Ice cream in the sun

More times than I can count, I've watched my child's learning evaporate in a matter of moments.  Its fate is sealed the moment I think it needs to be controlled or quantified.  And that thought comes from fear.

Fear I'm doing it wrong.

Fear I have to prove something.

Fear he'll be behind.

Fear someone close to me will disapprove.

Fear I'm not enough.

I am no stranger to fear.

I used to make it ruler.  But I see it differently now.  Fear is only a weed, and has the power I give it.

So instead of fretting, stressing, or crying when I see a weed pop up, I simply put on my gardening gloves and pull it out.

My child's learning is not my job.

I'll say it again.  My child's learning is not my job.

It's his, of course.  And he knows how to do it, all by himself, and he will if the conditions are right.

My job is just to tend the soil.  Make sure there's enough light and water for him to soak up as he pleases.  (Trying not to under- or overdo it, of course.)  Pick up litter if I find it, and throw it away.

And no matter how rampant the weeds, the process is the same.  Put on my gloves and pull each fear by the root, one at a time.

As time has gone by, I've learned to pull them sooner.  To weed every day instead of once or twice a month.  The funny thing is, I no longer dread it.  I actually enjoy it.

Because I'm hooked on growth, you see.

Learning is not manufactured.  It cannot be forced.  It can be trusted.  It can be crowded out by fear.

So tackle your own fears, and your child will grow in all the best ways.

Proof

You ask for proof.  Performance.

I show you leaves and roots.

You ask for experts.  Answers.

I show you the sun.

You ask for data.  Scores.

I show you smiles.

My evidence abounds, but you dismiss

what is green, not red or black.

How can a sprout or wisened oak

speak to a bottom line?

You fear delays and wasted time.

I watch no clock--

only yellowing.

Photosynthesis

is equal parts math and magic,

formula and faith.

Sometimes I wish I could learn

to count,

to speak your language,

to please you.

But my tongue is tied

when you ask "how much?"

because my answer is...

my whole soul.

I sense the smallest pebble

of skepticism in your hand--

the wall shoots up, diamond strong,

granite thick, mountain tall.

Cold, impenetrable,

to guard my heart: living, breathing

outside my chest,

planted in the richest soil

I fetched from faraway.

There's one small window

and a door.  Can't you see?

The handle is unlocked.  Walk through,

I beg wordlessly.

You’ll see the children have been picking

all day,

and find them slumbering in sunlight

with fruit-stained cheeks

behind the garden shed.

But you look through the window,

see me napping on the grass

amid heaps

and heaps

of dirt. 

No baskets of fruit upon the ground. 

Hundreds of invisible stems.

Repotting

My seedlings need repotting.  The paper cups are holding them for now.  Their stems are thickening.  Their leaves are green and strong.  Their roots are peeking through the holes I poked in the bottom of the cups.

They turn to the light from the window.  I rotate them every so often to give them a chance to face a different way.  I think this should make them more well-rounded.  But I'm not sure how much that matters.  What matters more is making sure the taller plants don't block the light of the smaller ones, since they all share space on the trays by the window.

I check their soil more than once a day, to make sure it is still moist.  I know the peas drink faster than the rest.  They're looking for something to climb.

I resist the thought to plant them outside, even though April is here and beckoning.  It was seventy degrees and sunny two days ago, and tempting.  But there is a quiet wisdom in me that tells me, "Not yet.  May will come soon enough."

Yesterday, the wind rattled and rain blew sideways.  This morning I wake to a layer of snow on the ground.

I was right to keep them here.

There are experts with the greenest thumbs and reliable weather vanes.  They've done this long enough to advise people to wait until the last frost (though some are too impatient or uninformed or can't be bothered).  The day is no mystery--it's predicted with impressive accuracy by the weatherman, and I circle it on the calendar.  I trust it, and look forward to it.  I love my seedlings.  I will love planting day too.

Of course, you don't just go and stick them in the dirt all at once.  First you get their feet wet, so to speak, with a process called hardening.  You take them out of doors for some fresh air, a little exposure to the elements, a handshake with a bee or two.  Then it's back inside.  You do this over the course of days, increasing the duration a little each time.  So when you finally introduce them to the garden bed and let them stay, they'll be confident enough to be willing to extend their roots and accept their newer, vaster home.  It's more dangerous out there.  There are bugs that will nibble their leaves, voles that will gnaw on their roots if they get the chance.  I take precautions.  I'll plant marigolds and green onions nearby to ward off the pests.  I'll set traps for the voles.  But I can't prevent acts of God or Nature.

So I'll pray.  I'll check in every day.  I'm prepared for the work, expecting some to thrive and some to go awry.  I'll give them the best conditions to help them bloom.

None of this will matter, though, if I don't plant them in a sunny spot.  That's my part.  The rest is up to them.  But they know how to grow because they know what they are, (though they might not be conscious of it).  The growing part is in their DNA.

I'm getting ahead of myself.  For now, there's still snow outside.  But they're ready for more.  So this time in between sprouting and hardening, I'll repot.  I'll give the climbing ones trellises.  Some fertilizer or peat moss for the ones with paler leaves.   I'll put the smaller ones closest to the window.  Because there's still so much room to grow in this house, and so much to do.

May will be here soon enough.  And we’ll be ready.

Child-made mornings

Perhaps I give my children too much freedom.  But I can’t imagine a more authentic, enriching morning routine than the one they have created for themselves.  Some mornings it’s handwork.  Often it’s building.  But almost always, it’s storyweaving.

No sooner than sleep is rubbed from their eyes, one of them whispers the magic words.  “In the game...,” it begins, and off they go--down child-worn paths, through the hedgerows, and into their secret garden where anything can be.  Though they do not know it, I guard this place, quietly, fiercely.  But I cannot get too close.  If I step on a twig, it vanishes.  

Still, every so often I peek over the wall and hope to see, unseen.

It’s guilded in sun and starlight.  It’s water and prisms, snakes and spells.  It’s rescues and missions and clarion calls.  It’s where time stops and passes together.

It’s where they sing.