Alina's Adventures

Baby bunnies in our future and a rabbit warren.

The kids discovered a rabbit nest in the front yard this morning. It must be the same rabbit that built a nest here last year- the one I fear did not turn out so well due to the rather unsociable fox that lives in the woods behind our house.

Max declared:

"It's not a nest, mom. It's a warren."

Alina held her tongue to some degree and replied:

"How do you know? And what's a warren?"

Max jumped around, explaining:

"It's where they keep their babies- like a system of tunnels, underground. You just never know where this warren could lead! There could be a whole CITY under there!"

He showed me what he meant when we did a few online searches. Rabbit warrens are pretty amazing indeed. No wonder he was jumping around. I should have joined him.

Oh, the stories we could tell...

(source)

"Hey mom! Check it out- a new ecosystem!"

Max got my attention pretty quickly. He was standing on the stump of a tree which had to be cut down after the tornado last year. 

"It's gotten to be a different color! Life, mom! Life! There's life on this stump!"

But what kind of life, exactly? Who are these colorful creatures who are squatting on the stump?

Max said:

"Fungi, mom. I think's it is fungi."

Alina replied:

"I'm sure it's a fun guy, but what kind of guy is it?"

Max laughed:

"Ha ha, mom. You're such a joker." 

Alina insisted:

"Anyway, what makes you think it's a guy? It could be a girl. Or girls."

Max looked concerned:

"Mom, you're crazy. Fungi aren't like that. I think you need to read more."

Learning in the parking lot of the doctor's office.

Milla spiked an outrageous fever last night which required wet washclothes and an early morning party. So this morning, we loaded ourselves in the spaceship and set out for the doctor's office, where the wait ate up an hour. Since Milla had some blisters that may or may not be chicken pox, we hung out in the parking lot and talked a litte about the cob playhouse and how to make sure water drains well around it.

Lo and behold, a drainage ditch assembled itself before our very eyes. Since the building to the right is on an incline, water would likely swamp the building to the left. Enter slightly curved concrete which reroutes the water down into a large drainage ditch behind the buildings.

Max observed that the ditch flows into a tunnel under the street and then emerges again on the other side. I wish we had time to follow the ditch to its end. What a fun wandering- following drainage ditches to their end around town. 

How can you tell where the water flows? Max knew right away that the whiter cement revealed the water's regular path. The way water paints the cement struck me as beautiful.

Micah picked flowers as Max and I talked and Tino and Milla scoped out the cement scene. The extra-warm winter this year has stimulated wildflower and weed growth. 

The crepe myrtles on our street are beginning to bloom, and the dogwoods in our front yard already have buds. I guess seasons change.

Since we want to use natural materials for the cob, we discussed the possibility of channelling or carving out large tree trunks to use as drainage ditches. We'll have to investigate this alternative... In the meantime, we scheduled an appointment for later this afternoon (since the wait was on the excessively-long side) to learn more about Milla's mysterious bumps.

How to make a fern rock garden in a dish.

It had me at "lava rock...."

Harvey Littleton's mind-blowing glass.

Toledo Bottle by Harvey Littleton, 1962.

Harvey Littleton is the man who brought glass art from the factory to the studio, blurring the line between craftsman and artist. Dale Chihuly was one of his students. And every glass artist currently blowing glass knows Littleton's name. The curves on Toledo Bottle are just beautiful and asymmetrical enough to be what Peter Berger might call "impossibly dynamic"- real enough to suggest intimate knowledge.

Of course, Littleton did not start off as a glass artist. He actually carved out a little clay niche in ceramics backed by a silent fascination with physics.

00 Buckshot State III by Harvey Littleton, vitreograph, 2001

You can see more of Littleton's vitreographs and learn about his sandblasting technique here. Max kept reminding me that "we saw a glassblower called Cornwall when Micah was a baby and he was really cool". Consider it commentary.

Scoring a free lunch at Tut's.

Originally, I wanted to tell you how to get a free pizza and gyro at the delicious Tut's Place on campus. However, the secret is in the charm, and the charm is not-always-happily-but-always-intensely married. The perks of being married to Patrick never end.

As we waited for our food, Milla practices various chair dances, Max created a rubber band mask, and Micah worked on a whine so sonorous one might mistake it for a symphony.

The wonderful wacky wilderbeasty world of Max.

Micah finds things to keep her busy, which means a brief respite from the symphony.

