Is This A Test?

We try to learn a few verses together as a family.

I write them on the chalkboard wall near the dinner table and we read them out loud together before each meal.

This week I wrote out James 1:19-20 - "Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry for man's anger does not bring about the righteous life that God desires."

And let's just be honest.

When I picked this little nugget of a verse I was targeting a handful of sometimes short tempered, angry-word-shouting siblings.

I was trying to preach when I should have been quiet.

And so maybe this day just serves me right.

Because I have wanted to be angry today. A lot.

At little things. At big things. At every thing.

Because this day seems to have been full of problems, mistakes and inconveniences.

Like Magnus putting his two gigantic paws on the counter and knocking down a wooden bowl that I really loved that was a gift from Kevin's mom. It broke into four pieces.

Like Mosely complaining that "all we ever do in school is read! I wish we never had school."

And like my ridiculously weak eye flaring up again, causing me pain, forcing me to wear my glasses and making me ultra self-conscious about my appearance.

Like the computer making a rather loud and annoying humming sound all morning while not allowing me to access my photos.

And like my poor Wilder sporting a fever tonight.

Like one particular small boy I know choosing to lie despite my provision of ample opportunity for truth-telling.

And like one toddler I know exercising her vocal chords loudly and boldly during any sibling conflict, of which there were a-plenty.

Like misplacing the all-important notebook of school schedules.

And all of this occurring the first day of my husband's business trip.

When I introduced the verse to the kids on the first day, I told them that it was a message for all of us, not just them. And I told them that this was something we could gently remind one another of any time we saw one of us struggling with anger. "You can even correct Mommy about her anger, as long as you do it kindly and respectfully," I said to them. (What was I thinking?)

And how many times I have heard a little sweet voice beside me today, patting my shoulder or touching my hand, "Mommy. Slow to anger. Remember? Slow to anger."

Yes. I remember.

I remember.

What?

Is this a test or something?

No, not exactly.

And yes.

Close Enough

Last week we visited our new favorite field trip place again - Pisgah National Forest and the Pisgah Wildlife Center.

The kids attended a class about opossums.

Apparently, Bergen was paying attention.

Today I asked him to return some math toys to their proper basket.

After he had completed his chore, he said, "Okay Mom - I have returned them to their native habitat."

Speaks For Itself

I'm not sure I run a great homeschool.

Although I don't think I run a bad one.

There are a lot of things I do poorly. (It would be too detrimental to my psyche to list them.)

But I think I do one or two things pretty well.

(Probably because they are my favorite so they're easy for me.)

This is what we do well.

We read.

A lot.

And a vast variety considering my homeschool's median age is probably four. (Math is not something I do well.)

I love Charlotte Mason, a British educator whose philosophy I have snagged as my own.

A major part of her educational foundation, and therefore The School of Keigley's educational foundation, is living books.

True works of art on paper. Classics. Books written by one person who loves the topic about which he writes. (Read - no textbooks!)

Along with that, Mason advocates letting the original author do the bulk of the talking. Not me. (Which suits me fine in theory. A bit harder to self-enforce in reality.)

So much of what is good about a book and an author's original ideas, we muddle up with our own perspectives and prejudices. We ruin a lot when we open our mouths. (Or, more accurately, I ruin a lot when I open my mouth.)

Example.

Recently, I heard a scurry of business being conducted in the only room of our house where little feet seldom traverse - Riley's bedroom. Alarmed and ready to gently remind the rebels of the rules (or prepared to blast some truant children) I opened Riley's closed bedroom door.

Instead of seeing the dishevelment I expected, I saw order. No clothes on the floor. Books stacked neatly on the desk. Stuffed animals and pillows placed appealingly near Riley's black lounger.

Suspicious, I asked for an explanation.

"We want to be elves," Mosely said. "Just like the elves in the fairy tale about the shoemaker!"

Oh, the fairy tale from Andrew Lang's fun collection - The Blue Fairy Book.

I remember that one.

And I remember not saying anything after reading the story together. Refraining from offering my adult/mommyized Cliff's Notes on the story. Letting each child take what they would from the words crafted so concisely and precisely.

Because,
you know . . .

great literature always speaks for itself.

School Days

You know what I love?

Borrowing ideas from people far more clever than I.

I saw a picture of my friend Kate's children playing with spaghetti noodles at a table.

I took her idea.

And did it at my own table. With my own kids.

At first, they couldn't get over the novelty of the fact that Mommy had just dumped noodles all over the table and actually instructed them to play with their food.

It was great. London spelled her name and underlined it. Hawkeye spelled a "b" and asked me to help him form the remaining letters. Mosely created a large head with an ultra-squiggly beard that made us all giggle. And Piper? Well, she just shoved handfuls of sticky pasta in her mouth.

This was just the start of a particularly fun week at the School of Keigley.

We've been covering every facet of education this week.

