homeschool joy: when the learner becomes the teacher

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

I love homeschooling.

I don't always love the specifics of it,

like, the day to day frustrations that can crop up ("Could someone please help clean the kitchen?" and "Ah, you forgot your music, and you're only telling me now we're here?" and  "Please stop niggling, just for a second so I can think" and "Don't throw the stuffed cat at your sister!")

or those wobbly fearful moments when you aren't sure you're doing it "right," or when you foolishly spend waaaay too long looking at Eduspeaky Websites that (very importantly and authoritatively) show you all the things you should be doing just because that's what everyone else is doing and that's the box you're supposed to tick (Breathe)

or… those times you'd really like a bit more time for yourself and (you feel) you simply can't have it (because home-edding can often feel like (and actually IS) a full-time job—even in those down moments when it seems like you're not busy at all. You're still, always, on call)

but

I still love the whole thing anyway.



I love the happiness homeschool brings

when you're totally able to drop everything (or not pick anything up to begin with) and spend real time playing, or learning, or chatting, or sharing, or creating.

And I love the satisfaction it brings

when your kids tell you about something they've learned or discovered — you either brought it to their attention and they loved it, or they found it completely on their own and have been immersed in it for hours, only surfacing with a grin to tell you all about it.

I love the peace homeschooling brings

when you realise this life fits you completely

because your kids are following their passions

and you find you do, in fact, have time to write your novel

and do art classes (with and without your kids)

and you ALL get to be in your Element, together.


That's amazing

and a gift

and a blessing.




And then.

And THEN!

You suddenly find something new has crept up while you weren't even looking.


There are now moments, many of them, coming over and over, more and more often,

where you realise

you've become the learner

and they the mentor.

Because look! —

they've learned some mad skills of their own

and want to teach you.


Last year, my son did a history course through Coursera, called "A Brief History of Humankind." It was 17 weeks long, and was taught through the University of Jerusalem.

Well, for 17 weeks (longer in fact, because the course has run a bit into overtime), we have been hearing about the cognitive revolution, the agricultural revolution, the industrial revolution, the rise of homo sapiens, capitalism, religion, the history of happiness and so on and so forth. Hours of information relayed to us by my 13 year old boy who has LOVED this course. Hours of discussion, hours of learning through my son, hours of knowledge relayed by him to me.

We are finishing up the course together. Just two more lectures, lying on the big bed with the cicadas chirruping outside, pausing to laugh at the lecturer's wry humour, or chat about the concepts he's raised. It's delicious, is what it is. Learning alongside my son. Learning through my son. So much joy.

My daughter has been animating and computer programming on Scratch now for a year, and has been producing hours and hours of projects on line. In the past six months, she has also been teaching her dad how to create games, working with her brother on creating silly animations, and just this past week, has begun teaching me to animate.

I can't believe I didn't start sooner! It's SO much fun.

I've had to let go of my adult (sort of impatient) self, who wants to have the skill now. I've stopped to listen to my girl as she has shown me each step and explained the purpose of commands that seemed to have no purpose, as she has encouraged me to take the reins with sometimes only a little guidance. It has been really hard to produce these few seconds of animation, but wow. It's been so rewarding.

In these small moments, that keep coming over and over,

I can see so clearly how incredibly satisfying it must be for my children, to be such independent learners.

It must feel pretty cool, to be encouraged (by me, my husband, their mentors, their friends) to find things that interest them, to explore them any time, practice them for hours, immerse themselves as deeply as they want until they are full.

I love that I can give that to my kids. I love that my children get to be full-time, all-day, any-time-they-want learners and then, and then! That they want to pass on their learning to the lucky people around them.

I love being their student.

I love that they are my mentors.

I love how much I've learned.



Here is my second ever animation. I am pleased as peaches about it. It makes me grin, every time I look at it.

When I win my Academy Award for it (in the not-too-distant future!) I'll say:

"Thank you. I couldn't have done this without my kids."