Max hangs around a stoop outside Tut's trying to decide if he can officially declare it his favorite pizza without hurting Papa John's corporate feelings.

Max said:

"Mom, you know the best way to handle a tantrum is to ignore it. I read that in one of your books."

Alina said:

"Don't believe everything you read, Mr. Max. People throw tantrums for different reasons. Those kinds of general rules ignore specifics, and specifics are where you get closer to truth."

Max said:

"If you don't ignore them, they'll keep doing it."

Alina said:

"If I do ignore them, they'll keep doing it. And I'll also feel like a toad."

Max said:

"You're not a toad."

Alina agreed:

"I know, so it would be extra-discombobulating to FEEL like one..."

Sometimes you just have to say it with a smile.

The beginning of a community garden.

Yesterday, we signed our community garden contract, delivered it, and then took an hour to visit and absorb the details of our little plot and its surrounding environment. Something about just spending time dreaming and imagining our garden made the kids so happy. They fussed and cried when we left.

Micah and Milla explore the soil of our garden plot.

"I was determined to know beans."

Henry David Thoreau

Patrick wants to grow from seed this year in order to save money. He laid in the grass and sought seed-growing details on his iphone as Max expressed a strong desire to grow watermelons.

Hatching plans and dreams for the month of February and our little plot of soil:

Perhaps using Sprout Robot to map out our planting seasons.

Saving plastic and cardboard containers for recycled seedling containers. Especially toilet rolls.

If Max wants to grow melons, we will needs a trellis for the vine. Why not build a natural arbor? Perhaps we could use some wood from Hurricane Creek.

Max managed to get a soil sample, which we need to take to the County Extension office this week.

Adron's sketching skill builder.

How to make a digital memory quilt.

Reminiscing about our trip to Romania last October and realizing that what the photos lack is a common texture. Imagining a way to create a design board for a Romania-nostalgia memory quilt led me to playing around with Picnik, which will be closing in April and has therefore opened up its premium photo editing software to all of us for nada.

I uploaded a few inspriring Romania photos into a collage and then played around with effects. Specifically, I used "textures" under the effects tab to play around with different underlying textures, include cement and letter paper.

Using the "advanced modes" in textures allows you to overlay and bring out "difference", which adds to the psychadelic aged effect. (Did I just write "psychadelic aged"? I hope that's how my kids describe me when I'm growing dim in the years.)

Visualizing the colors in an upside-down sort of way revved my imagination- I could see patterns and opportunities in the images that were not available to my visual eye prior to play. Choosing textiles for this quilt will be amazing- I see now that I can even include tshirts with script, perhaps dying them for a contrast effect. Embroidery will be a must. So far, so beautiful...

Ferns are tricky creatures.

Of course. What could be simpler? Classifying a fern from Bunica's backyard- a fern that stays green all year long, though we've noticed it tends to be more verdant during the spring. We knew that the "leaf" of a fern is called a frond, but beyond that, ferns were new territory.  

According to the American Fern Society:

The frond is divided into two main parts, the stipe (leaf stalk or petiole) and the blade (the leafy expanded portion of the frond). The blade may be undivided to finely cut, each degree of division having a specific term.

"Pinnate" blades are divided into leaflets (pinnae), with each leaflet narrowly attached to the central stem (called the rachis in this leafy part of the frond). Blades more divided are designated as bipinnate or even tripinnate with some divided four or five times. The ultimate division are called pinnules. Another type of division is one where the green leafy tissue isn't completely separated from the rachis but rather it spreads along the rachis, instead this degree of division is called "pinnatifid".

Fronds vary greatly in size, from tree ferns with 12 foot fronds to the mosquito ferns with fronds only 1/16 of an inch long.

Then we discovered the wonders of the illustrated glossary at the Hardy Fern Library. First we tried to sketch the fern, but all the tiny details sapped away at our patience reservoir.

Next we tried to dip the fern in green paint and make fern prints, but it was difficult to get the leaflets to stay down when we pulled our fingers up.

Then we decided it might be easier to paint around the edges of the fern and, in so doing, capture its outline.

Time to try something else. So we painted the ferns down with the paint hoping to paint-glue them to the paper. One nice result from this experiment was that the green paint really brought the veins out in relief, so we were able to get a more thorough picture of the plant veins.

But the fern didn't adhere. Enter Mod Podge and a slightly spastic Alina dousing the fern in Mod Podge and thereby destroying the cool green paint vein effect all so she could get that fern to live in its horrible new home atop a piece of paper.

