friends

The other night my husband said something so fine
that it's been popping into my head ever since,

on some kind of repeat cycle that gets more and more beautiful
with each replay.

He said, and I quote:

"The kids are amazing. It's like we got to make our very own best friends, from scratch!"

Yeah.

Beautiful, right?


Now, the fact that my husband loves our kids this much is awesome.

The fact that he sees our kids as a gift. Awesomer.
(And I don't care that "Awesomer" is not a word. I'm using it)

But the fact that he sees our kids as his best friends? AwesomEST.


Yep,

we're those parents, the ones who see our kids as our friends. :) And not just the type of friends we socialise with but don't know so well, or the friends we wish, just a little, would change. No. Our kids are our best friends.

They're the kind of friends we see and the first thing we do is smile. And reach to hug them.

They're the friends I look forward to seeing in the morning, literally minutes after they've gone to bed. And in the morning, they're the ones I tell my crazy dreams to.

They're the ones I respect, admire, and am inspired by. The friends I learn from.

They're the friends I tell my opinions to, and then, so they don't blindly agree, ask if they can find the opposite argument (which makes for some funny conversations!).

They are the friends who, in times of stress or trouble or frustration, I ask gently to be respectful. To think of the other. To be mindful of the effect of their words.
Then they become even more kind to each other and kind to me.

We have so many interests in common, and so many new things to learn from each other. We ask each other questions. We listen to the answers. We are always, always talking. We say, "I love you," all the time. It's hard to believe I get to share my life with these people. I feel grateful, short-of-breath lucky, every day.


Now, I've heard as a parent you're not supposed to be your child's friend. You should be their mentor, their guide, their disciplinarian, their leader, but not their friend. I've heard that if you don't have control over your kids, they'll be disrespectful and misbehave. I've heard that being a child's friend confuses them, or makes them take you for granted.

Ah, the things I've heard and read and seen! None of them resonate with the kind of parent I am or want to be.

I remember when I started teaching, many years ago, and being warned, "Don't try to be the kids' friend. They will walk all over you." So I went into that school room with a list of rules, and my defences up. Today I know I could have done it differently, and I would have felt more true to myself. I only taught in a classroom for a short time, but I know I was more effective the more I treated the kids not as people to control, but people to learn something from.


I believe teachers and parents can be friends to kids. I think being a friend—and by that I mean—listening to, being inspired by, and respecting children is one of the finest gifts you can give them. AND yourself.


That doesn't make me a pushover. I also say that receiving respect in turn, is part of the deal. It's a mutual thing. It's the whole, 'Treat others as you would like to be treated' thing. So I'm someone who treats my kids and others with kindness, honesty and respect and I assume that's what I'll get in return. If that's forgotten, I just ask for it. Openly, and without anger (for the most part!).

I'm not a saint and I've totally gotten cranky. I've been frustrated with my wonderful kids and they've been cross with me. But we always come back to the core of Us. Which is that we love each other. So very much! We are people who genuinely like each other and want to be liked. We don't want to hurt each other or make others sad. We want to be treated kindly and we want to be kind. We respect and want to be respected.

When we remember these things, and live by these truths, friendship is inevitable. It can't help itself—friendship just comes!


I've seen kids light up when adults ask them something about themselves, when it's genuine and has no agenda. I've seen kids run up to share something special because they know I'm interested. I've seen kids smile so big when grown-ups stop being "older and wiser and better" and just talk.

It's not hard to be a friend. Kids don't walk all over you. They just share and give and love you all the more.

It's magic when that connection, that true, honest bond, is made.

You fill right up, then overflow.





(And to my husband, who loves appearing in this blog? You are my best friend, too.)

:)

One

One cat with his arm wrapped around me.

Two children upstairs and asleep; dreams winding their way out like shoots seeking the sun.

Three photographs taken while walking somewhere beautiful:

Four quotes from The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho:

"When you are loved, you can do anything in creation. When you are loved, there's no need at all to understand what's happening, because everything happens within you."

"I have inside me the winds, the deserts, the oceans, the stars, and everything created in the universe."

"I love you because the entire universe conspired to help me find you."

"All things are one."

One girl walking in afternoon rain.

One boy running.

One thought:

For this life I am grateful. For love I am grateful. For everything that connects me to the strange and quivering wonder of the Universe. I am grateful.

