A letter to myself

Dear Emily,

It’s September 2009. You’ve just moved to a new state with a new baby. I cannot tell you how long you will live here, or how many children you’ll end up with. I’m writing to you from September 2019, so I know the answer to both of those burning questions. I know you won’t believe me, but I’ll say it anyway: you shouldn’t know the answers yet. It truly is better this way.

You won’t believe me because you’re hurting right now. It feels like you have a giant hole in your stomach, all the time. You keep wondering when your well of tears will dry up, but it seems there is a limitless supply. You have been ripped open in so many ways. You are pulsing with pain.

You’re begging me to tell you how long it will feel like this. When—or even if—you’ll get relief. If you only knew, you tell yourself, then you could manage.

The trouble with that is that then you would not grow.

So I cannot tell you how long, how hard, how much, how soon, how painful, how low. You have to discover that.

What I can tell you is that you will live through it. And you will become a far more beautiful person for having done so.

You want to challenge me on that too? I understand. Because ugliness is coming out of that gaping wound of yours. And you’re confused and frightened by it.

It’s supposed to be this way.

I know, because it’s how you get to where you’re going.

The “how” is what everyone thinks they need to know in order to get “there.” But the “how” can only be revealed one step at a time in the present, and only understood by looking back on it afterward. So the wisest thing you can do is to stop asking how, and start saying yes.

Yes to pain.

Yes to doubt.

Yes to fear.

Yes to loneliness.

Yes to the callousness and betrayal and abandonment you feel from what you thought you could count on.

Yes to what has been stolen from you.

Yes to the pain you cause yourself and the pain you cause the people you love.

Yes to the fighting and the denial and all the screaming, so much screaming, in your head.

Until you learn to love this mess, you can never clean it up.

But how? you ask again. How can you love what has gone so terribly wrong?

By believing that God can make something even more beautiful from all these ashes.

By believing that you’re strong enough even when you feel more weak and tired and defeated than you’ve ever been.

By trusting that it’s supposed to go wrong. Which, in reality, means it’s not wrong at all.

That feels like a cosmic practical joke, I know. Like God couldn’t possibly exist, or even worse, that He doesn’t care.

But nothing couldn’t be further from the truth.

I will give you just one glimpse into the future to show you what I mean. I don’t think He’ll mind.

In a few months, you will be sitting at your computer while your baby is napping. You will write a beautiful piece, born from pain, about your pain. You will feel desolate. And writing will be the only place you will know where to put it.

Ten years later, you will be sitting at your computer while a baby is napping. You will write a beautiful piece, born from pain, about your pain. You will feel whole. And writing will be the only place you will know where to put it.

The piece will be this letter. And you will know that while you wish so badly you could ease the pain your past self is feeling, you wish even more that she will experience it. Deeply, fully, as painfully as possible. And you will feel so so sorry. And also so completely sure that it is the right course.

Because you will have learned by then that the right course is the one that is.

The “how” is not your business to know now.

It’s yours to know then.

When you are feeling joy every bit as exquisite as your pain.

You will not believe now, or then, how lucky you are.

How incredibly blessed your life is.

How much love you have.

You will not believe it.

But it will be so.

And writing will be the only place you will know where to put it.

So weep now, and write your words, and nurse your baby, and feel your pain. Feel it intensely. Completely.

All is well, both now, and to come.

It’s on purpose.

Even—and especially—the not knowing.

Love,

Yourself

Heavenly Peace

The late morning light filters through the blinds, halfway open, like my eyelids.

My potted string-of-pearls bends toward the sound of chirping birds in the yard.

There’s the tick of a clock, an airplane passing overhead, a neighbor child riding a big wheel outside.

And one more sound.

Always new and oh so ancient,

and, for me,

on account of my extremely good fortune,

familiar.

It’s a rustle of blanket,

a sigh,

a gentle smacking of lips, and then—

light, steady breathing.

She’s eight days old, asleep at my left breast.  As she dreams, her smile and fluttering eyelids make no sound at all.

My heart bursts from wholeness.

As soon as I realize this, a cloud of anticipatory loneliness washes over me.  Is she the last one?  The last unborrowed newborn I’ll hold close?

My eyes well with tears.

I remember someone else’s words about someone else’s future loss, that fit mine just as well:

The pain then is part of the happiness now.  That’s the deal.

How can she be in my arms, yet grown and gone?

The math of love and time is senseless.

