Issa Nyaphaga at Shakori Hills festival a couple of years ago. (He's the one in the red hat, crouched next to the wall, working with Ry. But you have to blow up the picture to see his hat.) The kids and I were there helping him mud that wall. I never forgot him. He is charismatic as anything. And tonight I found out who he is. But youtube doesn't seem to be allowing me to upload videos, for some frustrating reason. You can search it. I was so taken with him that day, I tried to get him to sit with the kids and me for lunch. He was too busy. But apparently, he teaches art classes at Clapping Hands Farm. So just maybe, the kids can take a class with him someday. : )

I was at a dinner party this weekend with a friend from highschool, a happening well educated woman. Granted, this woman has no children and likely never will. Nor does she much care. But she got me talking a bit about unschooling. She listened. She looked over at my son. And she asked, "do they watch much tv?" I gave her my blah blah blah answer. And I saw her look puzzled. She looked back at my son. She muttered half to herself, "but how...?" Then she said, "but they have such hip haircuts?"

Do you know? She was sitting there really struggling. She was really working to figure it out. How is it possible for children who don't go to school to know what's going on in the world? How can they possibly be current? How do they fit in? She really had to work it out for herself mentally. And watching her was good for me. It filled me with compassion and it reminded me that what we are doing here, this homeschool thing which is so normal for us, is just very radical. Still. Homeschool (never mind unschool) is radical. It worries people because they don't understand. They really have a hard time. And that's ok. I felt very soft about it all. I just let her think on it and I sipped my wine.

Henry is sporting a mohawk these days. It is slammin' handsome. If I were a better photographer, I could get a decent picture of him.

My First Lace

Can I get an Amen?
Seriously, this is one of the harder things I've ever done. Physically and mentally. I almost cried when I finished it. It is 100% cotton, with a nice heft, thick and warm. I was determined to finish today. My back was throbbing. My wrists were burning. I had to take Advil and a nap. But by God and Miss Scarlet, I got it DONE! SWEEEEEET!
Thanks to Ry for the pictures.

Oh man! I just typed a long post about why I closed the blog a few days. It was a good one, long and thematically linked to the universe and theories of gravity and also fairies. Alas, blogger ate it. And I am done typing here for today. So let me just be blunt. I shut down a few days to discourage a fetish freak away from here. Someone (Yo, I have all your stats so back off!) who has been hitting the site many times a day, for a long time, to gaze at that old collection of pictures many of you sent me last year. Remember, those pictures you sent that I planned to do something fantastic with, yet I could never figure out what? I've deleted them. And I'm back up. For my dear friends and family who read here, sorry to slam the door so suddenly. It wasn't aimed at any of you.

side notes about the holga for those interested like me

check out this lecture about one professor's journey to Auschwitz

http://pixelsandsuch.com/wp-content/uploads/flash/photo.html

Even unschoolers aren't immune from the association between fall and a new year for learning. As summer moves on we are talking about what to do in the coming year - as if September marks the beginning of anything for us. Never the less, plans are being made.

The land we cleared and the pond are sitting now, waiting for cooler temperatures. You can't plant grass or flowers or trees in the summer heat down here. So that is on hold. (And its so hard to wait!) In the mean time, we are gathering materials for the coop, the shed, and the various fences we'll need. I found a person on freecycle.org who is clearing a field. They offered us all the cedars we are willing to cut and haul. Joe is there now. (Score.)

Henry has decided to study blacksmithing. He didn't know before hand, but two serious smiths live in this area. One is an artist, rather famous in SCA circles, who makes authentic chain mail and various armour. The other is more of a working class smith, a sweet grandfatherly type, and the repository for the state association's smithing library. I called him up right away and he was full of helpful information. So that's in the works. We join the state association, start going to meetings where demos and hands on experience abound, then we take a class up in the mountains somewhere. (Dude!)

Ry and I are going to build a cob oven. We are working from the advice of a friend who recently built one of her own. And we are reading a book she recommended: Build Your Own Earth Oven by Kiko Denzer. I have only one real concern about our little house. Right now it is 100% dependent on the grid. If we lose power, we lose all systems. Having a wood fired oven (and hand pump for the well) will ease my mind. So I'm reading up on ovens today. The book gives seven arguments for mud. Here is number one: "Mud is fun. Your kids can help you build an earth oven. This is very important. Do they know more about computers than they do about the earth that feeds them? With mud between their toes (and dough between their fingers,) they can learn how it feels to be a plant, with roots that can taste the fertile soil, and leaves that can eat sunlight!" (Right On.)

