Home Schooling, One Week In

I think I'm moving towards a middle ground between typical homeschooling and unschooling - at least that seems to be how it's taking form right now. An online friend who also homeschools, reminded me "remember not to underestimate her - and remember it is easier to pull back expectations than do the opposite." I need to remind myself of that every day. Regardless of what I am feeling worry-wise, it is all very exciting.

Tonight we researched a few traditional Russian dishes she missed and then went shopping for ingredients. I let her write out the list, figure out the money we needed, choose the items, and pay for the items. She's still in the kitchen working on another recipe and it's 11pm at night! I think this foray into Russian cooking was inspired by our current book, which is a history-based, fictionalized diary of Anastasia Romanov and her life in Imperial Russia. It's bringing up a lot of memories from Russia, but mostly the good ones.

Regarding memories, we walk the dogs each night down to a local elementary school, and our new ritual is, we stop at the swings, and she swings for about a half hour while the dogs run around, and she does her own unique version of therapy. She climbs onto the swing, swings VERY high, and talks non-stop about experiences at the orphanage . I'm allowed only to listen...no questions. It has just kind of evolved over the past few weeks, and I'm learning her 'rules' as we go along, but she seems to really enjoy it. On the way home last night she had her arm around me all the way home and leaned her head on my shoulder.." Mom, I really like my swinging therapy...It feels good." she said. I, of course, according to the rules, was silent, but gave her a hug of recognition.

Cute phrase of the week (because these slip-ups are happening so infrequently now ...)

'Mom! Have a patient !' ( when I was rushing her to get her shoes on...)

Homeschooling (er, unschooling) Begins!

The New England Academy for Highly Spirited Russian girls named Anastasia has officially opened.

After a week visiting family in Florida, we are home and settling in to our home school routine. I have to admit, Anastasia is getting used to it far faster than I am. I'm still struggling with worry -- Will I be a good teacher for her? Will she actually learn anything from me? Is it ok that we do actual schooling during after school hours? Will I even survive the first week?

But I'm trying, oh so hard, to be easier on myself. Why? Because Anastasia is positively radiant with this change. Her personality has truly blossomed . She is more open, more hopeful, more positive, and best of all...more willing to say yes to things like emptying the dishwasher when asked! (Of course I'm kidding. I'm far happier about her current state of happiness than her willingness to do chores...) Anyway, it is like watching a chick emerge from its shell. It's fascinating to watch.

Still, we are taking it very slow. We are focusing mostly on reading, handwriting, and printing penmanship now - as those are her most glaring weaknesses, and the areas that bother her the most. We are also spending lots of time together walking the beach & through the woods. She asks me a thousand questions about each plant, each shell, each animal we see. And where she was always sullen and withdrawn after school, now she is so energetic and up for adventures when she gets up that I'm completely exhausted in two hours time. I notice she interacts much more with others and in a positive way. She had the mattress salesman in hysterics yesterday with her very witty banter, when usually, upon meeting a stranger, she would sulk behind me with her arms crossed. So, I guess I am writing this as a reminder to myself - that this is a good change for her.

Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow..

How apropos I'm directing Macbeth this month. Because, I get it...I get how Macbeth feels in that speech. I wish I didn't, but I do. I get it. Some days it really does feels that bad . For those who aren't familiar with the speech, it comes at the end of the play, and is a perfect study in of hopelessness. Here it is...

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,
creeps in this petty pace from day to day
to the last syllable of recorded time;
and all our yesterdays have lighted fools
the way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle;
life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
who struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
and then is heard no more; it is a tale,
told by an idiot, full of sound of fury,
signifying nothing.

I can't help commiserating with Macbeth on this -- this week anyway. Chesky & Miriam losing their best friend Pete to suicide, Susan quickly losing her battle with cancer, and the Petit family. God be with the Petit family in Connecticut, their girls being raped and tortured by those two evil monsters . Sometimes I really don't want to try anymore. I feel like throwing my hands up and saying 'ok, bad guys, you win.' But I'm tired, and stressed and overwhelmed, so it's easy to sink into that space. But, dammit, I am sick about that family.

I keep replaying what happened to them in my mind, and just the thought of it propelled me to the bathroom last night to throw up. Not from sickness...from pure disgust and the deepest sadness. I cried about those girls all night long. Why did it hit me so hard? Maybe its because I now have a daughter? I don't know, but I could not get them out of my heart. I'm praying for them. That's all I can do. I'm praying for their Dad, and though I cannot fathom how he will live through this, I ask God to keep his heart beating. Let him find a way to walk this life. Is it possible? God, please hear my prayer.

Nothing Better...

There is nothing better I can do than spend time with these children. There is no other way for me to feel so alive.

Tonight was hours upon hours of giddy madness in my basement, and up the stairs, and in the hallways and kitchen... A large scattering of children carefully cutting patterns for their costumes, passionately sewing up awkward seams, discerningly choosing fabrics for Macduff and Fleance and Young Siward. A whirl of costumed sprites running about my house and yard with joyful abandon...no rules, no curfews, no "don't touch, no "be quiet"...just laughter and scissors and boiling pots of aprons on my stove and furious little workers dirtying up some cloaks with mud and rocks and twigs in my front yard.

Today, was a wonderful day.

Utopia

It doesn't hurt to envision one. In fact, the opposite is true. The more we take the time to envision and imagine, the more swiftly the good things move in.

I was born an optimist. I can actually remember being an infant and feeling completely connected and in love with all things. Then life happens and one day you wake up a cynic. Well, I'm purposefully and intentionally and commitedly trying to find my way back to that little optimist. I can remember looking out the window next to my crib and seeing a tree that I knew was my brother-sister-mother-father-friend. I can remember this tree smiling at me and loving me through the window, through the bars of my crib, through my little baby skin. I even remember the feel of the cold crib rails between my fingers. I loved that feeling - clutching them in my hands and gazing out the window at my tree friend and hearing the wind. It was a feeling of complete knowingness and "all is well."

