the Real World

Okay, enough with the dreamy—isn't life lovely?—posts. (Well, at least for this moment!) It's time to get down to Business.

We saw a fight today.

A real one.

Downtown, walking to our car from the shops.

Two grown men directly across the road from us, screaming expletives at each other.

It escalated,

until suddenly there they were, punching each other, one with his shirt off, chasing the other into the road, testosterone ripping the air.

It was scary.

I told the kids to turn away. It happened so fast. Our car was just past where the men were, so I couldn't think what to do—this was the way we needed to go. We backed up, we crossed the road away from them. Stood with a bunch of others, all waiting, poised. Ready to run, call the police?, I guess.

But the whole thing was over in about 2 minutes.

With no-one hurt (luckily),

one man running off, screaming ugly, ugly words down the street, shaking with rage. The shirtless one strutting back and forth, slowly putting his clothes back on. Life resumed. Weirdly, like nothing had happened. I mean, you've got to keep going, right? To your car. To your life? You've got to keep walking.

But the kids were rattled.

We talked about it, all the way to the car,
and into the car,
and on the drive home.

Somehow we made our way back to joy—turning the Ugliness we heard and saw into something silly, something manageable for an 8 and 11 year old.

But I was rattled too. And for the first time I thought,

If they had been in school they wouldn't have had to see that.


If they went to school…

I could take them there (to that nice neighbourhood, with those nice kids, trees everywhere, so peaceful),

in my car.

I could pick them up, drive them to whatever Activity was booked for them,

then take them home.

A neat life.

Weekends could be spent in beautiful spaces only, with us protecting them,
and they might

never know how ugly the world can be.


But that isn't the life we live.


We see things we don't want to see.

We meet strangers doing strange (and sometimes scary) things, talk to shopkeepers struggling to make a living after floods/a cyclone/a Financial Crisis, see kids on the street wagging school and smoking cigarettes.  

We hear ugly words.

We talk about it all,

day-to-day life, world events, sad histories, people being Unfair and Unjust.

We live, truly, in the Real World.


Which is funny, isn't it? That people say homeschoolers are isolated and shut off from Reality. They say, What about the Real World? What about when they get out into it?

What's that you say?

The Real World—that unpredictable, fascinating, incredible thing? The thing we experience every single day as we go out into it,

exploring,
tasting,
trying,
seeing,
talking,
processing?

We can't avoid it.


It educates us,

every, single, minute of our lives.

Which is
what we chose. And just what we want it

(for better, for worse)

to do.

linking, as I often do on Mondays, 

with Owlet… :)

Between Moons

It's that time

again,

when you delight to see the moon looming, rising serenely over the water and go,

Look!

And you stop to note how here, and now, the sky is bold blue and purplish

and the lamp, there, glows green

and the backs of cars blink red

and the moon's white makes the colour deeper

and the moment becomes bigger than

This.

Larger than the getting into the car and the getting home for dinner and the getting ready for bed and the Getting On.

It's

like a pause button.


And I think,

How am I? How have I been between the last moon and this,

how were you, and we?


Well,

there was hard and beautiful, rolled up together, like two cats curled.


And a gift,
soul-touching and resonant,

from someone else (Kimia, thank you).

(At the end of this talk, when she is standing there…? Beautiful.)


And time with

a sister

for a whole day! In the big city. Doing grown-up and silly, silly things. Laughing 'til we were bent over. Discovering each other again (it being the first time we'd hung out, just us two for a whole day in a Very Long Time).

And 

kids who have blown my mind, truly this past month, with the words they have written in writers workshop. Blown! My! Mind!

Their energy makes me write harder, better, more, too. It makes me feel lifted, so that I write things I care about. And I feel so lucky, to spend time with people like these. 

And

Someone I adore, dealing with things I wish I could do anything about…

the only help I can give from so far away, is
love love love love love. Great gobs of it, sent in steady waves.


And

a cat in a sun patch.

And rows of orange hats
(and green letters and yellow escalators and pink bags. Yum)

A big dog in a shopping mall

A girl dancing on shadows

A paper rocket

A vine of bottles

2 cats. 1 lap.

A stick in sand

The sky! The sea!

Long languid days where the air tasted,

lip smackingly

of Spring.

Two dazzling children

And the colour of night coming.

You try to catch these things,

these moments,

try to press them between pages, try to hold them, but they, in truth, slip like shadows out,

and dance out of time.

All you can do is note them as they pass. Each small thing and say, I am glad I saw you, felt you, photographed you, thought you, wrote you, held you,
loved you,

lived you.

All you can truly keep
is how
pleased you are to have been there.

All you can say is: Thank you.

Stand up and Be

It was Census Night last night. A Very! Important! Night! where we all got counted
like

little beans

and put into our slots.