You be the ship on the ocean
You be the ship on the sea
You be the cargo, let I be the wave
And I'll carry you safely away

That's the refrain of a song my husband wrote. It is an allegory of parenting, about a fisherman who saves a baby mermaid. There was a time I cried Every Single Time he played it. I remember coming up the stairs with a basket of clean diapers to fold. I heard him humming the tune and I had to put my head in the basket and I wept. "You be the cargo, let I be the wave, and I'll carry you safely away. From me." It still makes me cry.

My kids heard us fighting last week and it scared them so bad. They heard me use the words: respect, end, and marriage and they were instantly worried. Use the words? They heard me spit the words. And it impressed them. As it should. I want to feel guilty they heard us fighting. But I check that impulse. They should hear us fight more because we do occasionally fight. How can you not? Living together is hard. Its is work. It is painful to offer yourself freely and so vulnerably. But love requires this. Requires it. You can not love well without loving freely and vulnerably. It is scary. And sometimes you have to say things loudly to be heard over everyone's Psyche. Kind of like parenting, really.

The children need to see this clearly and certainly. Its a lesson in advocating for yourself and for your marriage. Its a lesson in balance, in give and take, in fortitude and ferocity. All of that. I wouldn't want them to enter a relationship without those lessons.

But mostly, I wouldn't want them to enter a relationship with anyone less dedicated or less honest or less giving than their Daddy. A man who has responded to the challenge of parenthood by giving us everything he has. How can I fight with him? He gives more than any man I know. He bakes bread. He builds tree houses. He hands over his entire paycheck. He played banjo by the bathtub, back when they were small. He reads stories. He makes sure the nightlight works, finds the special blankie, plays endless games of Dungeons and Dragons. And he sings it all.

Does he sound amazing? He is. But that doesn't mean we won't fight. We will and do. And the kids should be aware. Perfection is not the goal and we are not perfect. We struggle. We fight hard.

Right now, we are all about the mud.

An article flashed by my eyes the other day. The title said, 10 fun things you can do to be healthier. Something like that. And the list went like this: exercise, eat well, sleep more, play more, relax more, drink red wine, eat dark chocolate, have more sex, laugh more, make art.

That's the list, approximately. All, we have heard many times. But the simplicity caught me off guard. More than that, the permission of it, caught me off guard. Here is a list of permission.

Sleep More. Work Less. Have More Fun. Eat and Drink The Good Things. Isn't that a little bit amazing? Isn't that an odd challenge? Doesn't it give you a small thrill to contemplate? I should SLEEP MORE? Like nap? Like now? When? I will be a better person if I sleep more and eat more chocolate and drink more red wine and then go for a long walk? Simply put, yes. Yes.

Homeschool has the same thrilling odd feeling. Imagine yourself sitting in class when you were 9 or 10 or 11 or 12 or 13 or 14 or 15 (you get the idea.) Imagine if a grown up walked in and said, you are free. Go forth. Take a nap, eat some deliciously good food with some wine and chocolate, take a walk, and then get to work making seriously fun art. Does that not blow your fucking mind? Can you imagine the liberation of it? Really, put yourself right there in the seat and try to set yourself free.

Because, you know what? I think most of us never really get out of that seat. Not really. We live there, no matter where we are in life. We live in the mental state of drudge, in which we were schooled so ruthlessly. At least, I do and more completely than I care to admit.

A friend just had the privilege of going to a workshop with a very famous successful well paid contemporary artist. He began the workshop by walking in the room and writing one thing on the black board. "No Fucking Rules."

Yes, homeschool is kind of like that. Not, no fucking rules. But certainly, make up your own rules. Make sure they involve a natural working rhythm of life that is relaxed, happy, full of good food, and heavily skewed to the artistic side of life. Skewed to what is creative, productive, and what actually works in a sustainable and reasonable life.

At least, our homeschool is like that. And its good to sit here this morning, contemplate what it might have felt like to have been given permission from the beginning, and to make these ideas very conscious. To carefully, wisely, and certainly choose permission. I like that. Maybe I'll nap on it this afternoon, just to be sure.

But just saying "I'll nap on it" racks me with guilt. What about everyone who can't nap on it? What about the entire frantic and relentless way our society grinds? What about hurry? What about more work? What about my exhausted husband?

It is really difficult to silence school mind, that perpetual teacher pushing you to sit down, shut up, and produce pages full of computation (more money, a cleaner house, a billion favors oddly due to an endless stream of people.) We don't even need the building. We have habitualized the mental formula. My school mind is very industrial, seeks relentlessly to improve, and does so I should add, in a generally ineffective way. What more could we expect from an industrial and governmental formula?