All I know is

I will soak in your smiles,

love you, love you, love you,

and hold you close

as you go.

What should my homeschool look like?

I get asked about homeschooling a lot.  Many people have entered my home for one reason or another, and almost immediately asked, “Do you homeschool?”  I used to be one of those people, curious about this alternate universe and wondering if I could, or should, live there too.  What would it look like?  How would I know if I was doing it right?

When I decided to homeschool, I went looking for answers.  I was quickly tempted, disoriented, then discouraged by Pinterest searches.  It was full of contradictions.  Everyone claimed the best schedule or curriculum or method or blog or room layout or supply list.  I learned I needed less suggestions, not more.  One or two mentors was better than ten or twelve.  A straw, not a firehose, is the only way to drink in homeschooling.

Plenty of online strangers were more than happy to tell me the right way to homeschool.  But when I asked the mentors whose opinions I most value about curriculum or classroom furniture or daily schedule, their answers seemed nebulous. 

And now, as a mentor myself, I know why.

Because schedules and curriculum and classroom setup may seem like the logical place to start, but they’re not.  Not only that, but they are subject to change.  And they are unique to each family.  They were not the formula for successful homeschooling that I was searching for.

So what is?   What will make sure my kids get a quality education?  Everyone says to do what’s right for your family, but how do I know what’s right for us?

Start with your why. 

Pin down not how you’ll do this homeschooling thing, but why you’ve decided to do it in the first place.  Why you want it, why you’ll keep going when it gets hard. 

Then figure out your philosophy of education. 

Then look at your children (and yourself) as people, as learners.  How do they learn best?    What are their strengths?  What are yours?

Then write your mission, and a vision will slowly materialize.  Get clear on your why and on your commitment, and the how will take care of itself.

I remember wanting so badly to feel solid in the curriculum, schedule, and homeschooling method that would be right for us.  But the truth is, they will always evolve.  Just like everything else in parenting, the minute you think you have it figured out, it changes again.

But that won’t sound so scary after a while.  Because you’ll slowly realize what really makes a homeschool a homeschool. 

I have found that when the environment, the role model, and the relationships are sound, my children’s learning follows.  So the longer I homeschool, the less I worry about and research curriculum, and the more I work on myself and my relationships with my kids.

As Charlotte Mason famously said, “Education is an atmosphere, a discipline, a life.” 

Everything you think you know about school and education will crumble almost immediately when you begin homeschooling.  It will put your flaws and shortcomings under a microscope.  And it should.  Because homeschooling isn’t just for your kids.  It’s for you.   You will be forced to rethink your beliefs, broaden your views, and redefine things you thought were set in stone.  Just as we want our kids to learn to do.

Your children will learn exactly what they are supposed to, sometimes because of—and sometimes in spite of—your best efforts.  And a more beautiful, more compassionate, more intelligent you will rise from the ashes.  

Your only enemy is fear.  And your fears are imaginary.

So let your goal be not to mold your children a certain way, but to allow your children to surprise you.  Choose the child over the lesson.  Run with your strengths, and have the courage to let them run with theirs, no matter what it looks like.

Homeschooling will be nothing and everything like you imagined.

Be willing to surprise yourself. 

Because you will.

Bouncing back

One night in April my six-year-old asked if he could work on lego robotics.  I looked at the dinner table, covered in leftover Easter candy, rocks from the backyard, and last night's dishes.  "When this end of the table is completely clean, you may," I said, and handed him a package of baby wipes.

"Can you help me clean?" he asked.

"No, I'm cooking dinner.  You'll need to do it if you want room to work on legos."

He made quick work of the task in the typical, whistle-while-you-work manner he seemed to be born with.  "Mom, it's all clean, see?"

I retrieved the lego set from a nearby top shelf, and handed it to him.  He set to work.

After a few minutes of quiet, he asked, "Mom, how do you meditate?"

He'd mentioned meditation several times over the last few days, usually modeling the stereotypical lotus pose and humming with his eyes closed.

I asked him, "Well, first we need to know what meditation is.  Does meditation mean sitting in a funny position with your eyes closed?"

"No," he said," it's giving yourself new thoughts."

