What sort of school IS this?

I wouldn't be surprised if someone walked in one day and asked that very question. Sometimes I laugh and think the same question myself! Because this homeschool of ours sure doesn't look like any school I've ever been to (and I went to 7).

What do you think of when you hear the word

"School"?

A few years ago, I would have pictured… a desk for a child to sit behind. A blackboard for the teacher to write on. A space between the teacher and the child. The teacher standing before the class, or sitting on a chair with the children in an obedient semi-circle at his or her feet. I would have imagined learners listening and a teacher speaking. I would have imagined it as I lived it, because that was all I knew.

When we began homeschooling, I got a white board. A big, beautiful one where I wrote the day's plan. I also bought a lot of workbooks. Books for spelling, comprehension, maths, history. I pored over curriculum, lesson plans, education outcomes. I searched to find something to hold onto, some recognisable and sturdy structure to build in a land that was completely new to me. This new land had a horizon too far away to see, signposts I didn't know the language to read, roads that twisted and rearranged themselves as I walked. I remember a day when I bamboozled myself—by reading so many ideas on what to do and how to do it that I had to take myself to bed.

I tried a daily structure, and dismantled it. I tried rebuilding different structures, but they fell at my feet, or the children stepped out of them. I tried schedules and textbooks and plans and packaged curriculum. I relaxed and had no structure. Then panicked. I lost my way, found it, lost it. The new world sometimes seemed just too large. There were days I doubted myself. I worried that the children would be behind, or not learning what they needed. I worried that somehow, in some way, I was making terrible, unfixable, mistakes. I wept. Sometimes, I would rant. Sometimes I did all of this in a single day.

But a lot of days, in fact almost all of our days, were actually magic.

Those days, when I let go of the worry and the doubt and the expectation and…just watched my kids and listened to them and said yes to their ideas and we walked and talked and read and explored and created and… we went to the library and to the beach and the art gallery and…sat in our pyjamas all day reading or writing our novels or playing games and music and…we went to hang out with friends,

those days were (and are) unbelievably amazing.

They are why we've homeschooled this long.

Three years! It feels long, and it feels…
like a blink.


And just recently,

I had myself a little epiphany.

It suddenly hit me, finally—big and wild and hard in the gut—that

our homeschool never has to look like school.

Not in any way. Not even remotely. I really, truly, can let it go. The teacher teaching, directing, deciding everything. The child listening, passively. "School"—this enormous, impossible entity—didn't need to be here. Not the structure, the look, the feel, those books, the invisible wires that were my idea of "School" holding me still … none of it needed to be in our home.

Then I looked around, and saw

we'd actually already been living my epiphany. For years, we have been loosening the wires, stepping away and forward.

But I don't think I'd realised.


After my epiphany

I could see clearly

 that our homeschool is already our special, particular, walk of invention.

Instead of accepting a land already made, we have made our own. We found roads that turned corners we liked then built new roads that branched away; we entered buildings that were interesting (but we didn't always stay inside). We have written our own street signs, made our own rising towers and glorious bridges, and we have strung the streets bright with lanterns. We found fields to run in and silken beaches and we painted the world in technicolour. We have sung and written and drawn and dreamed our own school into being and as we have, the word "school" has grown fainter and fainter…until with the slightest, quietest, 'pop!' it has disappeared. We have made our land a land of learning, made it so it fits us, built it so we grow finer and greater, every single day.

It's so beautiful here. Not always perfect. But it's ours.

A daughter on the couch, looking at Science For Kids on the iPad. A boy lying on another couch, writing page after page of his story. A girl lying in her bed with the computer, designing her website. A boy discussing the existence of oak trees ("if you have a 700-year-old tree that has a new, week-old branch, can the tree really be said to be 700 years old?"). A girl writing about bald eagles at the dining table for her blog. A boy juggling and juggling, inspired by numerous TED talks and his circus class. A girl lying in the big bed with her mum, discussing long division and playing book stores and making up change. A boy playing Words With Friends with his mum (and beating her! She will have to lift her game.) A girl drawing cartoon cats and reading books on animation. A boy poring over Greek history. A girl reading every Warriors book under the sun. A boy and a girl and a mum, walking on the beach almost every day the sun is out.

A boy. A girl. A mum. A dad. Thinking, dreaming, creating. Talking, all the time. Playing in the land we made. The land we made. 