I'm sorry, dear industrial school mind, but your way doesn't seem to get the children raised up so good. It seems to stress them out, teach them to whine, encourage competition and divisiveness. And its is dangerously difficult to escape. Yes, I had better nap on it right away. And maybe serve wine and chocolate and fresh home made bread for dinner and then we had better go take a walk and get to bed early and see if we can't wake up a bit freer, a bit happier, a bit healthier.

Love, from the 4th.

Quick, cast a spell. Really. Just toss one off. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Which did you choose?

I've been sitting around making wands lately. I have to try them all out because I would never, of course, give one away that didn't work. Always I say "Alohamora." It seems silly to admit that. Why would I always pick the same spell? It wasn't a conscious choice though. And any good therapist might say, "Interesting, that you use the same spell over and over. Is it working?"

My husband tried out one of the wands. He said, "Lumous." Henry looks up from his book and incants, "Accio." (What nine year old boy doesn't wish to hasten the world unto himself?) Our Ry, her spells are written by faeries and don't translate well to English.

Maybe a Princess has been set a task to unlock an ancient treasure chest? Maybe true love depends on it. And maybe it resides in a very dark place. Perhaps darkness is the lock... We only know for sure, the wrong spell won't be of any use.

Slap Dab! Lori, the brilliant talented excellent Photography Goddess of the South, turned me on to shooting film with a Holga camera. And what I love love love so much about this quirky weird little toy is how very slap dab the whole thing is. You can't really control it so much. You participate in the picture, for sure. You aim the thing. You choose, to a certain extent, the subject. But you also leave plenty of room, via the odd nature of the camera, for the universe to participate as well. Like a dance, kinda. It's all very Ish. It's all kinda. It's slab dab fun. So images that wouldn't normally be good - let's sidestep defining that word here - have a unique quality that can be fresh or haunting or retro or, because of the Holy Intervention Of The Creative Goddess Of The Universe through the Holga, they may reveal a new perspective on the subject. And how cool is that? If you click on these pictures you can see them big. And seeing them big is way better. Even if they aren't great, they hint at possibility and leave me wanting to spend the day shooting.

Henry is here next to me reading The Lord of the Rings. He just interrupted this blog post to say, "Somehow I get the idea that if they made a children's version of Lord of the Rings, it would be as bad as cheese coffee."

Also the google quote for the day by EB White: "Be obscure clearly." Quite.

Remember that lace I was knitting awhile back? It got broken. I don't know how. But after several attempts at re knitting, re breaking, and increasing frustration I took the whole thing down to our local Knitting Goddess for advice. She listened patiently. Then said the thing you never really want to hear. "Rip it out." Goddesses are ruthless, yes. Apparently you must knit lace with a life line. There are life lines in knitting?

Friends are life lines. Blogging is a life line for many homeschoolers. Art in general is a huge life line, it keeps some folks I know able to breath. But when all three conflagrate, the light thrown is more magical than a simple tow rope. A tiny star flairs in gratitude and warms as it expands. And I think that kind of energy is just what we all need right now in this country. More powerful than a life line, magic to be sure: connection, communication, shared lives. Throw out your ropes children, and see what happens.

Thanks for the mer-line Mommylion!

Katherine's Handmade Life Healing Salve

Some blogs are so slickety perfect they read like magazines. Magazines can be entertaining. But for me, blogging is more interesting and far richer when its done honestly and in real time. Those super glitzy uber "creative" blogs....um....yeah, well.... An old addict once said to me he had finally come to understand that reality is far stranger, richer, and more interesting than any drug. Why leave reality for the fake shallow world of drugs? Sometimes those slick blogs seem a bit more like wishful thinking than honest reporting. Reading those blogs is more like dipping into an afternoon cocktail than touching something real. And I'm not above an occasional drink. But often as not, I just end up with a headache and the hangover of contact with soul sucking half truths.

However, I believe the collective unconscious is a real working entity in this world. And blogs reflect this. It happens all the time, that ideas will flash in several places at once. Stephanie over at Blueyonder has a fabulous blog. I marvel that she can be so slick and so real. I actually believe she is as clever and creative as she seems. I believe the richness you find on her blog. I'm guessing her life looks similar to the way it seems, that her insides match her outsides, and she is the genuIne Texas real deal.

Stephanie is blogging about natural cosmetics. I know a thing or two about handmade unguents and potions. And just last night went surfing, in frustration, for a way to make sunscreen. I found an answer on an old Mothering forum post from years ago. Apparently, I read in gasping astonishment last night, you can buy powdered zinc oxide and powdered titanium dioxide off of (oh my freaking god) Ebay, of all places. And you can mix one tablespoon of each powder into one cup of your favorite lotion for a nice sunblock with an spf of 30. "Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezey."