Alas, we failed to classify our fern because classifying ferns during the winter is something only fools and amateur naturalists attempt. You see, the easiest way to classify a fern is by the pattern, arrangement, and size of the sori located on the underside of the frond leaves. Sori are clusters of dust-sized spores, which the fern uses instead of seeds to transmit its genes.

The fancy, complicated, exciting life cycle of a fern kept our attention for quite some time. Unfortunately, as you can imagine, the sori are not evident except during the spring, when the plans begin their reproductive process. No sori means our fern could be one of many 

All this fern study left me hankering for some post-Soviet poetry, the kind filled with secrets, skeletons, and hastily-erected identities made from cheap plastic. Pardon me while I indulge in the cure. More fern finagles in the morn.

Love letter #46: Nine beautiful things, three of which are my children and one of which is a cloud.

The beautiful children.

The aforementioned cloud squats behind Max's dancing head.

The cumulative cumulonimbutimas effect is something akin to joy.

Blueberry Junkie's Che applique tutorial for toddler shirts.

Q is for Quilter's vintage ABC coloring book steals.

This video of the National Hollering Contest at Spivey's Corner.

Free music downloads of The Agrarians from the Internet Music Archive.

Oh, and free books, poetry, and other audio daydreams from the Internet Music Archive.

Two beautiful things made by Heather.

See if you can guess which two beauties are her creation.

Seeing Heather always makes me happy because she makes bold promises like, "peplums are coming back in style..."

Ale and her mommy share a ray of light.

"Riddle", a poem by Daryl Hine.

The last line of the poem, the answer to Hines' riddle, can be found upside down in the photo following the poem.

RIDDLE by Daryl Hine

Invisible, chimerical
Revolution of the air,
Fickle, hyperactive, fair,
Impulsive, unpredictable
Flibbertigibbet capable
Of never settling anywhere;
Fortuitously musical
Condition of the atmosphere,
Zephyr, monsoon, hurricane,
Tempest, typhoon, gust, or gale--
When will inspiration fail?--
Accomplice of the hail and rain,
Blind but palpable as braille

Did you guess it? I didn't. 

Earthworms out to play.

The earthworms took advantage of yesterday's rain to go for a swim in the magnificent, sparkling pools procured by nature. Soon they will be wriggling around everywhere. I can't wait!

The piano recital that almost wasn't.

Now for a little confession: I didn't know the date of Max's piano recital until last week.  How can this be? Well, I'm sure his teacher told me and I probably filed it away in my mind in that cabinet towards the back of the basement which gets cluttered with cobwebs and seems rather unapproachable. Suffice it to say my shame preceded me when I stepped into the library hall for his performance. I hope one can still be a "good mother" if one has the tendency to forget tiny details, like dates, times, places, rehearsals, paperwork, and other disagreeables.

Who is that mysterious beauty in the bonnet?

Why, it's Milla Bonet, connisseur of live piano music and antique hats.

The proud performers of Mrs. Bedingfield's piano class.

Portraits be darned. Max's aside to Mrs. Bedingfield dealt with the remote and frightening possibility of recieving another Bach statue as opposed to that of a composer not yet in his statue collection.

John Marsden's Prayer for the 21st Century, an inspiring book.

A beautiful poem and a beautiful book to begin our morning. John Marsden is an Australian educator, thinker, and writer who brings everyone to the brink... and sometimes beyond. His Prayer for the 21st Century, a poem accompanied by images, inspires many.

You can watch a video illustration of the poem by Canadian schoolchildren, learn about Anzac day, see how John feels about Avocado Day, and google your heart away.

Sketches, collages, images, and hopes.

Here's the poem. Read it. Sing it. Dance it. Pantomime it. Illustrate it. See where it takes you.

A PRAYER FOR THE 21ST CENTURY

May the road be free for the journey,
May it lead where it promised it would.
May the stars that gave ancient bearings
Be seen and be understood:
May every aircraft fly safely;
May every traveler be found;
May sailors in crossing the seas,
Not hear the cries of the drowned.

May gardens be wild like jungles,
May nature never be tamed.
May dangers create of us heroes,
May fears always have names.
May the mountains stand to remind us
Of what it means to be young;
May we be outlived by our daughters,
May we be outlived by our sons.

May the bombs rust away in the bunkers,
And the doomsday clock be rewound;
May the solitary scientists, working,
Remember the holes in the ground.
May the knife remain in the holder,
May the bullet stay in the gun,
May those who live in the shadows
Be seen by those in the sun.