It is so beautiful here.

linking up with the lovely Owlet's 

Unschool Monday

how can one person change the world?

My daughter asked this the other day, as we walked along the bike path, the sea murmuring at our side, low bushes thick to the east and west. A small wren darted near our feet, its tail erect and bright blue. A new housing development sat squat on the headland, looking over a dense history of waves, of spirit, of sun and moon rise, and the endless calls of birds.

Here is where deep spirit lies, the local Aboriginals say. There is an indigenous tent embassy set up by the beach, by the water. People are still listening to the living, breathing land, here and elsewhere.

"How can one person change the world?" my daughter asked. "I'm just one person. Humans have done so much damage—it makes me sad. I can't change it."

"You already are changing it," I said. Her hand lay small and soft in mine. Her feet walked in time with mine, her eyes watching everything, noticing, listening. "You are changing it by living your truth," I said. Which sounded so very ambiguous and new agey but that's how we talk. We talk like hippies in our house, and idealists and impossible adventurers.

"But," she said, "I can't make a difference. One person can't."

"One person can, and does, all the time. Their voice speaks out, then it adds to another person's voice and another person's voice, and all of a sudden…"

People start to listen. It can begin with a single voice. Think of Gandhi, and Buddha, and Jesus, and Nelson Mandela, and Rosa Parks. Think of people camped in treetops trying to save old growth rain forests. Think of a girl baking cookies to raise money for the RSPCA. Think of an Israeli man posting a message of love to Iranian people on his Facebook page, and then it spreading, Iranians posting messages in return, a great sweep of peace rising. Think of a President speaking out for marriage equality.

Think of the small acts people do every day— smiling at others, including others, listening to others, sharing with others. Think of passionate people, creative people, questioning people, people who care so much about this planet and the living things on it that they can't help but speak out. They make a difference by living their truth, by spreading compassion, by loving others. It's a beautiful, beautiful thing.

My daughter is changing the world with her small voice. She submitted her vegan essay to Youngzine, an online current affairs magazine for kids. It got accepted for publication and is on the front page of their U-Write section!

She is making a difference at the age of 9 — by raising an idea she believes in passionately, by stating her opinion, by presenting sources, opening up conversation, talking with others…by speaking her truth. 

And she is making a difference simply by inspiring me. 

I am so proud I could burst. 

Love and peace to you all! May all your feathers be fluffed and your tails bright blue, may the land whisper under your feet and your songs sing out over the sea.

… and Click

There are some moments in life, moments pure and perfect where you stop and take a photograph with your mind.

Notice this, I say to myself. Mind this. Remember this. Feel this.

Those moments are like spotting rainbows, or a child's hand quietly slipping into yours. You hold them close. You remember them always.

I still remember breastfeeding my son under the trees when he was less than a year old.

I remember the very last night I breastfed my daughter, at almost three years old and how she fell asleep tucked against my skin.

I remember, clearly, kissing my husband on the dunes in San Francisco when we were new to each other. The wind rising, the waves turning, crashing, turning…just for us.

I remember 13 years ago, standing under cold stars on an empty street in Lake Tahoe. I remember singing in harmony with a friend, singing over the North Sea in Yorkshire when I was 24. And just the other day, I remember walking towards my children, and suddenly feeling the deep invincible burn of loving them.

You take note in moments like these. You stop. Click.
Stop, click. Stop. Click.


And… some days I also pull out my phone and take a picture,

to make doubly sure a sweet moment sticks.

'Cause it's nice sometimes to have an actual photo to look back on.
(As lovely as the memories are, and as much as they make me glow)

And sometimes because I think, perhaps my memory won't always be enough. Everyone has those days, don't they, when you look back and go, "What was it we did again?" or "What did we do yesterday?" or… "I don't remember that at all."

Plus, well…it's always good to have a record for the homeschool diary :)

We've been so busy the past few weeks. A beautiful man has gone away then returned. (Hooray, hooray, hooray). We have tripped to Sydney, and returned. We have gone to the beach and gone to the beach and…gone to the beach. We have walked the dog. The kids began juggling class. They made an online story forum for people who want to write about cats. We have done our computer science class. We have cooked and eaten scrumptious vegan food. The kids have scootered (and I have watched). We have read. We have written. We have walked. We bought an iPad!! We have been in the newspaper. We have laughed and we have played and we have learned.

