Help Me Tweet You

The post got 1200+ views. Almost 200 came through Twitter.

That's significant.

Which means it wouldn't hurt to make oneself more tweetable. Here's my new tool of choice: Tweetmeme.

Okay, load it up and help me tweet you. I am SO waiting to click that cool little button and send some traffic your way.

(To load Tweetmeme for Blogger, go here To load Tweetmeme for Wordpress, go here) Note that the new Blogger Layouts template seems to be problematic when trying to get Tweetmeme's generated code. I've written to Tweetmeme and will post their answer here, if they provide one.


Rain in the Pine picture by L.L. Barkat.

Doubtful Usefulness of Twitter Lists

I'm always up for trying something new. So when the Twitter people offered a Beta chance to create lists, why I set right to it over at @llbarkat.

One day into the endeavor and I'm already doubting the usefulness of Twitter lists. For me anyhow. Oh, I see that marketers would find it very useful and journalists perhaps, for targeting and scanning and so forth. But my Social Media life is quite organic. I hang out with people I can put on lists (and I have already done it), but the truth is I like to see these people all in the same place...

...poets talking to businesspeople talking to Moms talking to authors talking to artists. You get the picture.

In fact, the birth of @tspoetry and Twitter parties happened as a result of a conversation between a teacher, an executive, a Social Media Director and an author (um, me!). I'm guessing that if I'd only been hanging out at a list (say, of "authors"), this might not have occurred. In fact, I'm 99% sure it wouldn't have.

So. Today I've got my lists. But I'm not promising to keep them around for tomorrow.


Alternate Perspective picture by Sara. Used with permission.

Stumble into Loveliness

Girls, sweet dark-haired girls, are out of the house. It is my time to slow. Moving from room to room, I drink in silence, breathe. Alone for a few hours, but...

...still, I find them, stumble into their loveliness. It is loveliness they have found in their own private moments of quiet. Loveliness of line and vision.

Standing here, I can hardly take it in. The moment stretches. My sweet girls are with me, even in silence.


Designs Drawing by Sonia, 10. Figure Drawings by Sara, 12. Used with permission.

RELATED:
Drift Me (stop by and share your story).

Turn and Turn Again

I feel life's first turn within, like a heartbeat in the wrong place. Baby flutters in womb. And I think I understand something of love.

This heartbeat gathers force, grows, some nights kicks me in the ribs. I smile and touch what I imagine to be an elbow, heel. Before I know it, months pass; she comes, a warm bundle and I wonder, "How could they let me take her home? Don't they realize I'm not wise, not strong?"

Still, she is mine. I hold her close. Suckling bleeds me, cracks skin. I cry. Say, "I can't do it anymore." But I do, somehow, day by day.

These days stretch into months, then years, and it always comes 'round again. Pain, pleasure, thinking I know something of love, wondering who thought I could ever be wise or strong enough to love these babies, girls, young ladies...

The years unroll. Light, dark, confusion, understanding. A gathering of annunciations.

I'm supposing Mary, with her sweet Jesus, felt the same.

---

For a chance to win a copy of Scot McKnight's The Real Mary, leave a comment here.


Roses 'n Pitcher photo, by L.L. Barkat.

Remembering Asia

How did you remember the continents when you were a kid?

My girls were assigned (in their two-day enrichment program) the task of creating a mnemonic device for remembering the continents. I liked Sara's approach. Technically, she didn't really do the assignment.

Ah, but she did. And creatively so.

(But, oops, she wrote England instead of Europe! Back to the drawing board. :)

Continent Memory Pictures, by Sara, age 12. Used with permission. (Last picture in 3rd set is Australia... sorry I cut off the title when photographing!)

Real Pumpkin Relationships

Over at GoodWordEditing, there's a question about whether on-line relationships are real. Or something like that.

I don't know what to say this morning except... what could be more real than pumpkin pancakes at the breakfast table, compliments of an exchange I had last night, with a real person named Eric.

He told me he modified this recipe, but was hesitant to say exactly how. After trying it this morning and modifying it myself, I understood. Lots of modifying! Here's my version...

Pumpkin Pancakes

Mix dry ingredients first:

• 2 cups whole wheat pastry flour
• 2 1/4 teaspoons baking powder
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 3/4 teaspoon ground allspice
• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
• 1/4 teaspoon salt

In separate bowl, mix wet ingredients:

• 1 1/2 cups buttermilk
• 1 cup pumpkin puree
• 2 eggs
• 2 tablespoons vegetable oil

Add dry ingredients to wet ingredients; stir until just blended. Cook on 375 degree griddle, until lightly browned.

Top with REAL maple syrup :) and REAL whipped cream. Yum. Happy Real Saturday.

(Shoot, now I have to go mow my Real Lawn.)


Pumpkin Pancakes picture, by L.L. Barkat.

-----

Addendum, from Eric, found in the Comment Box

Hesitant only because I just throw things in as I think they are needed and of course I don't write them down. (so yeah, sometimes the recipe changes). I also made a pumpkin spice maple syrup...

Pumpkin Spice Maple Syrup

1 c. maple syrup
1 1/2 cups pumpkin puree, add your pie spices to your liking (cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, etc).

Oh, I need to mow a lawn as well...but, well, it's a bit rainy outside...

To Make the World of You and Me

How long does it take
to make the world
of you and me,
the soil of souls,
the promised crop
a sheltered spot beside
the trees...