We, the population, played our part in history—

all umpteen million of us sat at computers or scritched away at tables, diligently filling in our forms—

so that People could then look back and say,
Australia in 2011

had:

 X-amount of grown-ups, X-amount of kids, X-amount of Buddhists, X-amount of brick layers, X-amount of people needing help to pee, and X-amount of millionaires.

But they won't ever know how many homeschoolers there were,

because

there wasn't a box for us.

Nothing and nowhere for us to write:

Homeschooler.

No spot to slot into and be noted.

No rock to scratch our initials in,
nothing to say:

We Were Here!


The question on the form asked if

you were studying at an educational institution.

Either you were, or you were not.

That was it.


If you said yes you studied full-time or part-time, it asked, Where?

You answers could be:

pre-school, primary school, high-school, university, technical college or Other Educational Institution.

No open-ended Other with a simple box you could write "Homeschool."

No.

You just couldn't dodge that word.

Institution.

Now, the last I heard or read or knew, homeschoolers specifically and absolutely do NOT study in an institution.

I checked, and the definition of

institution |ˌinstiˈt(y)oō sh ən| is:

noun1 a society or organization founded for a religious, educational, social, or similar purpose

Hmm.

There may be four of us, plus two chickens, two cats, lots of goldfish and a dog living here, but I'm pretty sure we're not a society or an organisation.

As for being Founded: I'm not and never have been. I just got born, grew up, had adventures, chose with my kids' permission and to their delight, to have them learn outside of school.


So it seemed kind of clear:

our education—all the delicious leaping and learning we do— happens in nothing like an Institution. But just in case my dictionary was wrong, I checked around.

Freedictionary.com says an Institution is

a. An established organization or foundation, especially one dedicated to education, public service, or culture. b. The building or buildings housing such an organization. c. A place for the care of persons who are destitute, disabled, or mentally ill.

Well, nup, to a, b or c.

Wikipedia says it's

any structure or mechanism of social order and cooperation governing the behavior of a set of individuals within a given human community. Institutions are identified with a social purpose and permanence, transcending individual human lives and intentions, and with the making and enforcing of rules governing cooperative human behavior.^[1]

Huh? And
um,
we don't fit any of that either.

So what to do?

Now, the Census form did generously add that the definition of
"study in an educational institution"

included study by correspondence.

That was awfully kind of them, but that's not how we homeschool.

(I s'pose if my kids just did their work and posted it to me under the door to my room where I lay inside eating bon bons and reading steamy novellas, that might count. Unfortunately though, that's not quite how we roll)


Which left me with no spot to say

what kind of Education we actually get.

It left me, being the stickler for the Truth that I am,

saying, in answer to "Do you study at an educational institution?"

for Every Single One of us:

No.


Which looks to the naked eye like

we aren't any one of us being Educated right now.

Not
him, her, him, or me.


Which is so silly,

because you and I know

we are.


Every day, in countless, joyful, and delighted ways,

we are!


No-one looking back at the Census of 2011,

years from now, or even just tomorrow,

will know

just how lucky we and thousands other Australians are.


And it is so ironic, don't you think?

That we unboxed and unbound learners

had no box to fill.

Maybe that's exactly how it should be?


But in this thing,
this small hands-up, stand-up communal exercise,

I actually kinda would have liked to be counted.


Silly, silly census.

Monday lovely Monday

I love Mondays.

We don't have to be anywhere 'til 5pm, so the whole day stretches out,

filled with delicious potential.

And for a boy who was feeling very under-the-weather yesterday,

a stretchy, empty day was exactly what he
(and we, as it turned out) needed.


It was a day for

a girl to play piano

and Timez Attack

and for a boy to read on his bed.


A day for a girl to

make a book out of index cards,

and help make a new multiplication game

with her mama (who had had an Idea and wanted to start right Then and There!).

A day for a girl to play the game with her mama

then help make up another game (and play that too!)

…while a boy read on his bed.


A day for a boy to come downstairs and

make a cape and High Priest's hat for his toy dog,

play with his sister,

then read on the couch.

A day for big, gorgeous cuddles on the bed

(with me as the filling and the kids the bread, all curled up around each other like question marks),

then a nap for me

and reading on two beds by two happy kids

(starting to see a pattern here?).


A day for my boy

to go to band (having rested all day and now feeling Up for It)

and for a mama and a girl to come home and make dinner.


A day for a girl to draw at her desk

while a mama made vegetable soup,

chopped vegies and danced in the kitchen

to music so infectious

a girl had to come dance too.

(And this has to be one of the happiest songs ever, of all time)


Ah. It was a glorious day.

Did I mention that I love Mondays?

And Tuesdays too, come to think of it. As for Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays…

Well. I love you all. You are, actually, all my favourites :)


P.S. 

I thought you'd like to know:

We've had FIVE nights of happy bedtimes now! Which = one happy family, one empowered and pleased-as-peaches girl, and lots and lots of sleep.