One song, which fills me—like so many things!—with Bliss.

"It is the simple things in life that are the most extraordinary."

The Alchemist

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.

the beauty of boredom

A few days ago, our local newspaper published an article about holiday activities in the area. The opening paragraph went something a bit like this:

"A whole week of holidays has gone by,

and now parents are looking to find new activities

to battle the boredom until school goes back."

Hmmmm. Interesting…!

It's interesting to me, because two pretty big assumptions are being made here.

1. That kids get bored on holidays (and don't get bored at school… ha)

and

2. That 'boredom' is something negative, something to deal with, battle, fight, and overcome.

I think I might just reject both of those assumptions! Because I can, and because I think there's a whole other way of looking at this.

For one, I think kids LOVE holidays, whether they are filled to the max or not. And for another, I think boredom can be wonderful. It's a brewspace for the mind, an arena for the Stupendous. It can make you lead, not follow. Boredom can make awesome things happen!

Really, newspaper people, it really can.

I remember looking forward to holidays. Like, really looking forward to them. Because I'd imagine the stack of books waiting for me, the long days of having nothing to do but read. I'd think of the nowhere I had to go or be, and all the playing that stretched out in the moments between waking and sleeping. I remember playing with my sister, playing by myself, making things, listening to music, climbing trees, finding little spaces in the garden and making imaginary homes, and reading reading reading. It was magical.

And I liked school, so it wasn't torture to go, but it wasn't torture to be on holiday either. I don't ever remember thinking, "Oh, I hope Mum and Dad have filled my days to the brim so that I'm not bored!" I liked going on adventures with them, but I also liked the potential of a completely unplanned day.

When a day is unplanned, it opens the world up for kids.

When a timetable is cleared, a child is free to fill it as he/she wishes.

When you have days where the only person asking anything of you is you,

then you are Captain of your Dreams.

And that's a wonderful thing.

And yes. Sometimes, you get BORED.

I totally remember being bored. I remember flopping onto the couch and announcing to anyone who would listen that I was Bo-o-o-ORED. And I remember waiting for someone to 'fix it.' And I remember sometimes suggestions being made. I remember irritating my parents. I remember getting no answer at all. I remember then flopping back into my room and reading some more. Those were the still days, the days like an empty wastebasket. At the end of them I'd think, "Nothing happened today! My life is so uninteresting!!"

But the next day, I'd find something to do. Because at some point, you realise it's kind-of up to you to fill your own empty space. Your parents might be busy, or your friends. It might be raining and/or the planned day might be cancelled. You might have actually had your fill of reading. (No! Say it ain't so!).

That's when your creative self steps in. It does. It has to—creativity sits inside you like an organ; it's a vital, integral part of yourself. If you give it enough time, air, space, it emerges.

If you get enough space, enough opportunities to be bored, then something has to come and fill it. 'Something,' can't help itself, whether it comes in the form of you waking up the next day and deciding to ride your bike up and down the street pretending it's a horse, or deciding to write a story, or make a mud pie or draw chalk pictures on your driveway. You might find yourself up a tree and daydreaming, imagining yourself in a tower or flying to the moon.

If you let a child get bored, give them enough empty space (and to be a complete rebel, imagine no tv, no computer, no playstation—gasp), then they will find something of themselves to fit that space. It might be through reading, writing, drawing, music, building, organising, socializing, inventing, fulfilling, baking, fixing, asking, questing or…

just breathing, and thinking, and being.

In that moment, it might look like your child is doing nothing…and maybe they are. Physically, maybe even mentally!

But what that stillness, and silence, and openness provides, is time to brew. Ferment…form…fix…and find. Time to create. Time to be.

And that, I think, is glorious.

(We've had three days of rain.

Inspired by a segment on a Mathtacular dvd, my girl created a board game with a visiting friend.

Then yesterday as it rained and rained and rained some more,

my girl and boy made board games…all day…and played them…all day.

And it's raining today, and my girl and boy are…

you guessed it…

making board games…and playing them… and

drawing and dreaming and being.

Yum.)

the colours in between…

Every week, we drive about 40 minutes south to a gorgeous little town tucked into the hills where our tennis lessons are held. It's a long way to go, but we love the view and the green opening up in front of us, the tranquility…and the cows. These cows are the reason we became vegetarian, so we have a very soft spot for all of them.