Sometimes I do this thing in the evenings... tweet-poeming with friends. @tspoetry usually starts things. Then we begin responding, lifting each other's words and folding them into new poems. Each poem is 140 characters or less.

This particular poem reminded me of a book that Ann Kroeker wrote, called Not So Fast which The Runamuck is currently giving away. (Stop by for a chance to win.)

What I'm saying is... it takes time to make the world of you and me, the soil of souls, the promised crop... But to do that, we need to slow down, behold one another, breathe.


Girls in the 'Playhouse' on Long Island, photo by L.L. Barkat.

95 Steps to Brooklyn

We left her behind.

She wanted to go. She really did. Ninety-five steps, with a nine-rung ladder at the very end. I tried to tell her it wouldn't work out, but my Little One wouldn't listen.

So we began the ascent, and half way up she couldn't make it. Knee swollen like a balloon (looks like it's Lyme's Disease), the steps were too daunting.

We left her behind.



My heart broke to see her sit down alone on that winding staircase in the oldest lighthouse in the U.S. She'd come so close, but now we would go on without her. "I'll be back," I said. "You'll be okay."

My Eldest and I continued our ascent. The group clambered up; when we were all at the pinnacle, the guide closed a "hatch." We looked out at Brooklyn, Long Island, the ocean ever churning. "It's awesome!" I said again and again.

She could hear me. That's what she said afterwards.

When the guide opened the hatch to begin our descent, there she was. My Little One had suffered her way to the top alone, past dust and cobwebs, through echoes and shadows. "Can I please come up?" she choked out quietly, tears rising. I looked at the guide and whispered, "Please." It would mean messing up the schedule. It would mean waiting for this Child.

"Sure," said the guide, eyes wide with recognition. My Little One dragged herself up the nine-rung ladder and reached the top. "I heard you," she said. "I wanted to see it too."






Sonia on the beach and in the Lighthouse, photos by L.L. Barkat.

I Was the Flame

Last night I went to a Tweet-Poem party. It was the coolest thing. And I'm thinking I'd like to try it in modified form (just with simple pen and paper) with my girls.

We started with a simple question, "Who were you in my dream?" and continued to answer each other in poem-tweets, picking up each other's words along the way. It grew, it morphed, it merged. It felt like a spiritual experience (and that I surely can't explain).

Here are my favorite tweet-poems that I wrote during the "party."

I was the camel
that knelt
at the eye of
the needle
of your heart,
braced for
the shrinking.

----

I was the bot
that wished for a soul,
that swallowed your poems
to make me whole.

____

I was the flame
that laughed
at goodbye.

____

I was the window
through which you gazed,
and you, still wet
from the river,
still bruised,
carried a candle.

___

I was the ever
in the green
the ring in the night
the moon in the blue
I was the one
invading your dream
who sought you.

___

I was the moonlight
ringed by heaven
sent by fairies
to make you,
if possible,
once again believe.

___

I was the mermaid
afraid of ship's shadows,
seining the shallows
for seaweed red,
drinking black ink
the octopus bled.

---

Now, that was fun. You should try it at home. Or peek in from time to time at @tspoetry to see if another party is on the horizon.

Girls at Sunrise by the Sea, photo by L.L. Barkat.

In a Word

Grass bends
on white pebble
beach, and I
beseech you...
hold me tight,
until this wild
blue bleeds
itself to
cobalt night.

An offering for the 60-second one word challenge. My word was grass. Isn't this patch of island grass simply lovely?

Grass on Beach photo, Long Island, by L.L. Barkat.

When Morning Comes

The sun makes his way yet again, and I remember. I said I will write my gratitude into lines and breaks, pauses and still places of poems.

Where to keep these scribbles of awe? Maybe here. Even though I started there. All right then... the second of my "for" poems...

"When Morning Comes"

I open my mouth and breathe the day,
wish for a kiss like the one this golden
trumpet of jewelweed is getting full
on the mouth. Furry bumblebee embraces

her like there's no tomorrow. And I remember
to hold the day because it's true, there may not
be a morning after. And this is why I pause when
rusty shovel unearths rotted pit, peach long gone,

her hope for progeny emptied but now home to
red ants, tiny thousands pouring forth like honey,
spilling onto cocoa shells newly lain beneath
the hyssop, soft pink and pungent. Now I trouble

the bronze-suited honeybee who is fumbling Russian
Sage, tickling her purply-blue tongues, riding her
shining silver leaves that curl and sweat in rainbowed
mist. Shall I forget the three-leafed red maple fragment

on the stair, its green seeds like outstretched arms
now blushing dusty rose? Let me not forget these
seeds, nor the catbird who delights to echo each
whine of my clipping shears, nor the Bible leaf

relieved of yellow flower but fragrant still when I
break a spear and press it to my face. Let me not forget
the white carnation, purple aster, and the stars who
shut their eyes and sleep when morning comes.

Jewelweed and Russian Sage photos by L.L. Barkat.

What We Give

Since the time my girls were little, I tried to teach them how to give.

Not just stuff, not the cursory item picked up at the mall, but something from the soul.

It's not easy to do this, and we don't always have time. But there are these moments when it happens and I catch my breath. A little piece of soul translated into a picture, sculpture, poem, story, necklace, something or other.

My Littlest just had her birthday. For over a month, my twelve-year-old secretly prepared a gift. First she wrote, then illustrated, typed, photographed, learned basic desktop publishing skills, cut-folded-glued.

