portrait of an artist as a young girl…

I want to be a Writer,

I said.

Then, an English Teacher, because that sounded good, too.

Then, I said,

I want to live on a farm with a farmer, and have two Porsches, one white, one black!

That was a good dream.


Then I said,

I'll train guide dogs for the blind.


Then, Teacher again.

And then, Actor. Then Artist. Then Writer. Then Actor, again. Then

inexplicably, I went to law school

(sorry, what?).

And all through law school, those crackle-dry years, there was art. Always there was writing. Always, I was creating.

I never lost that yearning, imaginative, hopeful spirit.

Until I said, Forget Law.

I said, Writer, again.

And ran away to America to become one.



Everyone asks you when you are young: "So, what do you want to be, when you grow up?"

It seems to be the only question some grown-ups can think of when they meet a child.

Who will you be, little girl? Down there in the distant future, in that faraway space you haven't lived yet?

Who will you be?

It becomes one of the most important questions in the world.



As I grew Up and Up, I thought,

Almost there.

I traveled, studied, married, gave birth, became a parent, then a homeschooling parent, and…waited to become the Who I dreamed of being as a child. The who I ran off to America to be.

I have thought, Almost, but not quite. Nearly there, nearly there, but not.

I have waited. I have realised certain writing goals, then made up new hurdles to make the Dream nearly impossible to achieve. Because reaching that elusive goal, it's everything isn't it? And actually arriving, that's when you can finally tell everyone you're there, right? That's when you can stop searching, reaching out. When you finally Are. 

Right?

And when you finally Make It, isn't that when the light shines down on you; isn't that when the Hallelujah chorus begins? Doesn't the ticker tape come raining down then, and doesn't the crowd go wild?

No?

No.

Oh. 

My future looks nothing like I planned, and everything like I hoped.  

I am a dream left, and found. A sweater unravelled and knitted at once. 

I am unformed, forming and formed.

I am a thinker, dreamer, mother, wanderer, lover (of words, people, nature, life!). I am not the 'Writer' I thought I might be by now, but I am (and have always been) a writer. And so many other things besides!

I, 

quite simply,

AM.

Which gets me to thinking.

Our education system seems centred on creating Future Whos.

Built on building the Grown-ups children will become,

not the people they already are.

Kids learn what they are supposed to; they study and take exams; they prepare, prepare, prepare. Tick off the checklist to make sure they are getting closer, ever closer to the Goal of Becoming.

It is all a journey Towards.

Who will you be, little girl? A firefighter? A baker? An accountant? A photographer?

Hold up your dreams now. Tell me what they are, and we'll pin them, here, and here. Hold them up against you, so we can see what your future might look like.

Then the squinting. The tilting of heads to the side. Then the um-ing, and the ah-ing. The, hmmm, maybe? Then, Ah, yes, that looks about right!


Then the Who You Will Be is placed

some distance away,

with hurdles placed here, and here.

So the Becoming feels like an accomplishment when you get there.


Who will you be?

Tell me now so we can get you ready.

Tell me now, so we can chase your future down.



I love dreams. They are beautiful. I love the potential that tomorrow offers. So much to do. So much to Be.


But when can we turn to the children and say?

You Are.

Already.

Someone.


You are a poet. An artist. A woodworker. A musician. An inventor. An actor. A mathematician. A stuntman. An athlete. An entrepeneur. An astronaut. A superhero.

You ARE.

You, are.

You are.




(I'm linking this with Stephanie's
Saturday's Artist,
and Owlet's Unschool Monday…
 both places are just lovely)

all of me

There are so many of me.

There is my core, first off.

The person who, without hesitation,

knows she is a mother and wife

pacifist

nature lover and joy finder

dreamer.

Then, 

there all the things I am and want to be and want to be good at.

These things are all precious to me,

but sometimes, 

I don't know what to focus on.

It's like I have all these dreams

and all these things that nourish me

and I don't know which one to pick.

These things

sometimes get tangled. 

They wrestle with each other

in my thoughts at night.

They say, Me first! Me now! Me always 

and to the exclusion of all others!

But how am I supposed to choose between my dreams?

I have always wanted to be a published story writer

but I also love writing my blog 

(and reading the blogs of others who inspire me)

so I often spend the hours 

I could be writing my fiction or sending out my work,

 here in BlogLand instead.