     

 

our homeschool—our treasure trove

Our "school year" is almost finished… and what a year it has been. I haven't written a lot about it here, mostly because it's been SO SO busy. Finding time to write it all down has been like trying to catch shooting stars…imagine me, running about the grass, arms up in the air, trying to catch all that light in my hands. 

Many days and nights, I don't even try to capture it all. I just watch, my mouth open, dazzled and inspired. 

This year, my son was able to immerse himself completely in his juggling. He has worked so hard and improved so much! He has performed many times in his beloved circus space, plus at school fetes, music camps, our local city festival, at a big national festival and, just recently, he did his first solo show as part of a community review. What an amazing year he's had.

And what a thing, to be able to give (with the help of his trainers and mentors) the gift of time and training space to a boy who loves something this much. What an amazing thing, to watch how that gift has helped a boy completely blossom, to completely own the thing he loves, improving so much that big international jugglers are noticing him on YouTube and Facebook. His most recent video has over 300 views. What a thing. What a thing! 

I couldn't be more pleased for him. 

As for my girl? Well, this year, she discovered and fell in love with Scratch, a online computer programming application. She has created and posted countless animations, games, role plays, stories, and pictures. She has found a beautiful community of (cat-loving!) animators who "Get" her. And she has over 100 followers in the Scratch community. She LOVES it. 

Now, she's exploring Flash animation and Photoshop, developing her love even further. How awesome to watch her in her element, improving every day, exploring and creating her heart out. 

PLUS, she's now over 300 pages into her novel. Yes, she's writing a novel too! The best days for my girl are filled with writing, reading, dreaming, art-ing, animating, laughing, swimming, and singing (not that we are supposed to listen!). I am so glad I can give her time to do all that.

I am so glad I get to give this incredible thing—the gift of time—to my kids. I am so glad I get to say, 'Yes!' And, 'Oh, that sounds interesting!' And, 'Sure, go and do that!" I get to watch as they dive deeply into the things they love.

I get to hear all the things they want to explore, what they want to immerse themselves in; I get to learn all the things that make them tick and move and smile, the things that make them want to get out of bed. I get to hear about their discoveries. I get to sit and watch the movie they've made, hear all about the informational video they've just watched, see the art they've drawn, the animation they've created, hear the song they've just found. I get to sit in the audience or right by their side as they show me who they are. 

And it's like I'm standing with them in this incredible room—a treasure trove of secret drawers and boxes, with tunnels and wondrous things waiting behind curtains. Everywhere we turn there's something new to put in our pocket, something incredible to see and absorb. It's like the room is actually vibrating, like it's filled with notes waiting in the throats of birds. 

And we're so filled with the desire to Learn! and Discover! and Explore! and Make! that our room is sometimes packed to overflowing. Some days, we have to just stop and read a book for a day, or go swimming, and try our very hardest not to learn anything new, just so we can take a break. 

But we can't seem to help ourselves. The learning keeps finding us. The new keeps surprising us. Adventures keep beckoning. Life keeps on bringing us joy.

P.S.

bird by my girl…

from this week's exhibition with their art class
at a lovely gallery down town!

portrait by my boy…

art by the whole class…

(my girl's squirrel is on the top left
my son's watercolour landscape is the top right)

:)

small good things: writer girl

My daughter finished her stint as a Youngzine Young Editor a few days ago. She sent in her last essay, attaching it with a smiley face, as she always does. I am so proud of her. And she is so proud of herself!

The last essay, her sixth, was a hard one—she had already written 5 articles in 6 weeks and was pooped. Full-up with words, and all out of words, at the same time. She's only 9 after all—5 essays is a lot of work for a kid!

But we talked about it, and talked some more. Was it worth sticking it out to finish what she'd set out to do? This was the last week and it was only one more essay. We talked about commitments and obligations. Could she do it? If she wanted, she had the choice to write to them and pull out a week early. She did want to, but she didn't at the same time. There were long talks, hours spent researching the final essay and some writing…then more long talks, more researching, and tears. It was so tough, but she was so close.

So she stuck it out.