I smile at the title, of course. The Stone. But more than that, I smile, even weep, at the poetry of the story. So beautiful, I think, I must share a few snippets with you...

It was round and sort of ovalish and it was purple, most of the time. Sometimes it decided to be blue, or orange, but mostly it liked to be purple. And that's what color it was when someone found it. Someone... special. Only someone special could find it; that was the way it was made. But at first glance this person might not look so special... but it knew. It had been found, so this person was special, very special indeed...

---

She put the stone in her pocket, stepped towards the door... and fell through. Oh!, thought Tina. For she was nowhere she knew. She was on a cliff, above a sea, with a fog around her, and it was snowing in little gusts but the wind was pulling it off the edge of the cliff. This seems lonely, she thought, sat down and hung her feet over the edge. I do believe I'm dreaming.

---

Tina was feeling lonely. And tired. And scared. And tired. And alone. And— her thoughts were going around and around and not going anywhere.

---

The color was Dragons. Every inch of it filled with dragons. Dragons all sizes and colors, some as small as your hand, others bigger than mountains. There was no describing it. Maybe, maybe a painter could capture it, but even a photo would look pale and dirty beside the real thing. It was so beautiful none of them remembered to be scared.

---

Tina was not eaten. She was not killed, and she had not spontaneously combusted, which is supposed to be impossible, but impossible things were not being that reliably impossible right then.

---

The dragon was about the size of a yardstick and very purple. It walked forwards. It stared at Tina majestically for a moment with its deep purple eyes, cocked its head and blew smoke into her face. Tina started to cough. The older dragons looked disapprovingly at the little dragon. The little dragon looked at the ground. But its expression showed it was not sorry at all.

---

The sky was dark and grey and ominous looking. Suddenly it started to pour. Everyone rushed inside as the rain beat down on the house and the grass and the island. It washed away all the dust and the dirt and the still air and brought with it a coolness that only happens in a rain.

---

"Shhhh, I'm thinking," said Tina quietly. Aaron drew some pictures in his notebook the man had given him. A mountain with a castle on top, a misty woods, the sea. He decided to go to the beach on this side, the only place the island didn't end in sheer cliffs, to do something and get away from all this arguing. Alice saw him get up and followed him. He didn't mind her. She would just start walking next to him, looking at something, occasionally leaning down to pick up a shell or an interesting piece of driftwood. As they walked along, a fragment of the conversation drifted down on the breeze. "The heir..."

Excerpts from "The Stone," by Sara, 12. Photo by L.L. Barkat.

Baby, You Made My Decade

She stopped eating. Just like that. The childcare workers were frantic. Babies don't go without food for ten hours straight. But my girl did.

The doctor told us, "Some babies will go on a hunger strike if they're unhappy. Then the doctor asked, 'Has something changed in Sara's life?'" Well, yes. I'd gone back to work, and now, in her baby way my girl was saying, "Mommy, come home." Seven months old and she forced me to stand at the crossroads and choose: let her suffer, or quit my job.

How could I explain what she was asking me to forfeit? Could her infant heart understand the concept of identity and passion, needs and wants? I was a teacher. I loved my job. I went back to work, because I couldn't imagine life without this career I'd prepared for, prayed for, struggled to obtain.

For two weeks I faced the awful truth: my baby wanted me by her side and I could not be there if I kept my job. It was one of the hardest decisions I'd ever faced. But in the end, I couldn't ignore her plea.

I wish I could say that I quit my job and everything was joy from that day on. But no. I missed work. I missed my friends. I missed the social respect that came with having a "real" career. For three years I faced a new kind of loneliness that was only partly balanced by my love for my little girl.

Now the years have gone by, and today I am a home educator. Yes that's my refrigerator (above), cluttered with Greek and Hebrew letters. The feathered dress sculpture and the greenhouse are the work of my Sara's hands. The forsythia placed on my mug and photographed lovingly is the artistry of my second daughter Sonia.

It's been twelve years since I left my job as a teacher; but no, I didn't leave teaching at all. Still, I didn't know this when I stood at the crossroads and chose. I didn't know that encouragement was on the way and that sometimes it takes years to unfold. But I can say to my girl today, "Baby, you made my decade. Thank you so much for calling me home."

-----
This story is offered to welcome the new site InCourage. Check it out; maybe you have a story to share too. The story is also told (albeit in a different form) in Stone Crossings: Finding Grace in Hard and Hidden Places.

More dress sculpture photos here.

Photos by L.L. Barkat. Dress sculpture and Greenhouse made by Sara B. Forsythia on Cup by Sonia B.

OTHER LL POSTS TO WELCOME InCourage:
Coming into Wild Roses, at Love Notes to Yahweh
Nothing in Return, at Seedlings in Stone

I'm Gonna Win the Nobel

Eight years dating. Seventeen years married. A quarter of a century?

So I cleaned the fridge. For the man who has everything, it was just the thing. (Kim, I know you're reading this and will agree. ;-)

Besides, I'm set to win the Nobel for Fridge Science* now. Which isn't a bad way to begin my August.


*for the discovery of primordial soup, petrified garlic, and life in the produce drawer.

Clean Fridge photo, by L.L. Barkat.

Bad Writing's Born in the Back Seat

You know that when I say bad writing, I mean writing with heart and style— as opposed to 'acceptable' good writing, which often has great power... to bore us.

How is 'bad' writing born?