Can I show you how our days have been…?

I'd like that, very much.

Our Sydney Adventure

Including: Ladybugs, Chinese Gardens,

Views Down and Around,

and DeepBookDiving

Our Outdoorsy Days

Scootering

Beaching

Walking

Laughing

Our Learning

Forum Creating

Story Writing

Game Playing

Computer Sciencing (with the cat!)

Box Building at Bunnings

Card Workshopping

and
Ball Juggling

Our Music

A Jazz Concert

A Classical Indian Music Concert

and

A Boy's First Jazz Piano Gig!

And oh, it was so cold out!
My boy kept rubbing his hands together to keep them warm between songs.
Then played his heart out. 

Our Vegan Life

Lasagnes and Quesadillas!

(plus we ate Pizza… and Moroccan Sweet Potato Stew…and Vegie Burgers… 

and Almond Pancakes…and Lentil Bolognese! Yummilicious)

Plus some

Vegan Essay Writing (by a girl)

and

Vegan Poster Making (by a boy)

My boy showed me his (done on Paintbrush) drawing with his typical mischievous grin…

then he decided to create a series of posters using quotes from different faiths and philosophies 

(Christianity, Buddhism, Confucious, the Bahaii faith, Hinduism),

all quoting the Golden Rule. Pretty beautiful. 

I am so proud of my kids for reading up about veganism, 

for becoming informed, and expressing their views. 

They inspire me to do more, say more, speak more. 

And publish more pictures of scrumptious vegan food :) )

Our fame

We were in the paper!

I was interviewed via email recently for a Mother's Day article coming out in the local paper.

I was asked about homeschooling and mothering…

and wrote lots and lots of words in response :) 

The photographer came to our house and snapped a thousand photos. It was a lot of fun.

When the article came out yesterday
 (along with lovely interviews with 6 other mums), 

I was so pleased to see that the points I felt strongest about were kept in. 

I was so glad to see homeschooling (specifically unschooling/life learning) 

shown in such a positive light. 

It made me so happy. 

And…
Our Together.

I love these kids.
I love being their mother.
It's a cup-runneth-over kind of love.
The best kind of love there is.

I hope all is as well for you, on this Mother's Day,

as it is (and it beautifully, magically is)

for us.

things that are hard/things that are easy

It's hard to have SO many words rocketing about inside my brain
and find I don't have, or take, the time to write them down.

It's easy to spend the time I have, instead,
with my two incredible, beautiful, laughing, interested, excited, talkative, supportive, sensitive, kind kids.

It's hard to miss a man for two weeks,
to talk to him via computer and have him be so close
and yet so very very far away.

It's easy, so easy to look forward to him coming home.
In just 12 hours.

It's hard to have adventures, the daily kind and the more adventurous kind, and not write about them here (yet).

It's easy to have the adventures :)

It's hard to love a kitten who causes so much trouble.

It's easy to love a kitten when she can't decide whether to sit on your daughter's lap or yours, so she chooses both.

It's hard to miss a homeschool camp because you're fixing (or trying to fix) a kitten's mess.

It's suddenly, surprisingly, easy to accept this, and not miss what you can't have.
(How did I find clarity and peace about this, when through my whole history I hardly ever have? I'm not sure. Perhaps it's because in the moment of cancelling going to camp, I sat on my ruined carpet, beside my dog and I allowed myself to cry.
And then…? Well, I guess, I got up.
And hung out with my incredible, beautiful, laughing, interested, excited, talkative, supportive, sensitive, kind kids.)

It's hard for me (sometimes/often), to keep up with people's blogs and comment and be there for online friends who have been there for me.

It is easy, when I do go visit my friends' words,
to read and be inspired through and through.

(And tonight one friend both inspired me and gave me a link to a band I instantly fell in love with. A band I'm listening to as I write these very words. Thank you, MJ!).

It was hard, to not be with my husband as he visited a particular friend while overseas,
a friend I would give so much to see, to hug and laugh and laugh with.
So here is another hug, and another, sent across the sea to you, dearest Jennifer.

It is easy to love this friend.

It is easy to love my friends. Friends so far, friends so close. All.

It is easy to breathe in.

It is easy to watch the dog sleeping.

