look back on with joy

Last Sunday, my little family went off  to the Blue Mountains, for a boy's birthday treat.

It was SO SO cold there! Amazing that we didn't see Emperor Penguins wandering about, sing-calling for mates, laying eggs in a huddle. We dashed into a shop at some point and bought scarves and gloves. Another moment, I thought my feet might have actually frozen off, and were being used somewhere for an ice sculpture.

It was beautiful, too. Not in the typical Blue Mountains beautiful way, which looks like this:

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(There was much too much fog, and cloud, and mist, and rain for that). But beautiful in the way of,

"We're together. Here under the dripping sky, wandering through the swirling mist, off on a sweet adventure that belongs just to we four. We who love each other and never like to be apart. We who are our own four-penguin huddle, singing songs only we truly understand."

There was a gorgeous circus shop to juggle balls and clubs and toss diabolos in (and where we spent much birthday money! The shop was the reason for the trip, and the stuff in it was my boy's main birthday present),

and a cosy hostel to bunk down in (it was so warm and lovely in there. With a fire and soft couches, a big old kitchen, free wi-fi, and incredibly affordable rates. We loved it),

The Blurry Jugglers…
all practicing in the hostel hallway. Gorgeous.

and a fantastic restaurant to eat a yummy dinner in (with wonderful service, and a lot of silly jokes and love happening inside),

and a hattery to hatter about in (so much fun!),

and a book store we always go to whenever we're in the mountains (it's just yummy in there, and you can sit for hours, perusing),

and—in a fantabulous moment of Serendipity
(we just popped into a little shopping arcade to get out of the rain, and there it was)—

a wonderful vegan cafe to spend hours in (literally, we spent hours. Came for lunch, then went to the book store and came back for vegan, gluten-free desert!).

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I think this was the only time the whole weekend
my husband wasn't cracking jokes, keeping us laughing,
making us smile the way he does. He was focused on
his Mad Future Vegan Cooking Skilz, I think.

Rubyfruit is so delightful. A totally vegan cafe, with a big gluten-free menu—Bliss. We met the women who created it last year, when we went to the Cruelty-Free Festival in Sydney. That's when we discovered their cupcakes. They are heaven. Then we found their cheesecakes at a pizzeria in Newtown (Basil Pizza—where you can get vegan-gluten-free pizza—pure gold) and did little happy dances then too.

Now, all we have to do is get into the car and drive for oh, two hours, to yum their food up, any time we want. The food is truly delicious. The energy of the place is so warm, and filled with smiling kindness. You feel good just sitting there, and then you get to eat food that makes you Shut-your-eyes-Happy. Could anything be better than that?

Knowing this wonderful cafe is there, is another reason I love the Blue Mountains. I've always loved it up there. I've grown up going there, and remember bushwalking with my parents, falling in love with the pure silken darkness of Jenolan Caves, going up with uni friends, growing up going and going, and now…coming almost every year with my little Penguin Clan.



All my husband and I wanted this year, with everything that has been happening, was for our boy to have a good birthday. To have a day/days he could look back on and remember with real joy.

As my husband was paying for our second meal at Rubyfruit, the kids and I leant against a balcony railing in the little shopping arcade, peering down at the people below. My son turned to me, with his big clear eyes, and kind heart, and said, "Mum. Thank you. Thank you for this weekend. I think this is the best birthday I've ever had."

Ah.

Ah.

Joy. Found.

Beautiful.

happy birthday to you

Happy Birthday 

to my beautiful 12 year old boy

(June 7, 2012)

Twelve years! 

Wow, 

what an incredible ride it's been

And look at you now…

artist

juggler

musician

hat wearer

hugger

bridge builder

hike lover

story writer

actor/director

book devourer

yes sayer

try anything-er

joker

vegan

laugher

brother

friend

son

Look at you!

You are my wonderful.

serene sometimes

Emotions come like musical chairs.

The music stops; I sit. On this chair, I find acceptance. She is gone. I accept. What a simple chair this is; it takes me in like water. You know the kind? When you can walk in and float in an instant without a moment's shiver. This chair feels like no chair and everywhere. It feels serene, like floating. It is beautiful. This chair is where I think my friend is.

Music starts; I move. Music stops; I sit. Here, this chair feels harder. This chair has prickly bits. This chair says, "If only." If only I had called more, written more, been anywhere near at all, instead of all the way across this impossible sea. If only there'd been more time, or more…anything. Regret and longing prick like the sharp tags on the back of a shirt. Useless wishes scrape at me and I start to hurt.

Music starts; I move. Music stops.

This chair. Feels bottomless. In this chair I sit and wail like a lost child: I just want her to come back! I don't want this! This chair has me weeping and broken. This chair is no help to me or her at all. But it's one of the chairs I come to, one of the chairs I sit in as this hard song plays.

