Let Christmas day 2007 be known as the day homeschool died. Henry got a Gameboy from Santa. Yep. Tucked right into his pile of other perfectly nice, homeschool compatible, toys such as a root beer brewing kit there sat a Gameboy with several different ...."applications"..... I have no idea what all sat there to feed the Gameboy. I just know, this was the last time I've seen my precious boy and Santa is now on my naughty list.

I suppose, being an unschooler, I shall persist with the idea that this thing he loves so dearly, this Gameboy, shall provide him worth. I shall not see it given to him, only to take it away. I am gritting my teeth. I am waiting it out. I am watching to see what happens. Will he sallow? Will he evaporate? Will I ever see him again? Status unknown for now. I can say this remarkable and slightly distressing thing. My husband toted up the library bag and offered a ride to that good place. Henry said, "nah, let's go another time." HUH? This is the child who LIVES to go to the library. Gritting teeth, not saying any thing, see how strong I am?

Actually, this has been a lovely morning. The children are out in the hood playing with other children. Joe is down stairs baking and playing his guitar. The sounds of all of that drift in my window here, over my shoulder in the soft moist light, and I have not yet gotten out of bed. I woke with a hangover, grabbed my new favorite book from the night stand, and simply nestled in deeper this morning.

Then a miraculous thing happened. My girl brought coffee. Later she brought oatmeal. Later, inspired by this new nursing game, she brought me a hot water bottle lovingly topped off with her blankie. Who in their right mind would move? I had no idea I needed a hot water bottle. But she knew. I have been enjoying it completely.

The book is called "A Country Year, Living the Questions" by Sue Hubble. My brother sent it to me this summer. Few people know my older brother. I have teased him that he "is secret and solitary as an oyster" for this is certainly a myth he loves to encourage. What so many people don't know is how tender he is. They don't know his acuity when he looks into a person nor his amazing way with a gift. He is the best gift giver I've ever met. Almost always a book, generally worn already, always a direct arrow to the heart.

This past summer I sat on a bench with this book. It arrived curiously unattached to any external gift event, which is always the best gift. I sat waiting for the children to come out of art class and I opened this book, my heart crushed and heavy with the news of my friend's cancer, and I read this paragraph written by a broken hearted Sue Hubble nearly recovered:

"One spring afternoon, I was walking back down my lane after getting the mail. I had two fine new flowers to look up when I got back to the cabin. Warblers were migrating, and I had been watching them with binoculars; I had identified one I had never before seen. The sun was slanting through new leaves and the air was fragrant with wild cherry (Prunus serotina: Prunus--plum, serotina--late blooming) blossoms, which my bees were working eagerly. I stopped to watch them, standing in the sunbeam. The world appeared to have been running along quite nicely without my even noticing it. Quietly, gratefully, I discovered that a part of me that had been off somewhere nursing grief and pain had returned. I had come back from lunch."

I read that and I cried. And I got the message I believe my brother intended: don't worry over your worry. You'll return when you're ready. The things you love, your gardening ways and chickens and cats and this annoying thing you insist on for your children -homeschooling, it will all still be here. Its ok. You're ok. I promise. I see you, even from where I sit silently here in Vermont, I see you. Hang on, sister. Also, see here, the natural cycles she writes about. Birth Death Growth Decay, our places here. Our friend's places. Its going to be ok. This is all natural.

The book is so simple, so hard for me to look at, so dear and sweet, so very much who I aspire to be, I can hardly read it. Today, I am hanging on every word. Then a conversation with my nurse come to visit again: "Mommy, why don't grownups cry?" "Well, your mother cries all the time, you know that's true." With an acknowledging smile, "Yes, but grownups don't cry when they hurt their bodies." "True, generally I cry when my heart breaks." "But mom, that is your body."

Dear child. How true. We are all connected mysteriously together, of a piece, one might say. Let's enjoy what we can. Where is that Gameboy?