It is easy to go upstairs to lie beside my kids, curl up close and hear how much they love me, and say how much I love them.

It is easy—strangely/beautifully—to accept
…all the Busy
of a man being away and a kitten being crazy and the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry, the going to and fro and
…the quiet of night,
and all the seconds between my seeing him and my seeing him.

Because I will see him.

Because Busy can and does bring such joy.

Because Hard is just one feeling among many (Delight. Serenity. Grief. Love) that I will pass through.

It is easy to let music hold you.

It is easy, in this moment,

to simply Be.



This song is just stunning, isn't it? I loved the sound of it, and now that I've finished writing, I'm actually listening to the lyrics. My goodness. My goodness. 

I HEART homeschool

Ah, what an amazing day. The kind of day you actually notice as you're living it. The kind of day you and your kids cherish over lunch,
as you stop to look at each other and one of you says,
"Are you happy?"
And the other says, "Yeah, yeah, I'm really happy. You?" and the other says, "Yeah. Yeah, I am!"
And you all just grin.

Our days, every day, are our own, to fill with joy and learning. We homeschool and we are free. It's that simple. The kids love to learn, and when I relax into that and leave them to follow their own paths, the learning is almost effortless. It's just…Ah… you know that feeling? That singing in the heart feeling? When you know you've done the right thing, to go on this journey? It's serendipity; it's just truth.

What did we do today that was so great, anyway? Well, we all read, for a start—in our beds and leaning over our breakfast bowls. Because that's how our days always begin.

And then a boy cleared the dishwasher and smiled to hear me thank him, to hear how much he helps me by doing this.

And a girl continued to design her brand new website! It's yet to be published, but filled with stories and poems and gorgeous cat facts. She has been working on this for days.

And a boy went into the playroom to practice. He can spend forever in there, drumming, piano-ing… and the new passion? Trombone, which he is teaching himself, while his dad's away. For hours he's been hooting away in there, checking notes on the piano, singing to himself. It's just lovely.

And a girl and I talked about long division. We sat on the couch and chatted about it, looked it up on the Web, practiced it a little bit. Not for long and not too hard. And today, 'cause we were totally chilled, I think she finally got it! Which says to me: Hey. Lady. Don't sweat the maths. Your girl is going to be fine.

And then a boy and a girl and I started our New Venture—Computer Science 101!

It's through Coursera, which provides online courses by top colleges in the US. We're doing a computer programming course, and it's being run by Stanford. Oh my goodness—Stanford! My girl is 9, my boy is 11 and they're doing a college course. That blows. my. mind.

We had so much fun. We learned about code and strings and syntax and got to practice and do little quizzes which weren't timed or stressful, and the kids didn't want to stop. The only reason we took a break was 'cause it was lunch time and I was so hungry! But we get to do lots more—it's a ten week course. And the kids can't wait to get back to it.

And…a boy worked on his story for the Art Gallery writing competition. My girl already finished hers, but my boy needed to do a major rewrite. He was kind of daunted, for a second, but then we chatted and I offered up some ideas and…he went for it. Totally rewrote the first section and made the story shine. He was so pleased.

And a girl wrote a new blog post! This time: Pandas. I didn't know they sometimes ate rodents! And there I was, thinking they were vegan :)

And a boy decided to finish another chapter review in his maths book (the textbook he asked for last year, and still wants to use!). We've realised he knows a heap of the stuff already, so he's started just doing the reviews instead of plodding away through each chapter, page after page just because that's what you normally do. And if he comes across something he doesn't know? Well, that's when he can go and learn it. So much more sensible.

And we didn't call the Cat Society, for the second day in a row.

Why not? Well, because it's hard. We feel so torn, between claiming some sanity, and trying to make our two cat house work. The kitten has been a darling, ever since I wrote my last post. And the cats have, bizarrely, been mellow together—even cuddling up to sleep on the chair. And the children just love her, even my boy. … Could the winds have changed? Could our luck be turning?

So today, instead of giving up our kitten, we looked up pet enclosures—thanks to Joanne's suggestion in the comments on my last post. (Thank you so much, Joanne). And I am crossing my fingers that this will work—that we will figure this crazy business out.

And then, a boy and a girl and I went for a walk with the dog. Who is on arthritis medicine now, so today he found a new lease on life. He galloped today. Galloped! And rolled in the grass, over and over, tail wildly wagging.

