myself with butterfly brooches and pearl-ended pins.

So when

the dark comes, I think, It won't always be like this.

I say it, and the dark shifts. I say it, and the dark can't stick. I say it, and the dark is just dark.

It is nothing

next to the light.

Hello August!

2011-08-01T23:05:00.005+10:00

Hello first day of the month!

What have you got in store for me?

I'm ready…

Ah, two kids waking late, drowsily coming downstairs for cuddles on the couch.

Breakfast and chatter, the spoons chinking against the bowl sides

and after talk of wanting to read and other plans for the day and which to do first,
it's decided by a boy:

Practice first. He goes up the stairs to the piano,

notes faintly sifting through the floor and then

comes down and drums, wild rhythms leaping
through the door of the garage-turned-playroom.

My girl goes up to play piano
(having switched from violin, which didn't fit, to piano which does, oh, so much!),

and when she comes down,
she sits at her desk working on…"Don't look!"…

a secret project.

I sweep doghair off the tiles and mop,

sloshing water while the drums kathump and the cat sits in the wet patches.

I go out to free the chooks and they follow me, run under my legs as I walk back
so I think, Ah, you girls need breakfast,
and return to the pen with seeds. The hens follow, cluck and clutter at my feet.

The boy is doing his maths now, the book he loves; today it's all about the Arabic numerical system

and my girl shows me her project—it's a counting book for children. You have to find the cats in the castle. It's gorgeous and she wants to publish it someday.

I think she will, don't you?

And then,
she is practicing her 4 times tables on Timez Attack which she loves (Oh, mum it works! I'm remembering!).

I go clean a bathroom upstairs
and I can hear them talk while they work,

though it doesn't seem like work; it seems rather like Doing Something Good, doesn't it?

And then?

Well, it feels like flow to say to a boy, Hey I found a list of questions online about that book you're reading; want to check them out?

and he says, Sure!
and picks one that suggests he write a paragraph about his "classroom" from the point of view of an insect.

So he writes like a fly
buzzing 'round our living room. He writes over a page without pausing. It's complicated, and lovely.

And then it's time,
my boy decides,

to read on the couch.

Bliss.

Right about then
it feels right to say to a girl, "Hey, do you want to write about a character you like in Flyte and a character you don't?"
And for her to say, "Yeah!" and then, "Can I just tell you?"

And for me to say, "Sure!"
and for her to eat soup while I pull out the computer
and type as she talks.

Words bubble over, all about the girl character she loves ("she's smart and stubborn and doesn't want people to know she's a princess") and then
she laughs out loud,
because she's caught in a moment in the book and has to tell me all about it…

and then she describes the two characters she doesn't love
and she says "I feel sorry for him," the worst one, because it must have been awful to have been
Consumed
(which is too terrible a spell to describe).

We talk back and forth and
lean towards each other and get excited,
because we both love this book and this series so very much…
and look! We just wrote two pages!

Which my girl wants to tweak on the computer, fiddle with the font and text size, and then?
she
finds a drawing program (of course) and starts to make art there on the screen.

Then, the day pulls us gently

on

to the Next Thing

Because It's time, don't you think? To Get Outside and

claim this sunshiney day?

Yes and Yes and Yes!

So we go to the beach

with the toys

and the dog

and the day is warm all over.

I take dozens of photos for a book they want to make
about toys having adventures,
inspired by this wonderful book they saw at Kinokuniya a week ago

While
meanwhile and in between,
we three
shadow leap and
shadow dance

And a girl runs! (So does a boy but I don't catch it on camera)

And we walk the sand

And
two make sand balls

And a boy tells the step-by-step, moment-by-moment process of sand-ball making
(It's worth paying attention. This is a Fine Art).

And then?

We walk back to the car talking, skipping, delighting,

always and all-the-way-through delighting.

Home we go for hot chocolates and toast with honey and

then it's time for
a boy's band practice. We read in the car while we wait for him, a whole hour in the car but we don't mind

my girl and I keeping for company

the sound of pages turning…

music coming from the band room

through the open windows of the car…

and my husband (the band leader) hooting and whooping at the ends of songs.

Dinner is simple. Eggs and talking and my son making my daughter squeal with laughter.

And now?

It is night.

Two kids read in their beds

A kitten curls like a sleepy question mark on my lap

A sweet man kisses me

and I say,

Thank you

first day of August.

You were

wonderful to me.