On Sunday morning (this being the third weekend in a row spent writing articles!) she finished her draft. She was 150 words short. I sat with her and gave her feedback. I asked questions and showed her areas that could use more detail. We looked at sources together. We sat so close on the couch, just two writer girls, working. And at lunchtime…she was done. Done! Wow. She wrote her last email, attached the article, and sent it off.

Huge smile!

We high-fived, and we hugged, and I thought, "How cool is this kid?" The work was as hard as high school, maybe even university. To meet a deadline every week for seven weeks but one—that's a pretty big deal for anyone. And she wrote her butt off, every single time. Worked so hard, learned so much, was so focussed, and she persevered to the end. What an amazing girl. What an inspirational human bean.

Here are my girl's articles. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I do!

Australia Creates Biggest Marine Park

Mantas: Friendly Giants of the Sea

An Ancient Art Gallery Discovered

Happy Birthday, Gustav Klimt!

Temple of the Night Sun

Friends again: Bottlenose Dolphins Unite

(All photos are courtesy of Youngzine. I really, really like this magazine. It's wonderful, and an awesome resource. Not only are the editors kind, generous and helpful, but at the magazine's heart is the education and empowerment of kids. All of my favourite things!)

month of beauty: in sickness and in joy

Well, it had to happen.

After getting through two weeks of colds in my house, first my boy, then my girl, then my husband,

then going hard for two straight days (yesterday being a 10-hour-marathon of being out, today going  eleven straight hours—half of them spent driving!),

plus all my enthusiastic calling out, of games and instructions, over the voices and laughter of 20 + drama-happy kids yesterday, and yep,

I'm sick.

I've totally (well, almost totally!) lost my voice. I keep trying to speak, and this wild husky crackle comes out.

My chest is sore from coughing,

and I'm coughing all this interesting censored up! Not a pretty sight!


So this post will come at you at a whisper. If you can't hear me, just lean forward… There, is that better?

We went to the Blue Mountains today (an almost 3-hour drive!) for a picture book workshop with this guy Tohby Riddle. I've been a fan of his for 20 years. I got to actually do the workshop with my kids. We worked on our stories, drew illustrations, story-boarded our stories, and for the ones who really had it together (not me), began creating an actual mock-up of a 32 page picture book!

It was awesome. I got to ask heaps of questions. Tohby was incredibly kind and gracious—full to the brim with helpful suggestions and a whole lot of wisdom. I loved that I got to learn alongside the kids. Just loved that. That is homeschooling, for me, at its absolute best.

Now.

Did I take a single picture while we were there, like a normal person would (and should)?

Did I take a photo of Tohby with my kids?

Did I get his autograph like the super-savvy and very cool teenage homeschoolers there?

Um.

No.

Afterwards, I decided the total lack of documentation of one of the coolest things I've done, like, ever, is because I was savouring the moment. I was living it, taking mental photos, actively participating in my Now.

Yes. That's why!

Anyway, he looks like this,

credit

he's the guy with a bird on his head

credit

and he is as great as I thought he would be. Everyone in the world should read his books.



Afterwards we got to go to Rubyfruit, the divine vegan cafe just down the road. You know, the one I've mentioned before and am totally in love with.

Double-plus yummy!

And then we got to go to a toy shop that my girl has been asking, and asking (and asking) to go to for months.

So. Much. Fun.

I mean, look at this place.

a wall of Webkinz! Look, Kei! 

One of the things in this picture was sold for $4000. I wonder which one?

My girl got to reunite with a toy that she'd left long long ago, in a car in Samoa.

My girl had scoped out this store on the internet, told us about it, then told us we really must go, because there, waiting for her, was a long-lost Storm!

But as it turns out, a toy can't actually ever be replaced. You didn't know that? Now you know. Storm was a one-of-a-kind kitten, after all. So this dear, identical kitty is called Echo. She is Storm's sister. (And I just found out she's French! Can't wait to hear her speak). Isn't she lovely?

Anyway, then I drove all the way home. As I drove, my voice gradually disappeared. In the end, I had to signal to the kids when I needed to speak, so they could be very quiet and listen!