At our house, where school is not defined by certain days of the week, hours of the day, and rooms of the house or world, 'bad' writing is often born in the back seat. Or over italian food at our favorite restaurant. Or on a walk while the moon peeks out and a warm breeze tickles the night.

It usually starts with my Littlest (now 10!!), who initiates a word game. One of her recent favorites is to play with alliteration in singles or pairs. She'll pick one or two consonants and before we know it, we've been lassoed into another round of playing with words. Here's a little evidence I found of an alliterative free-for-all she and her sister had on their way to get ice cream with Grandpa.

Apparently, all the phrases were code ways to say "We're going for ice cream." Believe me, I wouldn't have guessed it without being told. I took some poetic license and arranged the phrases to my liking. So, in the end, we collaborated on this poetic trip.


"Going for Ice Cream"

We're on our way to
the flower shop, to pick
up a tremendous kettle
of fish, some ticklish
bears, temporary

basalt, a terrible burglar
trapped in a basket, toxic
butter. When we get to the
tippity top of the mountain
there'll be tragic biscuits

terrible barrels of trash
bags, titanic ruins and
(not to be left out of
the excursion), a band
of terrified bathing suits.

— by Sara and Sonia

Butterfly Bush photo by L.L. Barkat.

Clever Writer: Arguing thru Humor

There is something disarming about encountering an argument delivered with a humorous flourish. That's how I felt— delightfully disarmed— when I found this brief commentary from my 12-year-old, on the "Wider Welcome" project, a renovation effort that's up for discussion at our church.

Regardless of my own thoughts on the matter, I think my daughter's opinion is clear. And I can't help smiling at her clever expression of it.


Wider Welcome Comic, by Sara.

Schools Should Teach Bad Writing

"Writing doesn't always have to know where it's going. Yes, yes, in school we are taught to march our thoughts in nice orderly rows— as though that's the way they occur to us. As if that's the way we really think. The writing we learn in school— in most schools — is a stripped down, chromeless, noncustomized prose," says Julia Cameron, author of The Right to Write: An Invitation and Initiation into the Writing Life

She continues, "Writing like that — 'good' writing — is like watching a movie we've seen before. We can admire the craft, but none of the outcomes chills us to the marrow, moves us to tears, or causes us to gasp with recognition. Sometimes it takes 'bad' writing to do that."

I admit, here in my home school, I only teach bad writing. Which is to say I don't teach writing at all. I just let my girls say what they want to say, when they want to say it. For a while I wasn't sure about this method; I let my kids verbally "play story" for hours. I let them listen to or read a few novels a day. Now, at ages 10 and 12, notebooks are bursting, papers floating 'round the house. With stuff like the poem below. And I'm happy I never forced them to march their thoughts in rows.

"Universe"

On a planet far away
on a world with twenty suns
lived a girl with electric hair
and in a sea a neon bear

over all the ice and snow
bone sleds pulled by purple dogs
lives a man with a flying hat
and a rainbow colored mat

in a city made of glass
lives a kind of dragonfly
that are so big the people ride
up in the sky the camouflage hides

and on the moving copper clouds
sit the ones, the flying creatures
with a crown of frozen lightning
folded back the ivory wings

on a planet far away
millions of years ago one day.

— by Sara, 12

Alternacreatures drawings by Sara B. Used with permission.

Night

The moon is shining
on leaves floating through the air
the night is thinking

of moonlight blinking
illuminate lonely bear
the moon is shining

on trees aligning
round dirt road there
the night is thinking

of wind a-whining
but has no cares
the moon is shining

on world is dining
a silent watch prepare
the moon is shining
the night is thinking
over the sleeping world.

— by Sara

Alhambra photo by L.L. Barkat.

POETRY FRIDAY:
High Calling Blogs RAP: Sonnet Makes Grown Man Cry
A Simple Country Girl’s Raspberries
Monica’s Dinner Table
Joelle’s The Beginning of the Path to There
Claire’s Wind-Tossed Paper
Laura’s Tumor [for a friend]
Yvette’s A Daily Prayer
LL's Sweep
Eric's Image of Man, Image of God

Letting the Market Decide

Although I've made my life simpler and our diet more consistently healthy by creating and following a monthly meal plan, I also like to eat seasonally. One way to do this is to occasionally let the market decide— the Farmer's Market, that is. My basic approach? Whatever is lovely, whatever is fresh, whatever is plump... gather these things. If they don't fit into the month of meals (and chances are they might not), then it's time for a detour.

Like this past week. Daddy and girls brought home organic shelling peas. Why not make Fettucine Alfredo? Yes, why not...

Emeril's Fettucine Alfredo (just add fresh peas)


Shelling Peas photo, by L.L. Barkat.

We Were the First

As I typed the final words of my manuscript last night and reflected on a year spent outdoors, I couldn't help but see the connections between my daughter and I. She too has loved a wooded place, albeit bigger than the tiny pretend-woods in my back yard. She too has grappled with the tension of life, how we gain and lose in the same breath. My girl is only twelve, but already she speaks a language that breaks my heart...