I have always dreamed of running writers workshops for children

but as I build that dream, 

it moves into the time we spend together, our homeschool time,

or the time I could spend writing.

Each dream pushes at the other dreams 

and I think at night,

There's not enough time!

Then sometimes,

 the branches of me

tussle with the core of me.

Like, my writing might take me away from sweet, connected time with my husband

or, stressing about balancing all these wants

affects how I 

am as a mother.

Sometimes,

not realising every one of my dreams

messes with my

finding of joy.

And that is hard.

So what to do?

Do I pick one thing?

Do I focus with all my heart and all my energy

on one dream, 

to be sure I realise it and do it well?

I am so drawn to that idea sometimes.

I think of homeschooling and my heart fills.

I think of writing and my heart wants.

I think of working with children and my heart smiles.

I think of focussing on one, and I feel peace 

and loss 

in equal measure.

Because I can't imagine giving up a single one of my dreams.

(especially homeschooling. especially writing.

especially guiding young writers)

So, 

do I keep juggling instead?

Because the juggling brings unexpected, deep, happiness.

A blog post might resonate with my true writer, mother, dreamer self.

A child might move me almost to tears in writers workshop.

We might have a day of pure Flow, a day of homeschooling so good I feel like skipping down the street, hollering and whooping, my arms out like wings. 

I might send off a story for the first time in years and feel just. so. fine. afterwards.

I might have an interview to be a creative writing teacher 

and feel such joy from connecting with like-minded spirits.

Each branch feeds the others,

each dream 

building on the other

until I'm

a rustle and tangle 

of

 thought. 

inspiration.

 fulfillment.

Until my heart smiles and fills and wants 

all at once.

And I 

finally sleep to the whisper of leaves.

in his element

My boy loves music

so much so

that I think if you looked at his dna—

at the twist and whirl of it—

you'd simply find 

notes,

dancing.

He can't stop humming, tapping, trying

figuring, listening, asking

learning, loving.

It's the thing he loves to do with his dad

(and what could be better than having your dad be the band teacher,

like, the coolest band teacher of all time?),

and it's the thing

he simply loves to do.

Whether it's a band rehearsal, a lesson,

a concert

 a performance,

a workshop

or just a jam session on a rainy Saturday with a bunch of kids

who love music as much as he does,

it's all bliss to him.

It's where his friends are and friendships are forming

where, at ten years old he's as much at ease 

with the 18 year olds as the 9 year olds

because, you know,

they speak the same language.

The other day 

my boy told me he wanted to be a percussionist when he grows up

(as well as a writer, inventor, artist, and architect living in Italy!)

but I know he's this already…

already a musician,

because it's obvious;

 it's what he breathes and thinks and feels and is.

It's beautiful, just for me, 

to see him inside his music,

in his element,

but today he got to share a bit of this true self

with a whole bunch of other people,

because today,

 my boy was on the radio!

He went on with his dad ,

who'd been invited into the station to talk about New Orleans Jazz 

and something called 2nd line drumming. 

My boy was there 

to play the drums live on air. 

Which he did, and nailed it!

First he played a clave rhythm with one hand while shaking a shaker with the other.

Then he played this totally complicated New Orleans groove,

while accompanying his dad (on bass drum)

and the radio host 

(who played ukelele and sang!)

all

without missing a beat.

Afterwards, my husband said,

"He was so cool. It was just another day for him, playing music. 

Wasn't nervous at all. But I was!"

I sat at home listening with my girl.

I couldn't get the grin off my face.

Felt like I was soaring.

Which is how I imagine my boy must feel

when he plays

and lives inside the thing

he loves.

at night

I seem to have become a night owl. I seem to be staying up later and later, sliding into the nightquiet like an animal into water.

Night is when stillness happens.

Night is when time opens up.

Sometimes at night I read: blogs, books, the paper. Sometimes but rarely I watch: tv, youtube. Sometimes and often, I listen to my favourite music. Often and almost always, I write my days and dreams down here.

But tonight I've been working on my stories. Writing, changing, planning, thinking, dreaming… Tonight I crawled inside my words and it felt so fine. So good to work on them. So good to write new words too.

When I'm writing it's like I'm inside my truest self. I become aware of everything, all around. My senses come alight and alive and everything—all around and inside me—feels like it fits.