I've come home sick and totally out-of-voice.

It's been a long day and I'm physically done.

But wow, it was beautiful.

I'll be sitting back tomorrow in serene silence, remembering the day, coughing up all that  censored, and smiling from my toes up.

rise and shine

Can I tell you a story?

I can?

It's kind of long.

That's okay?

Then I will!

Once Upon a Time.

There was a boy.

Inquisitive, sharp, funny, excited, enthusiastic, rhythm driven, and just, so, talkative.

(And that's when he was one!) :)

There was a boy who

was ready for life the moment he entered it.

Ready, set,
(he must have said to himself, poised as he was then, at the edge of Being)…
GO!

And he went, and went, and leapt at everything life offered. Leapt at learning and singing and reading and drawing and thinking and asking and doing and laughing and playing and
loving.

And he leapt at going to school, where after a while…at around Term 3…

he ran out of steam.

And he cried and said, "I don't want to go!"

And his teacher said, "He's an egotistical learner. He wants to be king of everything he does."

(This being because instead of circling the 5s in Kindergarten, he would add them up. There were other reasons. The teacher frowned and crossed her arms. And possibly expected us to apologise.).

After a longer while… after being told in Term 4 that my very-young-for-his-year boy would need to repeat Kindergarten because he was no longer paying attention,
we had my boy assessed by a Psychologist with lots of letters after his name.

The man said, "He must've been in a coma all year. He knows it all, already."

This was when the words "Highly Gifted," were introduced to our lives. And I didn't know what to make of them. They looked so shiny and fine, and kind of like an answer, only the teachers and the Principal didn't want to look at them. The Teacher said, "He'll grow out of it." The Principal said, "We had a child once who came and could read chapter books in Kindergarten. But by year 3 he was at the same level as everyone else. They all balance out in the end."

We left that school.

And went to another which seemed lovely, but was 20 minutes away on a curvy road, too far for a car-sick 5 year old to go, so after only a term, we went to yet another school. Our third.

(At which point a mother said to me, "What are you doing to your son?").

The third school seemed perfect. An energetic, young teacher. An involved principal. Lovely kids. Beautiful location.

I asked them, "So what can you do for my highly gifted son?"

(I tried not to sound pushy, or like an overly proud mum, but was under instruction from the psychologist. He had said, Your son has special needs. He needs an individualised program. Ask for this! Use these words! Show this report! So I did)

They said, "Oh, lots!"

I said, "The psychologist suggested he do independent work; he suggested a lot of self-directed projects."

They said, "We'll see what we can do."

Years passed.

Some years were harder than others.

One year, when I asked, "What can you do for my son?"

his teacher simply said, "I don't know."


But I would still ask. And ask specifically,

"Could he have a box of work he could go and do? Could he go to the library and work there?"

The teachers said: No. It would affect class management. It would affect his relationship with his peers. It would make him stand out, and the other kids would want special work too. They could extend my boy in different ways, they said.

After we'd been there about two and a half years, the school introduced a Gifted and Talented program. It went for one hour a week. One hour out of 30. The rest of the time, my son did the same work as the rest of the class.

I suppose it was a lot to ask. There were plenty of very smart kids in the school. The school ran interesting programs—music, language, computers. There were 25 to 30 kids in each class, all unique, all special, who all could have benefited from individualised lesson plans. And frankly, I'm not sure the teachers saw my son as anything other than a bright, sweet kid who didn't perform at an unusually higher level than the others.

In a group environment, and being a slow, very precise worker, not hugely motivated, deeply uncompetitive and quiet, my boy did not rise, particularly, and he did not shine wildly bright.

Certainly not enough, perhaps people thought (and think now?), to have me fussing over his "needs," and using such words as Highly, together with that kind of contentious word: Gifted.


For those who didn't and don't feel that way, I can hear some of you thinking

(I can, I swear!),

"Why, oh why, didn't you homeschool him?"