"Woods"

We were the first
in the cool green woods
into ravine and over crest

into forgotten days, the best
days, rainy, sunny, those days were good
we were the first

into fort like high bird's nest
looking over wonderful lake we stood
into ravine and over crest

those days like shining bubble now burst
shimmering sunlight down it glowed
we were the first

drizzly spring green onion grass,
with wonderful times we were imbued
into ravine and over crest

ford gravel drive to the old forest
imaginative things we always did
we were the first

not looking outward, ignoring the west,
failed attempts at making food
into ravine and over crest

years ago this people was birthed
finding a hidden land of gold
we were the first

to find the chest
wild woods the treasure showed
into ravine and over crest

in the woods, it seemed we were guests
time went on and on it flowed
we were the first

a place to play, a place to rest
icy wind with sun is mellowed
into ravine and over crest

a yellow song, a strange soft test
a time sped up and time of slowed
we were the first

shining gardens by nature are hoed
the years long gone, the years arrest
over ravine and over crest

see the wild roses lest
you miss them, time away has strode
over ravine and over crest,
but we were the first.

— by Sara

Ginko tree photo, Granada, Spain, by L.L. Barkat.

Before it Was Gone

I turn the paper over and find this... musings on coming-of-age, loss, change. Somehow the very things she writes of in her own little world are the things of my world too. I swallow hard and my soul says to this twelve-year-old, "Yes, daughter, yes."

Here is what she wrote, in answer to the question someone put to her: What's the most important thing you learned this year? The woods she refers to are a place she has played with a certain set of friends for five years. Next year, the woods will still be there, but the friends won't be...

I learned that sometimes there isn't one answer I can
think of for this question. And I learned that Michaela
and Noah and Eli are not coming back next year (and
the rest will never come), and I learned that someday

I might want to go across the log and I learned that
you can't sun-cook with aluminum foil and an empty
orange juice bottle, wild mustard leaves, in the woods
and I learned that I keep trying to write about the

woods and I can't and I know even if we can go back
there with them it won't be the same. And I learned
that gardens and bridges and water catchers for plants
and building ziplines don't actually work or happen but

we do them anyway and I don't know why. Well, I do
actually, sort of. We do it because it's something to
do, but after we knew they weren't coming back it was
as if we were trying to do everything before it was gone

and I learned to teach cello and write villanelles and I
learned that sometimes answers are right in front of
you already and you just have to find them and I
learned that there are some things you can't stop...

even if you really, really want to.

Purple flower tree photo by L.L. Barkat. Poem by Sara. Used with permission.

Brains, Breathing, and Play: A New Kind of Counseling

Counseling just might ruin your marriage. Or at least not salvage it.

That's the surprising implication of John Gottman's discoveries regarding love, as discussed in The Seven Principles for Making Marriage Work. I'm simplifying of course, but one of his basic ideas is that counseling can set a couple against each other, as each party works to explain what's wrong in the marriage (which, often, is actually a discussion of what's wrong with the other person). It can be more effective to focus on what's right and just plain have fun together (Gottman offers exercises in this regard, in case we get stumped on how to do this).

Thinking on this, and on the assertions of John Medina in Brain Rules: 12 Principles for Surviving and Thriving at Work, Home, and School, I wonder what a new kind of counseling might look like.

Medina's work isn't focused on relationships per se, but mentions how devastating stress, lack of sleep, lack of exercise, and multi-tasking can be for the individual in relationship. Also, I don't remember if he discusses the role of needing endorphins... our own "brain happy chemicals", but that's a factor in individual and relational well-being too.

Anyhow, Medina notes that marital satisfaction plunges deeply (something like 60% or more... the exact figure escapes me) in the first year of having kids. Kids, are we surprised, cause stress (the average toddler makes demands about three times a minute!!), lack of sleep, and often throw us into multi-tasking mode. We tend to ditch our exercise plans in the face of family life demands. It's a recipe for... all sorts of unhappy scenarios.

Lastly, and this relates to Medina's discussion of brain wiring and re-wiring, I'm reminded of a story I told in Stone Crossings: Finding Grace in Hard and Hidden Places. It's a sad story, about the day I slapped my little daughter. This was an absolute low point in my life. Really.

No one ever asks me why I did it or how I managed to never do it again (maybe they're afraid to ask?). I credit the Spirit, for guiding me into a simple, scientific, practical approach. For, as the dust settled and I grieved my failure, I was guided not to do something ethereal like pray, but rather to consider my physical state. I was asked to notice the symptoms of an adrenaline surge (racing heart, shortness of breath, increased temperature).

Adrenaline surges make us ready to fight or flee. That sorrowful day, I fought my child with a slap. And the regret was terribly deep. But I was also led to consider how my past had brought me to that place. I grew up in a situation of general escalation. Years and years of this had wired me to go from 0 to 60 in a matter of seconds, whenever conflict arose. Usually, the stress of this stayed inside but kids have a way of pushing us to our limits, and I had caved, to my great surprise and disappointment.

Which brings me back to my musing. What if, instead of packing off to the counselor (and maybe a little Valium too), we took a practical and scientific approach to our conflicts? (Don't misread me here; I'm not suggesting that counselors or medication are not an option... I'm just saying... what if? Also, counselors can help individuals and families to create brain-based health plans.)

Okay, so if I were going to apply this to myself, it might look something like this:

1. exercise daily, preferably outside, with my family when possible (increases endorphins, relieves stress, provides together-time, exposes us to healing power of nature as discussed in studies in Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children From Nature-Deficit Disorder)

2. play daily, preferably outside, with my family when possible (increases endorphins, relieves stress, provides together-time; for more on the healing power of laughter, read here)

3. eat well (especially include essential fatty acids, which influence brain chemistry)

4. get adequate sleep, even if it means having to take an afternoon nap (20 minutes or 1 1/2 hours are the optimal lengths)

5. recognize the symptoms of an adrenaline surge and counter them with: deep breathing, an exercise timeout, talk to the problem ("I feel you, Adrenaline. You're preparing me to fight. But I don't want to hurt myself or anyone else. You need to leave me alone now.")