These days I wake, bolt upright, in my bed with abject fear and terror. I'm not sure where it comes from or why, but I know my job is to gently release it and know that I am ok, that I am still that little girl looking out at the tree all those decades ago.

Consciously, when I am awake and moving about my day-lit world, I try to whisper mantras to my soul, mantras that will get in and make a difference. Sometimes it is ' And all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well ' from St Julian. Other times it is 'you are okay.' Last night it was 'just breathe'.

It's amazing that words can bring such comfort. What are words anyway? Just breath with intention. I take in the breath the world gives me, hold it in my lungs, and then let it move back out into the world through the conscious movement of my mouth. I form the shape the breath takes with my lips, but the breath itself comes from God/Universe/Oneness. We share the words I speak, in a sense. We speak the words together.

I like thinking that. I like thinking of God sharing the experience of my existence, through my very breath.

Now it's bed-time. I'll go to sleep, free my soul , and later wake to a new day. God will be there. I'll take a breathe every few seconds, and with each in and out breath, I'll be sharing the experience of being alive again, with all that is.

Peace everyone. And especially you, Dad. Congrats on this, your second anniversary of graduating from this life. I love you.

'Everything You Can Imagine Is Real'

Pablo Picasso

That quote is a balm to me. Pablo Picasso said it. He said alot of wonderful things. Mental note to myself: read more of what Pablo Picasso said.

So, this is just a quick check-in. I'm happy. I'm content. I'm even experiencing moments of bliss, but it is certainly not because my life is drama free. I don't want to go into details, but I am watching three people die right now. It's very hard (understatement), but I am learning alot (again, understatement) -- learning about being more present in my own life, how not to let their eventual deaths tear me down, but perhaps widen my heart instead.

My daughter is a constant source of joy and amusement. And frustration. After all, she is fourteen and still unknowlingly campaigns to be the poster girl for Reactive Attachment Disorder. But lately I am loving our time together. Simply loving it. I learn so much from her, and I am rapt in awe watching her grow, her mind expand and let light the light in. What a wonderful thing to be witness to.

So, good night sweet friends. I'm off to do walk the dogs, and then dishwasher and laundry duty and then bed.

Peace.

Easter Mourning

It's Easter, which for me consisted of a predawn awakening to hide Nastia's Easter basket, writing out all the clues, and placing them, carefully, in their appointed hiding places. Then the watching of her, gleefully hunting for it. Even though she's fourteen by this world's narrow standards, she is still so very much the little child.

She screeched with delight upon finding it, jumping up and down, and filling he face with an incomparable grin. She later snuggled up in her blankets and carefully categorized each item that Easter brought her ...candy, tiny gifts, a Russian egg. After eating a few of the eggs we had colored the previous day, I went back to bed for a nap. I'm not feeling so well lately. In the quiet of our room, with the sound of the tv blaring cartoons a few rooms away, I just lay there, thinking of my father. Easter sans family kinda sucks.

Childhood Easters always consisted of impressive family gatherings, with an endless parade of food and cousind. I'd sit with my grandmother, hunt for eggs in my uncle's giant backyard, watch my little cousin Boo count out all the pennies and quarters she collected from her plastic eggs (we always let her find the most). Some Easters were the scene of knock-down, drag-out fights between the same Irish-tempered relatives, including my Dad. They were scary, but somehow riveting to watch. We kids would freeze with fear and owe. Funny thing is, I miss those times, too.

I miss the smell of cigarettes and whiskey,being the errand girl and running drinks and plates piled high with ham and potatoes to my Nana, aunts and uncles. I felt safe amidst all the noise and chaos of those holidays. It was so much better than the silence up in my room.

I guess in some ways I feel like Nastia is missing out. Her life is a quieter life than mine was -- no siblings to battle, no all-night parties, no drop-by relatives and friends in and out of the house all day. She doesn't have brothers to harass or commiserate with. No rambling, creaky house filled with artifacts and heirlooms, squeaking doors, ghosts, and oh so many stories. She lives in a rented ranch. On a cookie-cutter street in suburbia. With her single mom. Most of her relatives live more than 1400 miles away. I wonder if she'll be different because of it.

I so mourn the loss of my father in her life. I can't get over it on some days. It feels so terribly unfair. Our family feels handicapped without him. It is like we are missing an arm or a leg, something necessary. The silence of his absence is not even bittersweet, it is simply bitter. I'm starting to realize that people who lose a loved one are handicapped for the rest of their lives. There is no going back to the whole person that you were - there is only coping, and on some days, if you're really lucky, living.

I felt understood and acknowledged by my Dad at such a deep level. I mattered, and I knew I mattered, in the deepest most fundamental corner of my soul. I don't matter anymore - that's how it feels, anyway. I matter to my daughter,yes, and that is wonderful and miraculous in its own way. But I miss mattering as a soul, and as my father's daughter.

Damn, I miss that.

I know my Dad is alive. Somewhere. I do. I can't say I know many details about his new life, but I know with great surety that he has one. But somehow, that is not enough. Sometimes it is - enough to know he is alive and happy, living out new adventures somewhere. But more often than not, his absence is too glaringly obvious. It's like a neon sign hanging in front of everything I do and see and feel. I hate it. I want him back. Now.

There is nothing good about death. I'd like to imagine there is, but today, on this grey and leaf-barren Easter Sunday, my heart knows that each death is simply having your heart ripped out over and over and over again, until you are numb from the pain of it.