Because I didn't realise, then, that I could. It takes a whole mind shift, especially when you're already settled on the tracks, to jump off and take a completely unknown route. To say, I can teach a kid who needs so much, and challenge him and keep him occupied and meet his needs. To go, I can provide this, and more.

It takes another child having a near nervous-breakdown over school to push you off the tracks.

This other child being my girl, who I pulled out of school a term into Year 1.

By then, my boy was in Year 4. I said, "I'm going to homeschool your sister. You want to come too?"

"No way!" said my boy.

Rough patches had been sorted; now he was settled. He'd found a groove, and he was comfortable there. Not particularly rising or shining, but happy enough. Plus my son thought he'd have to spend all his homeschool days cleaning the house and going grocery shopping.

!

But a term later, after hearing about the crazy amount of fun my girl and I were having he said,

"Mum. Can I try homeschooling now?"

Of course!


Well, it's been almost two years.

I'm not sure he's as happy as a clam, because I suspect my boy is happier. After all, clams just sit there, underwater, stolid and unmoving.

Whereas my boy has

discovered himself.

And flown.

He knows what he wants to learn, and gets to learn it.
He knows what kind of learner he is, and he is it.
He knows what he loves to do, and he gets to do it.
He knows who he is
and gets to Be it.

It's beautiful.

Fast forward to now. 

Well, actually, now we're here,

let's go back about a month!

We were at the art gallery last month, checking out the Just Imagine exhibit, and he said, "I'd like to write a story for that!"

This is an art exhibit where kids from Year 5 to Year 12 are invited to write a creative response to an artwork. The winning stories get put up next to the work, and they have always been fascinating. And I'm a sucker for melding two creative forms—like poetry and music, dance and story, art and words. Big fan, I tell you.

So yeah, "Excellent idea!" I said.

We meandered through, looking closely at the artworks. The works were grouped into categories. There were 4 artworks for the Years 5-6 to write about, four for the years 7-8, and so on.

Problem was, none of the Year 5-6 artworks appealed.

"But I like that one," he said, pointing to an artwork for Years 7-8.

Paul Ryan
Welome to the Jungle

Thus began our journey of Wild Rebellion!


Off I went to the front desk. Excuse me, I said, but could my son who is not technically in Year 7-8 write about a Year 7-8 artwork?

Absolutely not, said the front desk.

Um, well, you see, I said. And put my debating hat on :)
As homeschoolers, I said, We aren't technically enrolled in any year. And if he was willing to write and have his story judged against the stories of kids older than him, would it hurt? And did I mention that, as homeschoolers, we aren't actually bound to a year?

Oh, they said, getting a little softer. A little bendier.

After about ten minutes of chatting, they were all for it. Gung-ho, in fact! Big smiles. A lot of friendly, "I don't see why nots," and "Well, okay thens," and "Good lucks!"

And we were off!

Story was written over the next couple of days.
Boy loved writing Story because he loved the painting and was totally inspired.
Story was awesome. Story was submitted. Job well done. Adventure finished!

Or so we thought…

(Don't you love the build up of suspense? You do, you really do—you can't deny it)


Cut to two weeks ago.

Phone call!

My boy had been shortlisted for the Best Story award for the Just Imagine competition at the City Gallery. Would my boy like to come to an award ceremony where he would receive a Highly Commended certificate, or possibly win Best Story?

Would he? Why, yes. He would!

Now it was getting exciting!

Cut to today. 

During one of the busiest weekends of my husband's professional life, an inaugural regional music festival being run by my husband's conservatorium,
we managed to get to this award ceremony in the art gallery.

My husband literally ran from another venue to make it on time!

He came in all sweaty, just as the ceremony began. Whereas my son sat, cool and calm (in his hat!), in the hall, amongst the crowd. And it was a full house, packed to standing with proud parents, relatives, friends, and teachers.

There was a speech. Then another speech, and then?
The awards were handed out. First came all the certificates for the years 5-6. Lots of beaming kids, all about my son's age.

Then it was time for the year 7-8 awards. The first artwork? The one my son used as a happy springboard for his story.