Comparing and contrasting currencies to learn more about cultures.

Patrick surprised Max with a Saudi riyal. Max turned it over in his hand and said:

"I can't read it. How much is this worth? Where can I use it? Do you think I can use it at the gas station down the street where the guy from Saudi Arabia works?"

And so the investigation began. What can the currency tell us about Saudi Arabia- its culture and government? How can our observations inform our understanding of our own currency?

 

The two sides of the American dollar bill.

Max observed:

"Both bills have old men on one side and buildings on the other side, but the American guy is not smiling. The Saudi Arabian guy is smiling and his hair is covered with a turban. That's just what they wear there- like blue jeans for us."

We used the Google currency converter to find how much it was worth. It seems the Saudi riyal is worth about a quarter in US currency. Max figured this means it would take four of his riyals to equal one dollar.

Max also noted that both bills have "some sort of seal-like thing on them". He felt the seal made it look real official and formal. 

"Wait a minute Mom! The Eygyptians used seals and lots of ancient people used seals as signatures for various kingdoms. I guess our kingdoms use them too."

I was perplexed:

"But how can that be true, Maxer? The US is not a kingdom."

Max laughed at me:

"No really, but in some ways, it still acts like one. The President is like a king- he gets treated royally. And we have seals. And the White House is like an American palace. I mean, it's like a kingdom here too..."

I insisted that the US was a democracy in which people got to vote, so it wasn't like a kingdom. Max agreed that people voted, but the President "still gets to decide everything":

"It's like we get to vote for our king, but he's still like a king."

One side of the riyal is written in English. We talked about why this might be. Max said he thought lots of people who spoke English must be in their country and have enough power to make them write in English on the currency. I tried not to smile.

Listening to Max's observations is refreshing- the perspective of a child tends to pick out the obvious and ignore the conventional. I wonder if our government would be better if little people could vote. Sometimes I think they know more than we do. And they are certainly less partisan (unless, of course, we drill them into party preferences at an early age).

To extend this activity, you can print copies of different currencies from different countries and compare them. It's a wonderful way to explore cultural similiarities and differences, as well as the history of modern economics.

Max brings down the house.

Or something like that. Here he is playing in his recital yesterday. What you can't see are the fluffy puffy princess dresses he selected for his sisters to wear.

"Okay Mom, here's what they need to wear. To look beautiful. And I buffed their shoes with a baby wipe because it would ruin things if their shoes don't sparkle. And then Micah buffed my shoes back."

Paranoid Rain Dance, a fibonacci sonnet dedicated to Ann Coulter.

The weather today requires something a little more technical than usual. Enter the fibonacci sonnet, a fantastic exercise in poetry, symmetry, and the best parts of math. Max is still working on his, but I know it's "about tape". In the meantime, here's mine.

PARANOID RAIN DANCE

by Alina Stefanescu Coryell

For Ann Coulter, who is always on the lookout for boogey-men

Raindrops

tiptoe

before running.

The pelting passacaglia.

An ear for dynamics might

sense when the waltz ends and ballet begins.

We watch, marvelled, as ballerinas, en pointe atop puddles, coalesce, parts becoming whole.

How a tiny dance transforms silt into the thick contagion called "mud" surely involves a well-trained cadre somewhere in eternal conspiracy.

Who can keep quiet when constant trickle is cover for hammer and sickle?

A true patriot sometimes speaks out against rain.

The homeland hero sees socialism

in thunderstorms and

sodden

trees.

Other exciting fibonacci sonnets to get you through this rain day:

• Love and Math, an anonymous fib sonnet
• Flame by David M. Pickford
• Two Fibonacci Sonnets by Bina Gupta

About love.

We're having fun participating in the Unschooling Blog Carnival today; the theme is one which remains close to our hearts. That's right, love. Nostalgia-laced love into the present moment.

Love, the way it changes over time, the way it changes us, little roots growing thick enough to crack sidewalks.

Love out in a field under the stars with wildflowers.

Love for the cupcakes and a new sister named Micah.

Love nursing his doll, Sally, as I nursed baby Micah.

Love the scent of cut bamboo on his hands, the materials for a teepee.

Love with letters.

BALLAD FOR MY ONE TRUE LOVE- Mason Jennings

Love lurking in the veins of a song.

Love becomes a statue in honor of static, the art subject to interpretation.