Ah.

(Deep, contented sigh)

rising

Shhh, now.

Imagine
me

tip-toeing

through this new life, or at least this Shift, this New Thing that is

my child happy at night.


Imagine me

carefully moving through the day
not-quite-believing.

Wondering if it's too soon for cartwheels and fireworks and the marching band?


Imagine.

Two nights
so far,

a girl going to sleep happy. Without tears. Waking. Smiling. Giving hugs throughout the day and

declaring

just how happy she is.


Imagine: the joy

slowly creeping in, where once seemed all dark.


What could possibly have changed?

Well,

I think it began three nights ago, with us being as close to breaking point as I thought we could be.

Well,

actually I think it was me being close to breaking point. After 6 months of loving and talking and supporting and sharing sleeping space and trying this and this, and that and that, it felt like things were getting worse with my girl's sleeping and her fears, not better.

It felt,
quite suddenly, in one single hard moment,
like things would never ever, no way no how, ever be better again.

It felt a lot like despair.


So what did I do?

Well,
(and could it really have been this simple?)

I talked about how I felt.


After that bottomless night, three days ago,

I laid myself bare.

I said all the things I felt, 

to my boy and my girl. 

I said everything—I didn't hold back. I talked about my limits and my wants. Said how close I was to breaking, with the months of giving so much time/sleep/space, to make the nights easier. I said, It isn't working, what we're doing. And there is only so much I can do and give. 

I need your help, I said. I need you to help me make these nights happy again. That's all I want! I said. For the nights to be happy.

I talked openly to my children, as I would a partner or a friend. I talked and

… they listened.

And they talked, too,

while I listened.

(And it was a fluid thing,

this talking, back and forth, to each other.

It was actually like watching

creekwater tumble over rocks,

sliding, winking, drops interweaving 'til you didn't know where one began and the other ended…)

My girl told us of the things she was afraid of. She talked through tears some of the time.

And my boy said,

he used to be afraid too.

Oh really? My girl turned, then. Looked intently at her brother.

And they began to talk,

to each other.

What was he afraid of?

What did he do to not be afraid?

He told her. Not of his most private fears, but of how hard it was sometimes. And of the things we and he did to get him through and past his nightworries.

He suggested things. He said, I did this; it really worked! You might like that too.

Now, suddenly, 

we were a team. 

A fear fighting team.

Together, we brainstormed. We made new plans. My girl said what she thought could work. We got excited.

There was so much love in the room right then.

We could have reached out… and if we touched it? 

It would have been soft, alive.

That night,

the dark came,

but my girl was buzzing. Happy and nervous both—thinking,

This

was the beginning

(rather than the End of the World).

There was her room, cosy, her very own space. It had patiently been waiting for her to come back for months.

There was the planned nightlight, the toys to cuddle, a lamp which she could turn on at any time. Any time, no matter what time it was. A book to read whenever she wanted. There was a clock, so she could see what time it was. There was peaceful music, playing. (Things we'd tried already, in our room, but without my son's sweet blessing)

Here in her own space, in the space she'd chosen to go to, were the things she wanted,

in place. 

But more than this:

Here was her choice. Her choice to reclaim her happiness, and give happiness back. To take control. To decide how her future could work. To think and breathe and live! outside her fears.

And more than this:

Here we were and would be, her mum and dad, nearby and always. Listening, believing in, and loving her. Who were honest and open, and who she could be honest and open with in return.

But more than this:

Here was her brother, just next door. A brother who loved her and took care of her (as much as he drives her crazy sometimes!). Someone who made her feel less alone and less afraid. Her hero.

And more than this:

Here was goodness. She could feel it. The possibility of a future that didn't leave her weeping. 

And in that moment? In that dark?

Here was

light, rising.

It's rising still. 

She has slept, in her own space, for two nights, without fear! She has been so happy and proud.

I keep getting hugs. She says things like, Did you have a good night, Mum? Did you have time to talk to Dad? Did you get lots of sleep? 

And she has said, I'm so glad I went to my own room, Mum! I haven't been sad or scared at all! I feel like I left all my worries behind in the other room. 

(And I've actually often thought our big room brewed worries, dark worry sprites, all gambolling about and grinning on the bed. I might have us move out too, to the little room next door.)

Last night she was singing as she got ready for bed. At the top of her lungs. It was so lovely to hear. 

And the next morning? I came in to say hello and curled up in her bed for morning cuddles. What a smile she gave me. And kisses on cheeks and nose. It made my heart creak and spill open right there and then.

linking with Owlet for her lovely unschool Monday…

in the creeping

The days are beautiful

and then the night comes.

And with

the creeping dark,

come the worries

and the sense of something Not Right.


Not just for her,

my small girl,

(and we have tried so much, to help, to fix, to heal, to lift the nightcloud that threatens sometimes to swallow her whole. Some nights are easier than others. I have to believe it will get better in time.)

but for

me too.