Anyway, the other thing I love about the drive are the talks we have. The view all around, and the long drive seem to open up a glorious, free space for really discussing "life, the universe and everything" (oh, and all the other things in between :-) ).

One week I got to hear about the Spartans, from my son who'd just learned about them in his Usborne Encyclopedia of World History. Another week, we talked about Buddhism and faith. We've been talking about the election a lot, and sometimes we just say what we love about our friends. But last week's conversation was so interesting I had to write it down in my homeschool journal afterwards. And today, it occurred to me that I could post it here too.

So here it is:

On the way to the Sweet Hillside Town Where We Play Tennis, the kids and I saw our regular cows.

We always say, "Hello, cows we won't be eating!" We got talking about how cute they were, and how we didn't like thinking of them ending up as food.

Then the notion of taking a calf away to save its life came up.

I said, "Yeah, but that would be stealing."

"But," said my son, "They steal too; they steal the cow's life, so this wouldn't be as bad."

So began a looooong discussion about the concepts of "good and bad," and "wrong and right."

First we talked about how doing something illegal or "wrong" can seem right in someone's mind.

I told the kids about how people used to use (and probably still do use) animals for testing cosmetics, and how protesters would come and steal the animals to save them. Then I talked about how animals are still used for scientific experiments, to test out new medicines, medical approaches, and machines. Was it "wrong," to do that or was it "right"?

On the one hand, I said, the animals suffer and that doesn't seem right.

My son said, "And there are plenty of people in the world to test things on."

I said, "Yes, but you're not allowed to kill or hurt humans."

My son thought it was really unfair that you were allowed to kill or hurt animals.

So we talked about how, on the other hand, people can now live longer because new medicines and machines etc have been tested to make sure they work, like cancer drugs, and pacemakers in hearts.

After explaining what a pacemaker was, and did, I said, "If I was the one who needed the pacemaker to live, I might be okay with it being animal tested first. But when I think about the animals suffering, the big picture of it, I don't feel okay with it."

We talked about how some things sometimes really don't have a clear answer. Sometimes there is no wrong or right, there's just how you see things and how you feel, and all the grey (and rainbow!) areas between black and white.

It was getting very deep.

So then my son suddenly said, "Yeah. If you put a cow's heart into a person, the cow wouldn't be happy. As for the person; they'd be going around saying, Moo!"

And the conversation got very silly after that!

That was last week's Big Talk. We laughed, got to tennis where our friends were waiting, and had a lovely day.

We're off again in a little while, to drive past 'our' cows to the Sweet Hillside Town we have come to cherish.

I wonder what we'll talk about today?

because I said so

I found myself saying these four words the other day to my son. I wanted him to wear shoes at the skate park on a wintery day, and he said, “Why?”

“Because I said so,” came flying out. About one second later, I told him my reasons. Explaining took a bit longer, but made me feel better. You'd have to ask my son if it made him feel better, but I hope it did.

Anyway, those four words got me thinking.

We want our kids to do what we ask them to, right? Because we usually ask these things to keep our children safe, healthy, and secure. Like, “Look both ways when you cross the road.” And “Take your hand out of the tiger's cage.” And “Don't eat that cookie (ie: the one you just found in the rubbish bin at the park).”

We assume our kids will understand Why we're asking these things—because it's common sense. But our kids haven't had the years to build this curious thing called Common Sense. They want to know why because Everything is endlessly fascinating. Reasons for rules are far more interesting and satisfying than the rules themselves. Rules are boring. They come with a whole lot of Don'ts and Dos and not a whole lot of “If you don't mind”s,” “Please”s, and “Because”s. But without those, kids are just thrust into the rules without real comprehension or a sense of control over their own actions.

When you don't explain, you can take away a kid's autonomy. They're being asked to obey blindly, and this can make them resentful, confused, and maybe a bit boring too? If you're asking a kid to obey without question, then perhaps you're creating a child who won't question bigger things, like Why are the stars, and Who am I, and What can I build/create/think of today that is special, my own?

On the other hand. And there is another side to the argument, of course! I'm not just a dreamer; I am, in fact, sometimes a realist.

You want them to listen and do what you ask because in an emergency, you'd like it if they did what you told them to. Like “Stop, Timmy!” when little Timmy's running into the path of a dozen shiny-legged cyclists, or “Don't, Timmy!” when the little guy's about to pick up a red-hot coal from the fire.

