Another Day Gone

This time of year, when the Big Melt should have arrived, but has not, we are sun-seekers, moving with the sun and light around the house, from one sunny spot to the next, often sharing space with our fat cat Mischief, who enjoys lying belly-up, light spilling over her winter-coated fluffball of a body. The patches of bright luminescent light are not always big enough for her belly and ours. Outside this morning, the snow is hard and crunchy underfoot, and the wind is whipping, making it feel very cold for the middle of March, but not, after all, so unlike New England, where weather can be anything at all anytime of year, and still be considered “normal.” The dog, Daisy McMayhem, a jet black, long-eared, long-legged Setter/Retriever cross, soaks up the sun on the deck, and idly watches the squirrels, who have come out of the trees to munch on leftover popcorn and birdseed under our grove of evergreens. If so inspired, she’ll slowly get up and inch her way towards them, stalking in the fashion Mischief has taught her, one foot down, the other up, and so on, without any extraneous movement, which, if you’ve ever spent time with a setter or retriever, is tricky business, indeed. Her nose down, she appears a canine stealth bomber, but has never actually been able to reach her target, without them scurrying away, always at the last minute, up and out of reach. Today, though, she is not hunting; she knows that this sun is to be coveted, since it has been cloudy and grey and bone-chilling damp out for the past few days. By afternoon, the sun has warmed and softened the snow, and Daisy keeps losing her ball. Soon it will be time to scour the woods for fall's stockade of tennis balls and toys, lost but not forgotten before the first snows covered our expanse of lawn and five plus acres for good this winter.

Around us, the circles of earth around the trees expand outward each day, though the snow will linger in the shadows of the woods until April, at least. It feels good to at least be able to see some bare patches of dirty, disgruntled grass. The wood pile sits fairly depleted. Shovels still stand at the ready against the house; sleds await someone, anyone, to take them for a run. As much as I'd like to just put them all away, I know better. Neighbors have tapped their trees, and the sap buckets--that quintessential harbinger of spring--hang in twos and threes from the maples, and on some warm, windless March days, you swear you can hear the drip drop of the sap in the buckets, a bit like the kerplink, kerplunk, kerplank of blueberries falling into a tin bucket in the Maine summertime. But not today. The wind is making too much noise. If not for the sun, we’d be hanging about by the wood stove, working on math, reading, practicing spelling and vocabulary words a la Akheela. But the sun is out, so we move ourselves accordingly, math at the playroom table in the morning, where the sun streams in and warms the space; language arts at the kitchen table as the sun turns the corner; back at the playroom table for some art and Spanish in the afternoon. Later, the sun shifts to southwest, and fills the living room with light. For awhile, Luke reads in the big purple chair in the living room; his nose is still very sore and swollen, but the bruising has not yet spiraled into the boxer palette we were expecting--black eye blue, left hook yellow, smash face green. Perhaps the Arnica has done its job.

Dominick heads out to check on his many outdoor projects: thatching the roof of his wigwam with branches from our Christmas tree (a concolor fir, still fresh and fragrant after all these months), whittling and sharpening his latest spear with his knife, checking on his squirrel trap (he's in cahoots with Daisy). Daisy and Mischief follow him around, hoping for some playtime. Daisy noses some coyote tracks, and forgets about him for awhile. Inside, where the afternoon sun is as brilliant as it is outside, Luke draws at the art table, where he's been a fixture every since he was a toddler, waking up early to ask, "What are we going to make today, Mommy?"

Today, we've been able to stick, for the most part, to our usual rhythms of homeschooling. Despite my persistent fatigue, and Luke's sore nose, we've made a fairly good day of it, easing in and out of projects, independent work, one-on-one time, and group discussions. We've read aloud, read to ourselves, practiced our Spanish together, made art, explored the outdoors, talked about the differences between myths, legends, epics and sagas, learned about porquoi tales, practiced using the quadratic formula, learned about congruency and similarity, and written thank you notes. On another day, we might work on our civilization projects, check on our inherited traits survey, or update our presidential election primary maps. There's never really any pattern or method to what we do; we just try to follow, as much as possible, our internal rhythms, and those that encircle us from the natural world.

On the best days, homeschooling flows from one thing to another without regard for transitions or class bells or other interruptions. On the best days, we don't lose our tempers or run out of patience with each other, we speak calmly, support one another, cheer each other on, play Scrabble or Boggle, and laugh a lot. But everyone has bad days, and it's been a bit of a rough road this year. And lately, well, I feel grateful if we are able to get through a day without having to go to a doctor's appointment, or stop for a nap. Throughout, I feel as if I'm always tending to my fear; trying to hear my darkest thoughts, and then asking them to go, and filling the space with something more positive, productive, light. Some days, it's hard to do. Energy flags, the cough comes back, I feel feverish, overwhelmed, under the microscope, the gun. And on those days, it has helped to hear the voices of those around me, however far away, throwing me a line.

Thanks for that. I only hope to be able to do the same for you, whenever the time arises.

Your work is to discover your work and then with all your heart to give yourself to it. --Buddha