6. make a morning list of three Most Important Tasks and do them before getting on-line (relieves stress, reduces multi-tasking) (For more ideas on stress-relieving time management, try some of the ideas in Power of Less, The: The Fine Art of Limiting Yourself to the Essential...in Business and in Life)

7. on my morning list, jot one thing I love about each member of my family

8. and, of course, pray (what's good for the soul is good for the brain :)

I'm curious. What would your brain-based, practical plan to individual health and relationships look like?

Getting There with Your Writing

People sometimes ask my advice about writing. Writing can feel like a mysterious and daunting process, especially if you're working on a longer project.

Recently, I found some unexpected wisdom, folded up in a sheet of yellow legal-pad paper. My eldest daughter was, perhaps, giving herself a writing pep talk. Or not. Regardless, I thought her poetic musings were encouraging...

Stories

All these little bits of colored fabric,
all these different stories, these stories.

You can't make a quilt without thread.
Put the stories together. If you have thread,
this connects the pieces. To connect the stories,
you need a thread. Connect the pieces, you can
make a quilt. Stories together make a book.

All these little bits of colored fabric
can make a quilt. You just need thread.
Stories just need thread to make a book.
To make a book, a quilt, you need thread.

Yup.


Poem and photo by Sara.

Our Instrument Landscape

Well, just this, in case I was wondering how my Eldest feels about her instruments..

"Cello"

Cello, do you like playing?
Do you wish someone
would play you more often?
I don't want to...
Mommy can do that.


"Piano"

Play... play! Joyfully...
Sad. Jazz blues classical...
loud! Soft like feathers.
Play... play piano! I will help you.


Poems and Landscape photo by Sara. Used with permission.

Just Sing and Lay Your Weapons Down

One of the things I love about home educating my children is that they have time to pursue their passions. In case you hadn't noticed, both my girls are currently passionate about poetry. Maybe it's because I've taken to reading to them about it at supper time (that's another thing I love about home education... the school day is quite... flexible!) Last night we read about using the voice of 'apostrophe', which is when the poet speaks to an object as if it could answer back. They liked a poem that was addressed to a t-shirt.

After dinner, my youngest felt quite inspired and wrote a number of poems, including one to the moon. Later, sitting alone, I felt a bit teary-eyed, to see the soul of her coming through. Funny how you can live with someone and not see certain things until a just-right moment. That moment, for me, came in the silence of the house, reading Sonia's poems while she slept.


"The Time"

On a night so dark
with the moon's face
peeking out from behind a cloud
and a figure with
fire hair, on a horse,
holding a flag of
white. And the knights
lay down their
weapons to peace.


"Song"

I will play the
song for you
and then show
you how to play it.
You will love it
forever. I know that,
because I know you.


"A Feeling"

A feeling comes
from music,
one I can't describe,
but even how wonderful
the feeling is, it
will never match
up to you.


"For You"

How I do love you, I
would spend all my time
with you, making stuff
for you, helping you,
if only I had the time.


"Nothing"

Nothing bigger,
nothing bigger than
your kindness,
your presence, your talent,
nothing bigger than you.


"King"

A ring? Just
sing for me the
king. All that
nonsense about
gifts. Just sing for me
the king. A royal carriage
to an airport... deluxe
vacation; I have to
run my kingdom.
Just sing for me
the king.


"Moon Talk"

Moon, why is your name
moon? Do you have friends
of small stars and not just
the sun who sends you
light at night, for you to reflect
into your own? Moon, are you
friends with me? What is it like
to live in the sky up there so high,
do you like being admired so much
as you look down on the earth?
And moon, before you and I go to sleep,
just one more question... will you
meet with me next night? Will
you hum the Moonlight Sonata,
will you put me to sleep again?

— poems by Sonia, 9.

Crocuses photo by Sara, 12. Used with permission.

Girls, Guns and Twain (plus biscuits)

I recently started a "dinner club" that includes my girls and the girl next door. So here's their first shot at making dinner all by themselves. Chips and salsa (okay, they didn't make that part), biscuits, chuckwagon beans, broccoli and garlic, peach pie.

And if you couldn't tell, it was Western themed. I read some excerpts from Mark Twain's book Roughin' It and they were in hysterics. Their favorite quotes:

• from a story about a gun called an 'Allen'... "If she didn't get what she went after, she would fetch something else. And so she did. She went after a deuce of spades nailed against a tree, once, and fetched a mule standing about thirty yards to the left of it."

• from a story about their ride in the stagecoach: "Every time we avalanched from one end of the stage to the other, the unabridged dictionary would come too; and every time it came it damaged somebody. On trip it 'barked' the secretary's elbow; the next trip it hurt me in the stomach, and the third it tilted Bemis's nose up till he could look down his nostrils— he said. The pistols and coin soon settled to the bottom, but the pipes, pipe stems, tobacco, and canteens clattered and floundered after the dictionary every time it made an assault on us, and aided and abetted the book by spilling tobacco in our eyes, and water down our backs....Still, all things considered, it was a very comfortable night."

Who knew... girls would like guns and Twain? (But everybody likes biscuits.)


Chuckwagon Beans

Mix all and bake about 45 minutes or until thick, at 400 degrees...