I can write for a long long time about handmade natural cosmetics. Its a continuing interest of mine. As I am perpetually frustrated by the mass produced crap available. All of which (oh yes I am making a black and white statement here) ALL of which is produced for the single purpose of taking your money. But exactly in the self same way that mass produced education often moves beyond failure to actually causing harm. Mass produced skin care produces are pots of festering goo. They may get the job done, sometimes. You can get your hair clean. You can spackle your pits. But at what price, literally, biologically, and environmentally? The price is huge, environmentally. And so obvious, I can't bother writing it out. Don't get me started on the whole topic of smell. I'd never make it to my intended point.

Stephanie wondered if there is a way to get her fresh herbs into her cosmetics directly. She doesn't want to depend on essential oils. I think, she wants to use what is fresh and homegrown. Oh, how I thrill to read that simple sentiment. How lovely, sublime, reasonable, and I'll tell you now, how very easy.

You can make a strong tea with your herbs, and mix those into a good many potions. Take care when using water, that you are introducing a medium to feed bacteria and mold. Either make tiny batches, keep them refrigerated, or find a way to preserve them. Boric acid is a reasonable option. As is citric acid.

But for lotions I prefer to use dried herbs, gently heat them in your base oil, and strain before proceeding with your recipe. For example:

Katherine's Handmade Life Healing Salve

One cup olive oil heated GENTLY (never to smoking point)
Add a handful of dried comfrey leaf and yarrow. Heat gently until you smell the herbs surrendering to the oil. Remove from heat and strain. While warm add a tablespoon of powdered golden seal root. Gently grate beeswax into this warm fresh mixture. Perhaps two tablespoons? The more beeswax you add, the firmer your salve will be. As I use this salve to dress wounds and scrapes, I prefer mine very soft.

After the wax is melted into the oil, decant into decorative pots and bestow upon your dearest friends. Next year they will be clambering for more.

This salve works wonders on dogs as well. And it still works, even if they lick most of it off. Note that golden seal actually is golden. It will turn your skin temporarily yellow. Kids love this aspect, proof its working, I say to them.

I know the director of the Guardian Ad Litem program for our county. She is a fine smart dedicated woman. And at a party this weekend she asked me pointed questions about homeschool. And I am anxious to answer her every question as best I can. I want her to ask and I want her to find solid answers. I ache to offer a confident portrait of success.

At the same time, I've been wrestling with self doubt. I encounter my flaws so often, who can disagree that my children might benefit from less time with me? I can't. But Ah Hah! Parenting and unschooling have, neither one, ever been about dependence in my mind. Quite the opposite. They are all about encouraging independence, while nurturing spark and fire and confidence.

I am so very clear about elementary education. My devotion to the principals of home education for very small people are rock solid and unwavering. I have deep clarity and confidence. But what about when these people get older? What about high school? Should I send my kids off when they get older? I start to fear and waffle. I feel unsteady as the stakes appear to get higher. We are talking about people who will be expected to perform. We are talking about people who will soon look like adults. We are not talking about babies. Who am I to know? I'm having a crisis.

Who am I to know? I'll tell you exactly, I am no one, same as any parent. A sociologist asked me, "do you fear the judgement of school officials (entrance examiners of any stripe)" and I was shocked to hear my answer. Hell no, I do not. I fear my children's assessment of their home life and their early education. If they say, "Mom you were wrong." That will hurt a bit, I'm sure. Who wants to imagine themselves trotting out that tired old sniveling line, "I did the best I could and you children have no idea how it really was."

Actually children tend to know exactly how it is and how it was and how it might be. The implications of which, are partly why it isn't my place to chose my children's future, wish as I might that I could. I know plenty of adults who could benefit from my advice... Oh that I could control the choices of some! But my children aren't really on that list. I am trying to till their feet into a rich loamy expanse of possibility and freedom. It is my job to provide atmosphere, example, and healthy choices. Beyond that, their education and their future is largely up to them. Scary huh? If that statement frightens you, you are likely a well trained graduate of our current educational system. Buck up and consider:

"My own experience had revealed to me what many other teachers must learn along the way, too, yet keep to themselves for fear of reprisal: if we wanted to we could easily and inexpensively jettison the old, stupid structures and help kids take an education rather than merely receive a schooling. We could encourage the best qualities of youthfulness-curiosity, adventure, resilience, the capacity for surprising insight simply by being more flexible about time, texts, and tests, by introducing kids to truly competent adults, and by giving each student what autonomy he or she needs in order to take a risk every now and then.