Highly commended to that girl, and to that boy, and then to that girl… all of them tall, all old, all at least 2 years older than my boy.

And the Best Story winner?

My boy.


Wow. Yeah. Wow.

He went up to collect his award. He was at least a foot shorter than one kid. He didn't grin like a maniac (like I did) and he didn't cry (like I did). He was, simply, himself.

And then he cruised on back to us, calm and collected, smooth and happy and cool and fine.

And then?

Well, after we saw my son's story officially displayed beside the artwork (where it will stay 'til September),
and after a man from the newspaper came and took a picture of the Best Story Winners,
and after we heard my son's story would be published in the newspaper,

my boy went off to play music with his dad,

just like a regular old day.

A day

in the life of a boy who truly wants for nothing.

Because he has and does what makes him happy.

He gets to rise, he gets to shine,

but it's his

rise, and his shine.

And he

owns it all.


.

Freedom Experiment 2011

Life is getting busy.

I can feel Busy crouched close by; it's poised, flexing its muscles like a cat. It's waiting, waiting…

The school year is about to start . The stores are shouting "Back To School!" with notebooks and pencil cases, lunchboxes and folders piled in buckets at the shop fronts. Kids are lining up with their parents for school shoes, and uniforms, and the right colour socks.

It's coming. The schedule is about to start up again with a bang. My son is in THREE bands this year, Monday, Wednesday and Friday, plus he has piano lessons and drum lessons before band. The kids are both going to do art class on Thursday. There'll be writers workshop every second Friday. And I'm going to run another writers workshop for school kids on Tuesday afternoons.

Every single afternoon is booked.

PLUS…

We're starting pottery classes on Wednesday mornings.

PLUS…

Both kids want to continue tennis lessons. They want to learn Italian! They want to learn about space. They want to learn about rivers. They want to build wooden houses and my son wants to learn how to build a go-cart. They want to get out and swim and bike and hike and walk the dog! They want to write in their blogs. They want to do a Vincent Van Gogh project. They want to build balsa wood planes, make felt animals, learn to sew, play board games, knit, go to the library, read, do maths, learn about history, do science experiments, write stories, and…most importantly…play with their friends.

And I'm thinking, Yes, and Eek!

And, Yes, but When?

And, Yes… and How??

…and Eek!

Oh, I know it will be all right, but I don't know exactly how it will be all right, or when,

or whether everything will be all right only after I've been taken to a Home for the OverExtended.




Which means I'm awake at 4am. Dang!




And I wonder—this being the question that is rolling around inside my head—how to be truly Free when there is so much to do, and so much to fit in.

I (and we) want to say Yes to everything, but the reality is, there is only so much time in the day. When you want to do it ALL, things get forgotten, left in the wake of doing what's in front of you in that moment. Then all those wonderful ideas can end up like those random bits and bobs (you know, the single keys and lego pieces and business cards and tiny doll shoes) you lose to the black hole of kitchen drawers and ceramic bowls on the coffee table. They can end up dustmuddled and forgotten.

I don't want that to happen. Our Things We Want to Learn List rocks and I want to keep it found, not lost.

So I am drawn, again, to making a schedule.

I'm drawn to setting a time for learning the things the kids have said they want to learn.

I'm drawn to saying, What's our focus going to be today/this week/this month? and planning the days we want to Do X (and for x insert, "reading about the Romans," "building something from our Leonardo da Vinci project book," "playing tennis,""making balsa planes," "learning about rivers," "painting like Vincent Van Gogh.")

I'm drawn to making the mornings, and certain days (that we choose together), our study time, just us. For us to Do X, for my son to tick off his maths and english boxes (as he says he needs to do), for my girl to possibly find her way back to maths without fear. For us to get our teeth into all the lovely things on our Learning List.

I'm drawn to suggesting things. To being proactive and saying, Right-o, if we're agreed then let's learn about Space this week (or this month, or this term—space is big, don't you know?!). Saying, If we're agreed, let's play tennis this Wednesday afternoon, get books about Space from the library on Thursday, and go to the art gallery on Friday. Plan, together, so we know when we wake what's ahead.