Another chair comes. This one comes with stories. In this chair, my husband and I talk about his last dinner with Jennifer and Dennis and their boy, Little J. How Jennifer spoke of the literacy projects she was involved in. How they ate pizza. How Jennifer talked about my blog, and how Little J hugged my husband good night. In this chair, I think of the first time I saw Jennifer, when she had just started dating my friend Dennis. I remember being blown away by how beautiful she was. Then other stories come and speak in turn and one by one they make me smile.

And then, here I am in the peaceful chair again. This time, the chair brings a sense of light, too. A pin point of it, bright and fine. I feel my friend. Here, here with me, is her beautiful spirit.

Here she is. Helping me through the peace, the wishing, the stories, the weeping. All of it.


Today, is Jennifer's memorial service.

Her husband and beautiful little boy will join with dear family and friends to celebrate and honour an incredible woman, mother, partner, daughter, sister, friend. My incredible friend. An incredible friend to so many.

My little family can't be there because we are here. Being here seems ridiculous. Not nearly as ridiculous as the whole idea of her not being. Jennifer knew it was ridiculous and yet, she accepted it, too. Somehow, she found a kind of peace people dream of.

I think of that peace, and it comes, sometimes. It makes me feel…like I'm floating.

In this chair…I feel like she's right here, with me. And everywhere else at once, too, with everyone who loved her. She is holding us together. She is in the stories I think of, the tributes I read on her Facebook page and on her blog. She is in the words her loved ones have told and will tell each other. She is in the memories we have and will keep. She is in the light I will see in the morning tomorrow, when I wake.

heartbreak / joy

credit: Jason Thomas

It is incomprehensible that you won't read this post. It feels impossible, inconceivable. My brain can't make sense of it, and when it does, it hits so hard my chest hurts. And, after the hurt has torn through, peace comes. Peace and love, still and deep.

Because peace is what you felt last, and love is the gift you left.

Dear, dear Jennifer. You—who steadfastly, lovingly refused to feel defined or defeated by your cancer—passed away on the day of my son's 12th birthday, two days ago. My husband found out first, and when I arrived to pick him up from teaching, he told me on the street beside the car. I came undone then. Roared grief against his chest in the sunshine while children played soccer in a field nearby.

And then we had to keep going. Incomprehensible. We had to continue to celebrate my son's special day—we had a birthday dinner to make, and a birthday song to sing, and candles to light and watch him blow out. We had to find the joy. Dig so, so deep to find it.

We did find it, and we gave it and received it. There was juggling and stories and apple crumble eaten at nine o'clock at night, and my son making us laugh as we sat all together at the table.

The days have felt surreal since. Waves of emotion, peace, grief, love, grief, smiles, all criss-crossing, ribboning against each other.

My son had a party last night, with his band mates. We hosted a jam session at my husband's work, in the theatre there, followed by a game of spotlight through the trees outside. My son was so happy, and so thankful.

The night pulsed—like a heartbeat, like a song. Sound and joy and togetherness, all intertwined. Children donged cow bells and honked saxophones and flitted gloriously through shadows, hiding, chasing, every sense alert, alive.

I floated inside the party, and outside it, watching my son's pure joy, and thinking of you. Thinking how heartbreak and joy can lie together, hand placed in hand.

Jennifer, you would have loved to be here. Your boy and husband would have been in the thick of it, and you…well, you would have been the life of the party. You always brought people to you, you made them know they mattered. You gave love like breathing.

Our lives have been connected for so long. Thirteen years. We met the loves of our lives within months of each other. We, both of us writers, married jazz musicians. They were best friends, each other's best man. You got engaged days after staying with us in Australia, with a ring your husband bought in a town half an hour from here. My husband flew 14 hours to be at your wedding in California when I was 8 months pregnant with my girl. You were at my wedding three years before that. You and I were the same age, had our 40th birthdays within three months of each other. We wrote our blogs and loved each other's words. At some point in all these years, we became friends in our own right, aside from our husbands. It has felt so precious and so good, being friends with you.

I have gone back to re-read your beautiful words. 

Oh, Jennifer, thank you for them. 

Over and over, you write—you call out—the only thing that matters

is to love. 

To love. To LOVE. 

You are a writer, were a writer, are a writer. You are a mother, were a mother, were a wife, are a wife. You are, you were. How can that be real, the word 'were'? You are, to me. You always will be. Here inside. Inside your darling son and your beautiful husband and all your loved ones. You are. 

Here is the last blog post, written by your husband. It speaks of your peace and of your joy. It's a stunning post.

You are stunning, dear friend. Your spirit is so big, so beautiful. It fills the space around, fills me, fills the ones you love. It sings.

I love you,

love you,

love you.

Taken in April, when my husband was in the US.
Jennifer and I were sending huge hugs via text.
Ah.
Look at all that JOY.

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.