But we don't do that. And the more I asked why not, and persisted in thinking about the "problem" of schooling as an engineer might, the more I missed the point: What if there is no "problem" with our schools? What if they are the way they are, so expensively flying in the face of common sense and long experience in how children learn things, not because they are doing something wrong but because they are doing something right? Is it possible that George W. Bush accidentally spoke the truth when he said we would "leave no child behind"? Could it be that our schools are designed to make sure not one of them ever really grows up...

Now for the good news. Once you understand the logic behind modern schooling, its tricks and traps are fairly easy to avoid. School trains children to be employees and consumers; teach your own to be leaders and adventurers. School trains children to obey reflexively; teach your own to think critically and independently. Well-schooled kids have a low threshold for boredom; help your own to develop an inner life so that they'll never be bored. Urge them to take on the serious material, the grown-up material, in history, literature, philosophy, music, art, economics, theology - all the stuff schoolteachers know well enough to avoid. Challenge your kids with plenty of solitude so that they can learn to enjoy their own company, to conduct inner dialogues. Well-schooled people are conditioned to dread being alone, and they seek constant companionship through the TV, the computer, the cell phone, and through shallow friendships quickly acquired and quickly abandoned. Your children should have a more meaningful life, and they can.

First, though, we must wake up to what our schools really are: laboratories of experimentation on young minds, drill centers for the habits and attitudes that corporate society demands. Mandatory education serves children only incidentally; its real purpose is to turn them into servants. Don't let your own have their childhoods extended, not even for a day. If David Farragut could take command of a captured British warship as a pre-teen, if Thomas Edison could publish a broadsheet at the age of twelve, if Ben Franklin could apprentice himself to a printer at the same age (then put himself through a course of study that would choke a Yale senior today), there's no telling what your own kids could do. After a long life, and thirty years in the public school trenches, I've concluded that genius is as common as dirt. We suppress our genius only because we haven't yet figured out how to manage a population of educated men and women. The solution, I think, is simple and glorious. Let them manage themselves."

God Bless John Taylor Gatto!

Oh yeah!

Two peas in a very happy pod!

Henry announced he wants to learn how to play electric guitar. This had something to do with some very cool older boys, to be sure. It is a little known fact that I play. And his Dad is actually a bit famous around here, for his playing. So, I think the kid comes to it naturally. And everyone is thrilled! Look it, an Epiphone copy of the legendary Gibson SG, best freaking rock guitar EVER! And, now we have one. YAY! Oh, this is so fun! So fun! SO FUN! Happy Rocking Forth, y'all.

Thanks Grandma Mira!

Barbara Kingsolver's address to Duke graduates this year. It is terrifying. It is most of what I tried to say all last year on the Denim Jumper. And it is achingly beautiful. One taste now:

"The very least you can do in your life is to figure out what you hope for. The most you can do is live inside that hope, running down its hallways, touching the walls on both sides."

(And Lori, this quote makes me think of you today, as much as anyone. God, you are brave!)

What are we doing? Glad you asked. Even gladder that I have an answer. In this crazy whacked out unpredictable year where we were going to study permaculture, no - go to Canada, no - go to Vermont, no - sell our house and buy a new one, no - ah, yes, study permaculture, I am not surprised at the confusion.

We have cleared a generous quarter acre of land for blueberries, figs, apples, roses, herbs, vegetables, chickens, and a frog pond. We are pondering the meaning of permaculture. We are finding that while it took enormous courage to cut down perfectly lovely trees, the open space is intoxicating. The blank slate is inspiring. And the anticipation of our plants, a delightful feeling akin to pregnancy. Like pregnant people, we are also scared and nervous. We question ourselves. We fear mistakes. We spend money we don't have.

And we are thrilled, excited, in a hurry for every ripe moment to hasten, and steeped in possibilities. I hope to eventually try bees with a top-bar hive. I can't wait for my children to harvest dinner, gather the warm eggs, nestle roses in a vase on the table. We will add a tool area at one end of the chicken coop and a large shed roof to cover both. We have 600 gallons of water collection and storage planned to fit under that roof. We hope hope hope we've chosen the site wisely. And I have to sit on my hands to keep from ordering four Adirondack chairs (two in light blue and two in white) for placing just so. There won't be much time for sitting, now will there?

Pressing questions: which kinds of chickens, do we need a cover crop right away, is there enough light, and finally, will we be finished paying off our credit card before the economy tanks?

Pull up a chair and sit awhile. Watch with us as we grow.