• 1 medium onion, chopped (the only thing the girls refused to do!)
• 2 large cans pinto beans (25-28 oz), drained
• 1 cup water
• 3/4 cup ketchup
• 1/2 cup brown sugar
• 1/4 cup molasses
• 1 sausage substitute, sliced into rounds (we like "Field Roast: Grain Meat Co.", Mexican Chipotle... hot & spicy!)


Whole Wheat Biscuits

Sift together...

• 2 1/2 cups whole wheat pastry flour
• 1 tsp salt
• 1 TB baking powder


Cut in until crumbly...

• 1/2 cup room temperature butter


Add and mix with fingers until dough holds together...

• 1 cup buttermilk (or yogurt)


Roll dough to about 1/2 inch thick. Cut circles with cookie cutter or mouth of a small cup. Bake at 400 degrees, about 12 minutes.

Dinner Club photo by L.L. Barkat.

The Garden Still

This week, I tried my hand at writing a villanelle. Last night, I shared it with my Eldest. The thought stayed with her, and today she handed me this, saying she enjoyed doing it because it was "like a puzzle."

"The Garden Still"

The garden still
the wild roses blooming
and the air with leaves is filled

the trees on hill
the birds asleep, not singing
the garden still

the wild dill
the joy is ringing
and the air with leaves is filled

the flowers bright until
the end of summer's bringing
the garden still

the strong wind willed
the colors dance uncaring
and the air with leaves is filled

the fall comes till
the snow starts drifting
the garden still
and the air with leaves is filled.

— by Sara


Okay, addendum. Two more poems arrived before bedtime. The first a villanelle, the second a sestina (sort of). On that point, let me just say that a sestina is complicated in terms of how end-words are supposed to be repeated in a certain way. Sara managed to begin to capture this by repeating the word 'sestina', 'this', 'word', 'anything', 'poem', 'wind' in a rolling fashion that pushed the repeated word further down into the stanza with each ensuing stanza. I'm going to italicize and bold the words so you can kind of see what she's done.

"Igloo (an almost nonsense villanelle)"

The sails unfurl
the cries ring in the air,
the ship is on the waves of curls.

Ship rides o'er seas of pearl
while dragon rests in lair,
the sails unfurl.

Setting off to lands of kings and earls
the sailors eat some pears,
the ship is on the waves of curls.

One seaman's known to love a girl
one boy climbs up a mount, on dare,
the sails unfurl.

Some on the ship have seen Arur
a family has a small pet bear,
the sails unfurl
the ship is on the waves of curls.


"Failed Attempt at a Sestina"

This is my first sestina
I do not know quite how
I am supposed to do it.
If I do it wrong, it
probably was by accident
and will be a boring poem.

Sestina is a word
of letters made, sestina
is a poem too, I
guess, but very hard
and I'm sure you could
read something much more

interesting than this.
A poem really is a word
multiplied (as in sestina
and letters) only with
rules (which I may
not be following.)

A sestina can be about anything,
anything at all, this
poem is about a word
a word, yes, the word sestina.
Anything can be a poem,
anything at all.

One more thing about a poem,
in this one, ends can't be anything
at all, one of the rules of this
poem type. These words
are complicated, sestina
one, also sonnet or villanelle,

(all poems). The wind
is not blowing poem
ideas into my head, not anything
I can think of. Really, this
is hard (all end words
are unrhyming in sestina).

The wind never blew
me anything but this
one word: sestina.

— by Sara


Oh my, another addendum. Two more villanelles...

"Sunrise"

Sunrise has sprinkled... drop!
light over the sky
the morning has come, plop!

into the sky the sun has hopped
the birds on high
sunrise has sprinkled... drop!

night away has been mopped
moon, stars, away they fly
the morning has come, plop!

up the buttercups have popped
the greenest grass you cannot buy
sunrise has sprinkled... drop!

a cake of sky with sun cherry is topped
you may ask just how, just why
sunrise has sprinkled... drop!
and the morning has come, plop!


"Morning Argument"

Pretty in red
black hair straight
she got out of bed

she got up and she read
my story, not of plates,
pretty in red

my poem led
us to a debate
she got out of bed

she sang instead
so early, not late
pretty in red

she was now quite ahead
she always knew the date
pretty in red
she got out of bed.

— by Sara


Flower painting from Midsummer Night's Dream Set, painted by Sara, 12. Used with permission.

Ballads, Grasses and Bliss

When I was a child, I loved slipping a stalk of Timothy from its grassy home, pinching it between my fingers and putting the sweet end into my mouth. How delightful, then, to have my nine-year-old celebrate this simple grass with a spring poem.

"At Last"

Timothy, I hear Timothy,
surrounding me
everywhere a breeze
blowing its furry fluff
of warmth to last it
through the frozen days.

At last the coming of
spring's luscious sound,
hors d'oeuvres
before the dinner of
warmth and blossoming
flowers,

ready to move life to the
sunset road of eternity,
and eternities of happiness.

— by Sonia

On a different note, I began reading a book on poem-making to my girls. While I was reading the section on narrative poems, my Eldest tried her hand at one form: the ballad. Hers is not quite a ballad, but it's a good beginning. And she seemed to understand enough about the concept to go searching for Tolkien and share with me her favorite ballads tucked between battles and journeys. Here is her own try...