I'm drawn to planning, in some form. Because that's a part of who I am, and who my kids are. Like me, they need the known as much as the unknown. Because otherwise I worry we'll forget—we'll be like little night critters dazzled by the light, flying only and always to the thing that is brightest and just ahead.



I love what is at the core of my (our) Freedom Experiment. The core being: Yes. Saying Yes to learning and doing and being and living—not according to anyone else's expectations but our own. To saying, I want to knit, and being Free to knit. To saying, Let's go for a walk on the beach and being Free to walk. To my kids saying, I want to learn this and this and this and THIS! And being Free to do all of it.

But the reality is, because my kids love to learn, and because our Freedom Experiment leads us to the Constant and Beautiful Yes, we end up needing to choose.

What to learn. What to say Yes to. When.


SO.

My Freedom Experiment last year was Letting Go. Finding my way to Yes.


This year, I want OUR Freedom Experiment to be:


truly experiencing the things we say Yes to. Giving real time to Yes.

Because I want us to learn with both hands. I want us to look closely, immerse ourselves; I want us to swim deeply, drink deeply, learn deeply. And when we're ready, to move on.



This is how I feel today, in the dim dawn hours,
as my kids sleep peacefully upstairs…

Open to Yes,

all my pores and
and heart and thoughts open.


Aware that Yes is infinite once you open yourself up to it. Aware that choosing is part of the journey.

me time

I'm up early. I can hear the birds calling from tree to tree: "Are you up? I'm up! I'm totally up! Had my first worm! Howabout you? Nah, I'm waiting for Freda here. She wants the blossoms, so we'll do those in the yard over there. Freda, hey, you awake?"

The kidlets are asleep, and my husband is off practicing trumpet by the beach in our minivan. If he gets up early enough, he watches the sun rise over the ocean. Serious win.

I'm up early for some 'me' time. I love 'me' time. When everything else is quiet, and waiting, and the day hasn't taken off at a sprint. It's the time my thoughts gather. Make more thoughts, then more, all tumbling over themselves to be heard.

It's also the time I prepare for writers workshop. It's our second last meeting of the term today. Wow—how'd that happen?

How'd a year go by, a year that began with me thinking of starting a writers workshop for young people (a lifelong dream of mine), and is ending with me having run a a writers workshop for young people for almost a whole year! A workshop kids actually enjoy, a workshop filled with energy and enthusiasm, creativity and support. It's hard to believe, after all that dreaming, that it could come together so beautifully.

Then again, I think it's actually quite simple: You put a dream out there. You want it enough and believe in it enough and follow the path fearlessly enough, the dream finds you. If the dream is the right dream for you. If the path is the right path.

I think if I said today, "I'd like to be a fighter pilot," and went for it with total determination, I could possibly get pretty close to being a fighter pilot. I mean, I'm a good learner—I'm smart and stuff! And I can be determined when I want to be (like when there's cake somewhere: I will find it, and eat it). But the thing is, I don't like flying in planes. Or fighting. Or heights, much. I think it wouldn't take long for the Universe to know this wasn't the right path for me.

But homeschool. Homeschool. It's like the moment we began, all these beautiful things kept happening. My girl started to smile again and could be her true, safe self. My boy joined us, and found his learning confidence, and seriously took off with his music. I found friends who thought totally outside the box, just like me (and were so very kind). They became part of my community, new and old friends together, all supportive, all discovering.

I found time, somewhere, somehow to start writing again. I said, I'd like to start a writers workshop and lo and behold, a writers workshop was off and running. I began a blog and found people just like me in the blog-o-sphere—kindred spirits. I found my voice and my confidence and shared my heart and it was heard.

I've become a better parent. I listen more to my kids—I get real time to listen. They feel heard and so they express themselves better. We get along just so well.

(And I love that last night, my girl said, "Just for tonight, can I sleep with you?"