Meanwhile the kids and I acted out a fantasy game while we walked. It's based on these characters the kids have made up. I was a combination cat-bird called Prince Felix. And my girl was a 'Katrine,' and my boy was a 'Kyrie.' These characters are so clear and real in their heads. My boy made them up, along with the world they live in—the Kingdom of Loth. It's so complicated in there! But the kids know the world intimately and play in it all the time.

And a boy and a girl and I got to talk to Dad via Skype! He's in San Francisco right now (my other home!). He's having a beautiful time. He has a cold, and I miss him, but it's so good (and I feel so lucky) to talk to him every day.

playing trombone for Dad

And a girl wrote a new story—this one about her Kyrie character, pages and pages of it.

And a boy drew, and drew and drew. Aren't these stunning?????

And then…we ate home-made pizza, which was divine—topped with spinach, caramelised onion, mushroom, tomato, olives and a sprinkling of soy cheese. Yummo. And we talked about veganism, and about nutrition and protein and heart disease and animal welfare. You know—a typical dinner conversation :)

And a boy and a girl drifted upstairs to read, making the day complete.

And that
was our homeschool day!

Our life learning, love-learning, free-flowing, fits-us-just-right day.

We ADORED it.

A rock, a hard place

My friend, the kitten, knows something is up. She has been on my lap or by my side now for hours. When we got home last night, she crawled onto my lap three separate times, purring madly. Now, she is curled beside the computer, staying near. First, she walked up to me and said, "Mow?" 

I looked down. 

"Mow?" she asked again.

"You want to get up?"

"Mow."

Up she hopped, to splay herself along the line of my legs. To hook her claw in my pants to stop herself sliding off onto her head. To slide, plonk, onto the floor. And up again, to sit beside my little laptop, in the gentle morning, to lick herself quietly close by.

She knows, I think. Or senses a shift in the air, in the energy, in the way we look at her, in the feeling here.

In the last month, this kitten (who is really a cat, but will always be a kitten to us) has peed on so many things we have lost count. She has battled for territory and dominance with our other cat since the moment she arrived, a year ago. There have been wee issues since the beginning, but I thought they'd mostly settled down. A wee here, a wee there, really, what's a wee amongst friends? But since we went to homeschool camp, the surprise pee attacks have intensified (now that's a sentence you don't read every day). Bathmats, books, shopping bags, toys, carpet, even the couch. Yuck.

And in the six days since my husband left for overseas—the days I needed to keep Simple—things have gone from bad to Busted. One swim bag and jacket have been wrecked, one bookcase is wrecked and now outside, and the carpet is wrecked and has to be replaced immediately.

Ah. This is when you breathe. And finally kind of break, too, because we've been dealing with this since day one. But the idea of giving up something your girl loves to distraction has been impossible, so we've lived with the fighting and the craziness and the wee, and we've cleaned up and tried to find ways to make it stop. But it hasn't stopped, and now I'm breathing and breaking, both.

And with a husband not here to help carry the Hard, you find yourself mopping, scrubbing, washing, with tears drifting down your face. You're not sobbing or angry, you're just…leaking.

The RSPCA won't rehouse her. With her history, they said, she would be euthanised. I've put out a call to friends, but who wants a cat who might pee all over their life? My sister has suggested the Cat Protection Society. They have a no-kill policy and work to find homes for all cats given into their care. I'm calling them on Monday.

In the meantime, my son has taken to sighing deeply. My daughter alternates between being strong and face-tremblingly-sad at the thought of saying goodbye. She loves this little cat deeper than I've known anyone to love an animal. This cat with the personality of a storm, delighting and distracting us, this little creature who has made us laugh almost every day, who has curled into our hearts and stuck.

These days are hard. And the kitten, now back on my lap, is lying with her belly turned up a little. Just in case someone might lean forward, in this moment, and kiss her.

(And yep, we've got two wee boxes. We've tried having the cats outside for a very short time, at the cost to the native bird and lizards who didn't make it out alive. We separate the cats fairly often, but can't keep the doors shut all the time. It's not a urinary tract infection. It's deliberate pee sabotage by a stressed out cat. If I lived always primed for a fight, and couldn't claim a piece of space that was all my own, and was fairly simple minded, I think I'd pee on the couch too.  Just saying.)