You want them to respect you as a parent, and trust that you have their best interests at heart. You hope that they'll go, “Okay,” and know they're thinking, “because you're my mum/dad and you must know what's good for me.”

You also may not have time to explain. You might have a split second chance for them to do as you ask before they get hurt. You don't exactly have time to say, “Stop, Timmy, you're about to run into a whole world of hurt! In the form of 20 cyclists training for the Tour de France perhaps, or just on a social ride! And if you do run into them, chaos will probably ensue! No-one will win from this situation! It's dire, I tell you, dire!”

You just want Timmy not to run into danger. It's that simple.

You might also be tired. You might feel sick. You might be just wiped out, from parenting, from work, from life. You might just want a break from the relentless, “Why? Why, mummy, Why?” You know those days, those Whys. They're a killer.

You might simply be asking, just this once, for a little break. You might want to say, “Because I said so,” and have it all be taken care of. A little kindness, your kids nodding, understanding that's the only answer you have inside you at this moment, and doing as you ask.

But if it's not one of those days, or even if it is… perhaps Why isn't impossible?

It may not take that long to explain, actually. Often the reasons are pretty simple. Or they're not, and it takes explaining them to understand why you're asking it yourself. And sometimes, explaining makes you realise you don't actually need them to do the thing you've asked after all.

But I really did want my son to wear his shoes. It was cold! Scooters were careening past at high speed! I wanted him safe and I wanted him warm, and I told him so, respectfully. And he listened, respectfully, and put his shoes back on.

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.

Journey to Yes

A couple of weeks ago, we surprised my son with a trip to Sydney to celebrate his 10^th birthday. It involved an overnight stay in a hotel, and we planned all sorts of activities, including walking across the Harbour Bridge, going to Luna Park, ice skating, and exploring Sydney. It was going to be a big couple of days, with lots of walking. We were going by train, so could only pack what we were happy to carry for two days. My husband and I put our stuff into two daypacks, drinks, warm gear, clothes, swimmers for the hotel pool, 'til our packs were full.

Just as it was time to leave, my daughter came to the door with a big old shoebox and her two fluffy kitten toys. Turned out she expected to bring the shoebox (the kittens' bed) with us on our big trip.

My first thought was, “No.” Of course we couldn't bring a shoebox on our trip—crazy idea! And it was easy enough to say, “No,” because it's always easy to say, isn't it? Just the one syllable, a single, unfussy word that ends discussions.

Except, there was my daughter's face. Fallen—just so confused and surprised and sad. She didn't fuss, or argue, she just looked crushed.

So I paused—even though the train was leaving soon, we had to get to the station, we had to go!—and asked a question, gently. “But it's so big. How were you thinking of bringing it?”

“I was going to carry it.”

“How would you carry it?”

“In a bag.” She gestured to my backpack. “Like that.”

I suddenly saw, as clearly as if they were in front of me, the two paths I could choose. One said, plain and simple, “No.” The other said, “This isn't so hard. Just think about it. Why not yes?”

I went to the closet and pulled out a kid-sized daypack we use regularly. I went to the shoebox—it was heavy with a double sheet folded inside as padding—pulled out the sheet, and found a teatowel to line the box. The toy kittens fitted snugly in the shoebox which fitted perfectly inside the daypack. I slipped the daypack on my daughter's back.

“Like that?” I asked.

“Yes!”

“Comfy? Light enough?”

“Yes!”

“And you can carry it for our whole trip?”

“Yes!”

And she did. She carried it, uncomplaining, the entire two days we were gone. She played with her toys, tucked them into their shoebox bed at the hotel, and showed them the town. She was proud to be responsible, to be heard, to be trusted to take the load she'd volunteered for. She led me to yes, and it wasn't nearly as hard as I imagined. Once you open your mind to it, Yes can come with no pain at all.

inspired

It's late, and I should be in bed—resting for another week where my kids will be wanting to play, write, make, do, be, laugh, run, jump, learn, and do all this, wholeheartedly, with me. Another week when they'll need me, share their joys and worries with me, and expect me to treat them with patience, kindness and respect, just as I do them. You need rest for that, I know.

But I keep thinking, and sleep takes that away, sometimes. My thinking time. My being time. My planning time. It gets in the way.