I checked with my husband and he said, "Is anything wrong?"

And I said, with a smile, "Nothing. Nothing's wrong. She just would very much like a sleepover."

So she had one, and it wasn't a sign of something Terrible. It was a sign that everything was Right. )

And now, my path brings me to a new adventure. Some school parents have approached me through my husband—parents of his music students—and they have asked me to start a writers workshop for them. Wow. It's only another dream I've had for decades now. To begin to build a community of young writers; to set up writing classes for kids in the area; to actually earn a little bit of money doing something I love. It's kind of lovely.

I'll start next year, and I have so many ideas! So many Big Thoughts, and Little Thoughts; Huge dreams and Small. I'll be running workshops, living and learning with my kids, writing my thoughts (and possibly my book?), walking my dog, loving my family, listening to the birds call to each other through the trees.

And it will be Me time.

All of it.

a conversation

I saw a mum yesterday, a parent from my daughter's old school.

She said, "I know you from somewhere!"

Oh, me too! I said. (But I didn't try to remember where, because whenever this happens, I wrack and wrack my brains and nothing comes out. It's exhausting. Me and my pea-sized memory for practical things. But I do know who is dating Justin Timberlake. My memory is very selective. But this is now what is known as a TANGENT and I really should get back to the subject).

Anyway, she figured it out and said, "Happy Hills School?" (not the school's real name, of course)

Ah! I said. That would be from a long time ago! How are you?

We started to chat. Her daughter had been in kindergarten when my daughter began Year 1. We had a mutual acquaintance. We made small talk about how her daughter was doing now, and I asked, So who is her teacher this year?

"She's got Miss Bliff* this year. But next year I'm hoping she'll get Mrs Nibble.* She's a lot more firm than Miss Bliff. I think she's just what Millie* needs. Millie doesn't want her. She said she's scared of her. She likes Miss Bliff because she's fun. But I think with Mrs Nibble she'll finally learn something. Haha!"

Ah.

Now. Mrs Nibble was my daughter's teacher in Year 1, Term one. In the first couple of weeks of term, Mrs Nibble liked to say, "Here's your work. If you don't finish it in time, you'll have to stay in at recess/lunch."

She also used sharp words and didn't let other kids help my daughter when she was overwhelmed. She got angry with my girl for crying. She also berated her, without any kindness, in front of me. The term my daughter was with her, my girl turned from someone who absolutely loved school into someone who couldn't let me leave her sight.

Sure, I know, you can't blame one person for this. Yes, my daughter is sensitive. She gets anxious, very anxious in certain situations. This teacher and my girl were, perhaps, simply not a good fit. Some kids love her, I have heard. The parent I spoke to does. She is not a bad person. Just a firm, no nonsense teacher. Some people believe this is the best kind of teacher a kid could have.

But it makes me think of an article by Jan Hunt, from The Natural Child Project:

"Einstein wrote, "It is a very grave mistake to think that the enjoyment of seeing and searching can be promoted by means of coercion."

…

Most parents understand how difficult it is for their children to learn something when they are rushed, threatened, or given failing grades. John Holt warned that "we think badly, and even perceive badly, or not at all, when we are anxious or afraid... when we make children afraid, we stop learning dead in its tracks." "

In the environment of a firm, no nonsense teacher who used words that made my girl anxious and scared, my daughter's desire to learn and love of learning stopped dead. I have never been a fan of this style of teaching (or of detentions or collective punishment), but having read John Holt, and others who advocate teaching with respect, kindness, and reassurance, and having seen how this approach works so beautifully, I now want to YELL Holt's message from the roof tops.

When you make a child afraid! I will yell.

You stop learning! (I'll use a megaphone, I think. Maybe with an amp attached)

Dead!

In its tracks !!!

And this message will echo against the mountains; it will ride over hills and over land; it will sift in through schoolroom windows; spread into the minds of teachers and students and parents alike. It will be heard.

Oh how I wish it could be.

*none of these names are real, of course. Though they are lovely names, and perhaps they are real for someone else. I sure hope so.