Lovercraft, a sweet descendant of the hovercraft that drops love not bombs on people everywhere because that is what Max thinks people "should do if they have a lot of money".

Love the breathless beginning of a new story, a discovery so wonderful it must be named "Micah".

Love equations. Two boots + "ugly face" + Milla = a world well-rocked.

Love in the daily rhythms and new beats.

Love life.

The Cookie Throwdown.

Last Saturday, we went to Mary's Bakery for the Cookie Throwdown, a cookie-making (ahem, for some of us,  a cookie EATING) competition. The kids decorated cookies while we drank coffee and filled our tummies with sweet, sweet delights. And Tino caught the action with his camera.

Micah watches as Max adds hot pink frosting to the igloo.

Then Micah adds her own little touches, tiny sprinkles.

"Look Micah, you can give this one to Max so he has another one to decorate."

Micah carries her cookie to the judge's table.

Micah's sugar-studded igloo.

Max's brave Arctic sea creature.

The delicious pair.

There will be another Cookie Throwdown  at Mary's Bakery this Saturday. Cookies and trimmings are free- one per person.

Mud mixtures, procedures, and playyyyyyyy.

The scene and the scientist.

The possibilities spread out before them. Yes, that is Max in the mud on the right. In his socks.

The process Max called a "procedure".

The little discoveries that are part of the process. Or procedure.

The finished product- sorted, organized mud.

The aftermath.

Little Milla caked in mud wanted to nurse. I obliged and became her canvas.

Tino's tribute to Alabama skies.

As the kids mucked around in the mud, Tino set up his camera to take photos of a specific tree and sky in our backyard at five second intervals for two hours. 1,220 photos to be precise.

Then he combined the images with a section from Maurice Ravel's Jeux D'eau, which we found for free online at the generous and disarming Piano Society website. 

Tino explained, "If you're watching the sky, you can't fully appreciate how many shapes and clouds go by because it moves so slowly." Speeding up the images reveals how the clouds interact, how the light swallows and then disrobes the tree, how the clouds actually appear in layers of shadows and veils. Sublimity. See if you agree.

If you'd like to share it with your kids, I think it makes a swell journal prompt all by itself. Just watch and write your impressions or revelations. Discover the sky in your own backyard- its moods and its variations. 

Making a batch of mud paint.

Another stunning sunfling day.

We started with watercolors.

The girls were armed with paintbrushes and unarticulated ideas.

Then Micah discovered the rainwater had "drowned" the mud they saved.

Almost simulataneously, Milla poured out the cup of water they were using for their paints.

Micah growled at Milla- "Now we can't paint!"

But the little wizard had other plans.

Plans which involved pouring.

Plans which involved mixing and stirring.

Plans which involved pouring a new kind of paint into the water glass.

And so it was that the mud paint came to color the day's art.

Edward Munch screams expressionism.

The Scream by Edvard Munch, 1893. Oil, tempera, and pastel on cardboard.

Expressionism is a style of art in which the artist tries to express certain feelings about something. In expressionism, the artist is more concerned about having their painting express a feeling than in making the painting look exactly like what they are painting. Expressionist art often uses bold lines and colors to convey feelings and emotions.

Max said:

"I'm an expressionist, Mom! I just discovered! That explains everything!"

The Scream, also sometimes known as "The Cry", is considered by many to be the first expressionist painting. Munch regarded it as a "soul painting" because it expressed what laid in someone's soul. He actually painted four different versions, but the most famous is this one with the rich, red, vibrant sky. 

Max said:

"I think the red one is popular because it was like his real description and because it is so shocking."

In a page in his diary from 1892, Munch described his inspiration for the image:

"I was walking along a path with two friends – the sun was setting – suddenly the sky turned blood red – I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence – there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city – my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety – and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature."

Max wanted to use cardboard for his experiment in expressionism, since Munch used cardboard for The Scream. He also pointed out that we should use pastels if we really want to explore Munch's process. 

So we assembled our supplies- pieces of cardboard, paintbrushes, pastels, cup of water, watercolors- and then list talked about the hardest feelings to express. Max said "a person who hears nature's happy cry", while Micah said "being sad". Milla just sat around looking wise. I said "tormenting confusion".

What colors would best represent these feelings? We chose the pastels we would need in the colors we found to be expressive. Then we each set out to draw a portrait of this emotion using pastels. Our goal- "to reflect feeling, not reality". 

"The road ventures far off into the distance because nature can be followed forever," promised Max.