I don't write so much about it here.

About the dark or the cloud or the load that comes creeping sometimes,

when I get overwhelmed.

When I don't know the answers.

When I am afraid.

When I feel like I've failed.

When I'm not sure I'm helping my kids, being a good parent, being a great homeschooler, being a fine and fearless Me.


I try to breathe, instead.

Wait for the light.

Keep it when it comes. Pin it to myself with butterfly brooches and pearl-ended pins.

So when

the dark comes, I think, It won't always be like this.

I say it, and the dark shifts. I say it, and the dark can't stick. I say it, and the dark is just dark.


It is nothing

next to the light.

Hello August!

Hello first day of the month!

What have you got in store for me?

I'm ready…

Ah, two kids waking late, drowsily coming downstairs for cuddles on the couch.

Breakfast and chatter, the spoons chinking against the bowl sides

and after talk of wanting to read and other plans for the day and which to do first,
it's decided by a boy:

Practice first. He goes up the stairs to the piano,

notes faintly sifting through the floor and then

comes down and drums, wild rhythms leaping
through the door of the garage-turned-playroom.

My girl goes up to play piano
(having switched from violin, which didn't fit, to piano which does, oh, so much!),

and when she comes down,
she sits at her desk working on…"Don't look!"…

a secret project.


I sweep doghair off the tiles and mop,

sloshing water while the drums kathump and the cat sits in the wet patches.

I go out to free the chooks and they follow me, run under my legs as I walk back
so I think, Ah, you girls need breakfast,
and return to the pen with seeds. The hens follow, cluck and clutter at my feet.


The boy is doing his maths now, the book he loves; today it's all about the Arabic numerical system

and my girl shows me her project—it's a counting book for children. You have to find the cats in the castle. It's gorgeous and she wants to publish it someday.

I think she will, don't you?

And then,
she is practicing her 4 times tables on Timez Attack which she loves (Oh, mum it works! I'm remembering!).

I go clean a bathroom upstairs
and I can hear them talk while they work,

though it doesn't seem like work; it seems rather like Doing Something Good, doesn't it?


And then?

Well, it feels like flow to say to a boy, Hey I found a list of questions online about that book you're reading; want to check them out?

and he says, Sure!
and picks one that suggests he write a paragraph about his "classroom" from the point of view of an insect.

So he writes like a fly
buzzing 'round our living room. He writes over a page without pausing. It's complicated, and lovely.

And then it's time,
my boy decides,

to read on the couch.

Bliss.


Right about then
it feels right to say to a girl, "Hey, do you want to write about a character you like in Flyte and a character you don't?"
And for her to say, "Yeah!" and then, "Can I just tell you?"

And for me to say, "Sure!"
and for her to eat soup while I pull out the computer
and type as she talks.

Words bubble over, all about the girl character she loves ("she's smart and stubborn and doesn't want people to know she's a princess") and then
she laughs out loud,
because she's caught in a moment in the book and has to tell me all about it…

and then she describes the two characters she doesn't love
 and she says "I feel sorry for him," the worst one, because it must have been awful to have been
Consumed
(which is too terrible a spell to describe).

We talk back and forth and
lean towards each other and get excited,
because we both love this book and this series so very much…
and look! We just wrote two pages!

Which my girl wants to tweak on the computer, fiddle with the font and text size, and then?
she
finds a drawing program (of course) and starts to make art there on the screen.


Then, the day pulls us gently

on

to the Next Thing

Because It's time, don't you think? To Get Outside and

claim this sunshiney day?

Yes and Yes and Yes!


So we go to the beach

with the toys

and the dog

and the day is warm all over.


I take dozens of photos for a book they want to make
about toys having adventures,
inspired by this wonderful book they saw at Kinokuniya a week ago

While
meanwhile and in between,
we three
shadow leap and
shadow dance

And a girl runs! (So does a boy but I don't catch it on camera)

And we walk the sand

And
two make sand balls

And a boy tells the step-by-step, moment-by-moment process of sand-ball making
(It's worth paying attention. This is a Fine Art).

And then?

We walk back to the car talking, skipping, delighting,

always and all-the-way-through delighting.


Home we go for hot chocolates and toast with honey and

then it's time for
a boy's band practice. We read in the car while we wait for him, a whole hour in the car but we don't mind

my girl and I keeping for company

the sound of pages turning…

music coming from the band room

through the open windows of the car…

and my husband (the band leader) hooting and whooping at the ends of songs.


Dinner is simple. Eggs and talking and my son making my daughter squeal with laughter.


And now?

It is night.

Two kids read in their beds

A kitten curls like a sleepy question mark on my lap

A sweet man kisses me

and I say,


Thank you

first day of August.


You were

wonderful to me.

:)