Monday some of the crew headed out to see a performance of "Peter and the Wolf" at a local theatre. Midway through the play, Bergen turned to me and whispered, "I like this play - don't you Mommy?" And the girls have been quoting the wolf's lines all day today.

This afternoon London and Mosely took their first art class in downtown Hendersonville. They studied Da Vinci. We introduced the painter extraordinaire last week and suddenly Mona Lisa seems to be everywhere. Bergen just thinks it is so funny that they even saw a Mona Lisa that someone had drawn a moustache across. The girls were so grown that they attended the class sans me and it was a bit surreal to watch them just go off and do their own little thing. (They have been infatuated with their own togetherness lately, even to the point of insisting on wearing matching outfits today.)

And then there's tomorrow. Tomorrow we get to take a guided hike with a homeschool group at Pisgah National Forest. The kids get to study raccoons and wood ducks and visit the fish hatchery.

And . . . . with that said . . . . I am off to pack a picnic lunch!

From a Song to Art

Inspired by Ben Harper's song on the Curious George soundtrack, the kids and I made a little art last week.

(Yes, the Curious George soundtrack. Get it. It isn't just for kids.)

We had so much fun painting and cutting and pasting. Even Little Wilder left his mark - a mostly smeared orange hand print.

The art was fun. But the song is even better. I think it's a great anthem for our family and all of our little hands.

I can change the world
with my own two hands.
I can make it a better place.
I can make it a kinder place.
I could make peace on earth
with my own two hands.
I can reach out to you.
I can clean up the earth
with my own two hands.
I'm gonna make it a brighter place.
I'm gonna make it safer place.
I can help the human race
with my own two hands.
I can hold you.
I can comfort you
with my own two hands.
You can make peace on earth,
but you've got to use
your own two hands.

What I Want To Do

What is now proved, was once only imagined. - William Blake

There are some things that I long to feed my children every day.

And it isn't food for their stomachs.

I want to offer them a sense of mystery. The incredible blessing of a vivid imagination. The gift of simple joy. The beauty of anticipation. The knowledge of a powerful and loving God. The appreciation of nature. The ability to be still.

Food for their brains. Their hearts. Their souls.

I know I fail miserably every day with these lofty ideals.

And I always fail more dramatically on days when I forget to pursue these things myself. When I never step outdoors and just breathe. When I rush us all from task to task. On days when I don't laugh at Mosely's jokes. When, instead of actually listening to London practice her counting skills, I make a grocery list.

What I want, what I really want, is to wake up every morning and pursue these kids. Pursue their education. Pursue their affections. Pursue their interests. To be alive with them. To stop and stare at the never-before-seen green caterpillar with the two brown spikes poking off its back. To marvel at the fact that Berg correctly copied an entire sentence from London's paper. To encourage Riley as she studies for her Spanish quiz. To slow down. To practice being still.

I know I cannot teach what I don't have. I know I cannot expect my children to pursue God if I am not.

How can they learn to be still if I am always rushing past them?

I want my children to think and ponder and to dream and imagine. And to work through all the mysteries and pains and joys of life. With an artist's eye for details. With a poet's heart for passion. An actor's flair for the dramatic. A writer's bent for the ironic. And with a believer's desire to find God in the middle of it all.

And, yeah, I know something else too.

They can't follow where I haven't lead.

So every morning, I want to wake up and remind myself that I am living an opportunity to impact this world in the form of six very different and very capable little arrows - my children. My legacy. My job. My mission.

The High Cost of Education

This is a warning. A disclaimer, if you must.

This is a post about homeschooling.

It's not the best educational choice for every family. It may not be for yours. That's not what I am saying.

But it is a choice that our family has made for the past four years for our oldest daughter Riley. And it has not been an easy one. Not at all. (Few important choices are really easy - right?)

This year is different.

On so many levels.

In light of, because of, not even having to do with some of those differences, we made a different choice for Riley this year.

Riley is attending a local Christian school.

And it's going just fine.

But here's the thing.

It's not the same.

And of course we didn't expect it to be.

Another disclaimer, if I may.

We like her school. We like the teachers. We like the administration.

Okay. Enough already.

It just comes down to this . . . . the dinner table conversations.

During the homeschool years, Riley's dinner table conversations were varied and interesting to the entire family.

She would discuss Abraham Lincoln's final days, regale us with stories about Thomas Jefferson's innovations or wonder aloud about Jem and Scout Finch's unusual relationship with their father. We would wonder what else could possibly go wrong for Anne of Green Gables and Kevin would answer the science questions we couldn't solve during the day.

Now at the evening meal, things sound a bit different. We are frequently greeted with a litany of "and he was like ...", "and then I was like ...", and finally, "we were all like ...". We know all about the locker drama and the skinny jeans some girls wear so why can't she and what she shared at lunch with her friends and how the cross country meet went and how many days until school picture day.

And I can't help but wonder exactly what this education is costing us. (And I am not talking about the tuition rates.)

It just seems that, in our attempt to make Riley's world a little bigger, we have, in fact, made it a little smaller.