We've all been working hard at giving ourselves new thoughts lately.  My oldest child and I find ourselves gripped in the chokehold of anxiety more frequently and viciously than the rest of the family, and I've been trying to share some coping skills.  The six-year-old has been listening.  While he is a cheerful, carefree child by nature, he's getting older and is more aware of dangers, both real and imaginary.  He has also been plagued by night terrors for the past year, that seem to come and go in waves.  He spends the first few hours of sleep in his bed, but I find him nestled in our bed more mornings than not.

"That's right," I said.  "Your mind is kind of like this table.  It can get full and messy.  Meditating is clearing off your mind, then putting a new thought you want to have on it."

"How do you do it?  I have a thought I don't want.  It's a scary dream."  His normally turned-up mouth frowned and quivered.

"Well, it takes practice.  Would you like to do some meditating lessons with me so you can learn how?"

"Yes.  How about right now?  Well, after I finish building."

So that night, as my oldest worked on origami and my youngest two enjoyed some bonus Pixar time, my six-year-old and I went into his bedroom.

"First, you need to find a cozy, quiet spot you can relax in.  It can be a bed or a chair."

"Or a couch," he offered.

"Yes.  And you can meditate anywhere, anytime.  You just have to find the softest, quietest place available to you."

I asked him to close his eyes and take four breaths, filling up his lungs as full as they would go, and emptying them completely.  Then I guided him through tensing and relaxing all his muscles, starting from his toes and working up to his head.

He giggled and peeked a few times, asking the occasional question.  Then he said, "I still have my scary thought."

"We're not done yet.  This first part was just to relax.  Now we're going to learn what to do with our thoughts."

I was kind of winging it at this point, but came up with some imagery that seemed to work.  With our eyes closed, I told him to imagine that his mind was a basket.  He visualized it and customized it to his liking.  Then I told him his basket was to hold his thoughts, that it belonged to him, and he was the only one who could decide what thoughts could stay in his basket.  He is allowed to let any thought in his basket, and he can decide to take it out at any time.

He looked in his basket and saw a thought.

"What does it look like?" I asked.

"It's red and blue."

"What is it made of?"

"Air."

"How does it make you feel?"

"Bad, scared, and sad."

I told him that this thought didn't live in his basket; it was just visiting.  He scooped it up easily, blew on it, and watched it float away, over hills and rivers and mountains, out of sight, back to where it came from.  He said goodbye to the thought, and it said goodbye to him.

I asked him to look in his basket again.  He saw seven thoughts.  They were good.  We looked closely and saw an arcade he likes to go to with his dad and brother, playtime with his best friends, building with his Snap Circuits, and special reading time with mom.  We picked them up, held them, offered to share them.

Then I said, "These thoughts can stay as long as you want.  They will protect your basket.  You can hold them, take care of them, help them grow bigger.  Now I'm going to tell you about something else that protects your basket."

I told him to imagine a bubble around his basket.  This bubble is his to control.  He took a paintbrush and a bucket of strength and painted it, making sure not to miss any spots.  Thoughts that approach have to get his permission to penetrate the bubble.  If they don't, they simply bounce off and float up past the clouds, back to where they live, where they're not good or bad.  Just thoughts made of air.

I counted backwards from five to one, when he opened his eyes and smiled.  He then frowned again and said, "I want to practice it again."

"We'll practice it every day," I told him.

"Twice a day," he said.

"Okay."

It's been three months, but he hasn’t needed to practice it after that first week—at least not with me.  Most concepts click with him immediately, and he doesn't seem to struggle to implement them.  The gap between what he does and what he wants to do is virtually nonexistent.  (Mine is a mile wide.  He lives in the present, I in the past.  I'm learning from him.)

I've been thinking a lot about what he needs from me.  The low-maintenance child.  He's extroverted, fueled by play and people in a way I do not understand.  He's resilient, and when he finds himself in deep water, he simply bobs back up like a beachball.  He doesn't have raging anxiety.  He doesn't have special needs.  He doesn't throw toddler tantrums.  He's not a newborn who needs constant attention.  He seems to grow just fine wherever he's planted.  I'm unnerved by how simple it is to be his mother.  I know he needs me, but not in the way or with the intensity that my other children seem to.

So I show him tools and put them in his hands.  I give him time, space, ideas, and community, and let him run free.  With these, he goes far and doesn't look back.  And I watch, and marvel.

I miss him.  But he makes sure he's where he needs to be, and that's out in the world, not clinging to my leg.  He knows where I am.  And he comes back at the end of the day ready for the bedtime snuggles only I can provide, and the sweet dreams he creates for himself.