10,000 years

The dermatologist looked very worried.

My girl and I had come in about her hands—the rash that had been on my daughter's fingers on and off, for almost three years, the rash we'd tried everything to treat. Things like moisturisers of all kinds, cortisone and most recently anti-fungal creams, soap free soaps and cutting wheat, tomato, orange, yeast and mango from her diet.

The man listened carefully enough, but when—ultimately—I said the words,
"And we're vegan,"
he came sharply to attention.

"Well, that's a very restricted diet."

Yes, I said, for now, while we work out what this is…

"You know, humans were born omnivores." He looked sternly over at me, like someone issuing a fine.

Ah, I thought. I see where this is going.

"Ten thousand years ago, people were eating the same things they eat today. It's what we're supposed to eat."

I watched the man, clear-eyed and calm. But said nothing.

"I mean, sure, farming practices are less than desirable…"

No response. Just watch…and wait.

"I think she needs a blood test. I think we're going to find some pretty major vitamin deficiencies here."

My daughter began to cry.

I tilted towards my girl. I put my arm around her. Then I leaned forward and said, We give her supplements, and I've done a lot of research on her diet. I actually think we're eating pretty well. 
The fungal cream seemed to work quite well…so maybe that was it? And I was also thinking it might be food allergies. Would a skin patch test help?

"Oh," he said, as he typed into his computer, "I think we're getting a bit ahead of ourselves here! I mean, look, she has photosensitivity, which indicates a serious iron deficiency, and she has extremely pale lips…do you even eat eggs?"


No, I said, sitting back in my seat.

"Well, then she won't have zinc."

He whipped off the form for the blood test. He told us what moisturiser to use. He told us he couldn't believe the anti-fungal cream (which had recently cleared her skin) could be the solution. He said, "Come back after Easter."


Now.
When a professional, a doctor, tells you you're making a mistake, you start to wonder.

Even though the kids and I laughed it off as we were going home, even though I had done my research, read my books, read countless articles, recipes, nutritional facts, I thought:

What if he's right?
What if my child is malnourished?
What if the blood test comes back and she's deficient?
What if this isn't a healthy diet?

What if—the two words that can knot a person tight with worry.

So, what did I do?
Well, for a single, long day following the appointment, I craved roast chicken. Wild. For the ENTIRE day, all I could think about were breasts and drumsticks. It was wacky. It was nuts.

The next day, I woke up and my mind was clear.
Weird chicken worry cravings all gone.

And I researched some more.
I pored over my cookbooks and nutrition information again.
I ordered more books. Vegan books and books about food production and modern agriculture. Books about the benefits of a plant-based diet.
I watched lectures by scientists and nutritionists about dairy and related health issues.
I watched well-researched people give lectures about factory farming.

My resolve came back.

And as I've been doing for the past 6 months I kept on feeding my kids delicious vegan food.
Like lasagne-to-die-for. Breakfast rice. Moroccan sweet potato stew. Lentil bolognese. Pasta with spinach, cannellini beans and pesto. Protein smoothies. YUM.
And I kept up with the kids' supplements—their iron, zinc, and B12.

Fast forward two weeks,

to today.

When we went in to see the dermatologist again.

We'd used his recommended moisturiser, which helped. We'd gone back to tomato and oats, which my daughter loved and had really missed. We'd taken the recommended blood test. And I was ready.

Ready to hear that my daughter might be malnourished. And if she was I would make sure she'd be healthy…without giving up the one thing that matters most to my girl:

That she would not, ever, be asked to eat animals, or animal products.
Because my daughter's resolve has never wavered.



The doctor sat down with the blood test results in his hands. The results were…

Guess what.

Every. Single. Thing, every indicator (iron, protein, calcium, zinc, b12, etc) registered as Normal. Perfectly, utterly in the Normal range.

My daughter wasn't just 'getting by.' She was completely healthy. After 6 months as a vegan, and almost 2 years as a vegetarian, my sweet girl was a picture of nutritional health.

BOO YA!

Yeah, I wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

BOO! YA! BABY!

Yes. Ten thousand years ago, people were omnivores. We're still, biologically, omnivores. But we don't have to be. We don't need meat to survive any more. We can be healthy and never eat an animal again.

.