Behind me and through the open window, I can hear the frogs clicking and popping by the pond. Out front, I hear crickets and the scuttle of a possum. The windows are open and a breeze drifts in.

The cat and the kitten rustle and wrestle behind me. They won't leave each other alone. When the tussle becomes too big, I throw a soft pillow. They scramble, tear apart. But minutes later, they're back together. I'm still trying to work out if it's love.

I have left my stories for a long time, let the book-in-the-making wait. Because in all the busy and the beautiful, it feels too hard to fit the "One More Thing" in that is my writing. But tonight, I roused myself. I made myself dig out those words, waiting as they were on a hardly-ever-used computer. I read, altered, added… I mused and created in the nightdark for hours.

And lightness came. And a feeling of clear and clean and true. I thought, Here I am.


.

a wish

Two and a half years ago, at the age of 7 1/2, my son read the Ranger's Apprentice series by John Flanagan. They made him want to be an archer. He was passionate about archery, consumed. He wrote stories with archers as the heroes, and made bows and arrows out of bamboo and string. He drew his characters carrying intricate bows, with their arrows tucked by their sides. He asked, Please, please, can I take archery lessons?

Of course! we said, At least, we think so! We looked into it. We found the local archery club—nestled in the rainforest, at the base of a mountain— and asked, Please, could our son take archery lessons here?

No, was the reply. Not until he is 10 years old.

My son said, But why?

We asked, But why?

And they spoke of safety and physical ability and maturity and so on. The policy was thought-out and fair; you couldn't argue it.

My son was speechless. Two and a half years he would have to wait. That must have seemed like a dozen lifetimes to a seven year old boy.

So he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And time passed.

Suddenly, he was almost ten. We hadn't mentioned archery much over the past two years, and my son had moved on to other passions. But when the birthday wish list was handed over, there it was at the top:

Archery lessons.

Nothing was forgotten. The dream still there.

My son turned 10. Finally! He got a piece of paper that said something along the lines of, "Yes, you get your archery lessons!" and then we said, But you have to wait a month and a half. The Beginning Archery course ran once a month, and he had missed the one for June.

So again, he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Until today, when he got his wish.

And it was a good, good day.

joy looks like this

a very good place to start

(or…'old targets put out to pasture')

beginning...

the lesson...

my son

the archer

Keeper of Dreams

dreams

Yesterday, my son performed in his third concert in four days. We toasted him and his drumming at dinner. My husband oversaw and/or played in 11 concerts in five days and we toasted him too. My daughter can't wait to be in a band with her dad, so that will make musician Three. And I am learning piano, as old and fuzzy-headed as I am. Musician 4.

It would be easy to see my son following in my husband's footsteps. My son plays drums, piano and makes music as he breathes. I picture him playing through his teenage years, into adulthood. I sometimes imagine him at university, studying music, then going on to be an inspiring musician. It is easy to imagine.

But of course, my son wants to be an architect. And an inventor. And a writer. And today, after sitting in on my daughter's art class, an artist.

Which makes me think two things. One: Why not be all these things? And Two: he is all these things already. He is creating, constantly. Building, inventing, imagining, writing, drawing, performing, playing—it never ends. My daughter wants to be a writer, artist, pet shop owner, farmer and a pilot. I want her to be any and all of these things, if she likes. And she already is, in some form or other.

So if as a kid we are these things, and we want to be all these things, what happens to our dreams when we grow up? Do we follow just one, thinking the rest are silly or too complicated? Or do we follow none because that's easier/simpler/safer and no-one makes a living making butterflies out of tissue paper, do they?

It is so easy to let dreams wait, or release them entirely. It's more practical that way, and we can always get back to them, one day. We always think we have more time.

Some of us do, heaps of time, we grow ripe with age and discover our inner painter at 60. It is never too late to get back to our dreams. But these dreams, squirrelled away as they are, in sock drawers and journals, and mulled over late at night, could be lived, right? Even a snippet of a dream could have the dust shaken off and flown. It could be beautiful.

If we lived as we did as children, believing we can be, or do, anything, think of what the world would be like. I'd hope there'd be more tap dancers, and cupcake makers, and kite-flyers and people rowing around in hand-made boats. And people who like to photograph flowers really, really close up. And people who write stories on walls for other people to read. And soup-makers. And jugglers; the world has room for a lot more jugglers. And there might be more smiling. And giving. And people sleeping well at night. Just imagine.