Here in the night dark, my senses simultaneously alight and exhausted, I feel alive and I don't want sleep to come and steal this—how I feel so blessed to have the life I have. How I feel overwhelmed sometimes, and inspired by the responsibility of guiding my two children through these years of education. How much I want to write and share my ideas, and there are so many of them! And how beautiful I think the world is. In this moment.

I feel such gratitude. I feel such joy. I feel.

I feel grateful for my community of friends—the growing sweet circle of homeschoolers who are changing my life, and other friends who have stuck around and supported us as we ventured into our alternative educational universe.

I feel astonished at how much we are learning. Together, separately, and at our own pace.

I feel passionate about writing and sharing my love of writing with others.

Today, especially, I feel joy about writers workshop. I love this group, this little group that meets every second week for 2 hours and ends up staying for 2+ hours afterwards to play and hang out. I love that I didn't listen to the slightly panicked, shy person inside me who wasn't sure I'd have something of value to say. I love that I followed through on something I'd dreamed about for years.
I love that a young person from writers workshop today said to me, "I read books differently now, because of the workshop. I see things I hadn't seen before". I love how just last Friday I asked if everyone wanted to meet on the very last day of term and they all said, unhesitatingly, "YES!" I loved when, recently, three of the kids climbed a tree nearby, to write together. I love that my daughter, who believed she didn't like to or want to write is now creating stories constantly. And my son never hesitates to share his quirky wit, and isn't afraid to be himself with this collection of fellow writers. I love how these young people bring the books they're reading, their stories, their ideas, and their laughter. I love how they write. It is inspirational.

So today in the quiet, the sleeping dark, when all my family rests, I say I am grateful. I am joyous. I am lucky. I am blessed. I am inspired.

give give give

I was just looking at Sandra Dodd's website and there she has written the "formula" on how to unschool. It is tongue in cheek, but ultimately very moving. What she says applies not just to unschoolers but to all parents, I think. What she says to do, is give.

If you want to measure, measure generously. If you want to give, give generously. If you want to unschool, or be a mindful parent, give, give, give. You'll find after a few years that you still have everything you thought you had given away, and more.

So many people say, "How do you do it? I couldn't. I'd need time for myself." When I began homeschooling, I received a lot of responses from people who said, "But what about your writing?", and "What about time for you?" I thought this might be an issue too, but wanted to homeschool more than anything. So I put time for me on the backburner. In the beginning, I put all my energy into "teaching" my kids, and yes, I found little time for myself. But what I found as the year passed was that the things I loved, were the things my kids loved too.

"Time for me" used to involve riding my bike alone, going for a swim or bushwalk, writing and reading books. Well, guess what I do (and have actually done for years) with my kids! It is wonderful, sharing my passions with them. And as the year has passed, I found that the more we embraced homeschooling and the giving that involved, the more responsive and supportive my children became. So that when I say now, "I'm going to do some writing," or I simply sit at the computer to work, the kids are interested and excited about what I am doing. I am leading by example, showing my kids that I have interests too.

I believe, and believe passionately, that if you give, as Sandra says, and give with all your heart, with no expectation of receiving something in return, good things will happen to you—they won't be able to help themselves. You will receive such a sense of love, from your children, for yourself, and you will appreciate and be sensitive to the world around you because you are putting love first, and giving first. When you give with all your heart, you feed your spirit.

mission

I've been homeschooling for a year now. A whole year! How'd that happen? I'm still feeling around, finding the homeschooling methods or philosophies that ring true for me. Some days I feel like an unschooler, through and through! Other days I am attracted to more structured methods, with leanings towards Charlotte Mason or Classical education. What seems to work for me is a mingling of many methods, usually prefaced by what my children want to learn. And this is always affected by whether they feel like "learning" in that moment, and how, in that moment, they are open to learning. Some days a workbook or lesson plan is exactly the structure my kids need; other days the only answer is the beach!

What I have realised above everything is that I want my children to have an education based on respect. I also want their education to have a global perspective. I want them to actively seek peace and have compassion for the earth and all living things. I want them to always treat others as they would want to be treated, with honesty and kindness. And I want them to like themselves.

The rest is just "stuff," just the stuff you pass through to move forward, time always moving, and you moving, pushing or simply waiting, breath held, to see what happens next.