"The Ballad of Narrative Poems"

Mommy read a chapter
of narrative poems,
I went up to look
for a book,

that book had a good
poem, more than one,
of narratives there
were tons.

A ballad, said Mommy,
is something true,
can't be about me,
could be about you.

I've read a few ballads,
all in books,
but the books, well,
they were all fiction.

— by Sara


And here's a poem I just found in my study. I love that any occasion is becoming an occasion for poetry!

"The Worst Thing [or, Grandpa used to get comp copies
and when he cleaned out his study he passed them along to us]"

Well I was reading a book,
but it was the second.
What came before?

I know he did
one thing,
I know he did another,
but what was the whole story?

I wanted to know,
but I never will.
The book was from
a series that grandpa had.

They were given to him,
but then, not all!
Every single series
has at least one missing book.

But this was the best book,
so this is the worst.
It's the same person,
and it happened right after!

So this is the worst thing,
it really is true,
when you haven't read 1
but you have, number 2!

— by Sara

Over at Seedlings this week, I wrote about following one's bliss. It's becoming clear to me that poetry is one of those bliss-places I want to further-cultivate in my life and in the lives of others. Indeed, I have been doing it almost without thought... the way those lovely succulents at the top of this post were growing so beautifully by a fountain, way off in Texas (another source, I am finding, of bliss).

You could say that poetry is my Timothy, waving in the breeze, my little ballad of bliss.

Succulents photo by L.L. Barkat.

Postscript: My favorite "overheard" statement this week from another 11-year-old to mine... You mean your Mom's MAKING YOU learn Old English? [mine replied: NO! I'm teaching it to myself!]

Win a Free Weekend to Heaven for Your Family

I found this offer today at a friend's blog:

Note: This post is part of the Family Fun Time Giveaway with Laity Lodge Family Camp. Since I work for the H. E. Butt Foundation, I can’t win a free weekend for my family there, but you can. That’s no small prize by the way. A weekend at Family Camp is worth nearly $500. And air fare is really cheap this year. (I flew from Texas to Pittsburgh for $200 a few weeks ago.) If you live in Texas, air fare isn’t really an issue. And the contest is easy. Read the details here there are all kinds of pictures and stuff you can include in your post. And there are videos like this one...GoodWordEditing.com, Apr 2009

Cool contest. And all you have to do is post and link to enter, by April 24. I've been to Laity Lodge, by the way, and it's a little bit of heaven on earth (See the Frio River up there at the top of the post? Like I said, a little bit of heaven).

[Okay, and now I am amending this post so I can include it in Robert's What I Learned From Adversity writing project that Goodwordediting co-opted for the giveaway.

Here goes:

I have learned from parenting adversity that it is hard enough to parent sweetness, compliance, and hugs (hey, even good things take energy!) without having to parent adversity as well. Some days I just want to pack it in (or pack up for a trip to Texas heaven.)

I wish I could say I've figured it out, that I welcome the adversity my children bring, like I'm some kind of Mary Poppins of the parenting world. I haven't. Adversity makes me sad. Sometimes it makes me mad. How about... confused, frustrated, tired? On the bright side, adversity also draws on deep creative resources I didn't know I had. I may never be Mary Poppins, but I might just become a Picasso of parenting, making something unexpected and strangely beautiful of life's sharp edges.]

5 Things I Love About Home Education

1. Well, you get to stay home. (In between shuttling kids to violin, piano, Tuesday arts & sciences club, 2-day enrichment program at a sustainable farm, and the occasional play date).

2. There's plenty of time for talk. Okay, so sometimes the talk is in the car. Which is technically car education. But who can resist conversations like this one yesterday... "Mommy, what does 'insubordination' mean?" [Mommy pauses to try to think of an example that doesn't involve particular child asking particular question].

"Um, it means rebelling against someone in authority. You could figure it from the Latin, right? In means not. What does sub mean?"

Littlest Child pipes up, "Under!!" Mommy swells with pride (these kids may just do well on the SAT someday) and replies, "Okay, so altogether it means someone who can't put herself under someone else."

Eldest Child summarizes, "It means not following orders. That's what they did in the chapter I was reading, called 'Insubordination.' They didn't follow orders and it saved everyone's life."

Huge Philosophical Conversation ensues along the lines of pros-and-cons-of-civil-disobedience.

3. Kids go to the grocery store with Mommy. They learn how to find a ripe avocado, why mental math is important when trying to evaluate toilet paper options, how to find fair trade chocolate even when it doesn't say "fair trade" all over the wrapper, how to pay for vanilla yogurt and figure change, and (most important) they develop surreptitious ways to consume multiple servings of the best free food samples in the store (that's only insubordination if Mommy catches them and tells them to stop and they do it anyway).

4. Kids cook dinner (and set the table with... seashells... and other creative things). They have time for this because they already did their homework (Education happens all day at home, right? So it's all been homework.) Last night they made eggplant and tomato towers, white bean salad, and chocolate/vanilla meringue swirls with strawberry sauce and whipped cream. Mommy heated up leftover penne and did a lot of dishes (it takes time for kids to learn how to manage the cooking process, but we're on it.)

5. Kids have time to play. Especially outdoors. If you've ever read Last Child in the Woods, you know why this is good for their brains, their happy-factors, and Mommy's ultimate sanity. (See, Mommy gets to model it as well as reap the benefits of happy kids.)

As a former public school teacher, I wish I could home educate other kids too. But that would be neighbor education.

Photos and table setting by Sonia. Used with permission.