Person Who Hears Nature's Happy Cry by Max Coryell, 2012

(Pastel and mud paint on cardboard)

Detail from Person Who Hears Nature's Happy Cry

Then we used watercolors to wash over the pastel drawing. Actually, Max elected to use homemade mud paint because he felt it really reflected the love for nature (more on the mud paint later). Make sure to choose a watercolor that compliments the pastel colors- for dark pastels, use a light watercolor and for light pastels, use a dark watercolor.

Interior Monologue by Alina Coryell, 2012

(Pastel and watercolor on cardboard)

Detail from Interior Monologue.

The amaryllis thrives.

The amaryllis houseplant had one flower and one bulb last week. Lo and behold, how things have changed over the course of a week.

Three flowers and a bulb!

It looks as if the root is thickening. I wonder if we should move it to a bigger pot. Time to do a little more research on bulb plants.

"The White Queen's Song" and other poetic riddles.

Alice and the White Queen.

Max is reading Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland, and I am remembering the playfulness and delight of Carroll's word concoctions. One of my favorite poems by Lewis Carroll is "The White Queen's Song", which the White Queen shares in Through the Looking Glass. The song is a riddle "about fishes", and the Red Queen tells Alice to guess the answer. But, of course, everyone gets distracted and forgets about the riddle, so the answer is not given in the book.

Since Max adores riddles, I thought it might be fun to toss this one his way. So far, he hasn't discovered the answer.

The White Queen's Song

"'First, the fish must be caught.'
That is easy: a baby, I think, could have caught it.
'Next the fish must be bought.'
That is easy: a penny, I think, would have bought it.

'Now cook me the fish!'
That is easy, and will not take more than a minute.
'Let it lie in the dish!'
That is easy, because it already is in it.

'Bring it here! Let me sup!' It is easy to get such a dish on the table.
'Take the dish-cover up!'
Ah, that is so hard I fear I'm unable!

For it holds it like glue-
Holds the lid to the dish, while it lies in the middle:
Which is easiest to do,
Un-dish-cover the fish, or dishcover the riddle?"

I'm sure you can find the answer by googling. But, if not, email me and I'll give it away. Still hungry for more riddle poems? 

Chase your butterflies:

• Four Riddle Poems by Lewis Carroll
• Riddle by Christina Rossetti
• Samson's Riddle
• Riddle by Richard Wilbur

A puppet show in our handmade puppet theatre.

For Christmas, I made an entryway puppet theatre for Max from a thrifted velvet bedspread in a color which cannot really be described. Patrick, Tino, and I decided to give the puppet theatre a whirl last weekend.

As the kids slept, we stayed up until 5 am (okay, so I gave up around 3...) performing a puppet version of Aristophanes' Speech from Plato's Symposium. Though the kids are not quite ready to witness this performance, our immersion in the Greek classics is the only way to explain our lack of headaches the next morning.

The German dolls from Grandma Vicki gave a brief performance.

Zeus plots to divide the children of the sun, moon, and earth into two parts as his minions applaud.

The androgynous pair, also known as the "man-woman pair of the moon", seemed quite happy.

The "children of the sun".

"The children of the earth".

When's the last time you put on a puppet show? What inspired you to do so? Do you have any ongoing puppet stories that take place in your home? 

Max's sisters are his poetic muse.

Micah remarks that the thunderstorms "flooded" their mud.

Sisters

playful, silly

running, dancing, banging

House turns to playground

sharing, booting, beeping

tiny, tender

siblings

A conversation about jellybeans with Micah.

Micah said:

"Mommee?"

Alina said:

"Yes, Mikey."

Micah said:

"Will you paint jellybeans on my wall?"

Alina replied:

"Hmmmm.... what if I make a painting of jellybeans and put it on your wall?"

Micah paused thoughtfully:

"Okay."

Micah smiled. Then remarked:

"Mommeee, your jellybeans are not all the same. That's why you have to make them again for me."

Alina agreed:

"They're not all the same, but I wanted the jellybeans to be like you guys, different shapes and different sizes."

Micah looked puzzled:

"Why you want that?"

Alina looked at Micah:

"Because I love your differences. They make life so beautiful."

Micah nodded:

"That's good. But why you make a white thing touching the jellybeans?"

Alina laughed:

"Now that I don't know...."

(Cross-posted at Handmade Tuesdays, where you will find other intricate and less confused makings by ladies, gentlemen, and various gendered folk.)

Found poetry fun.

Austin Kleon's creative writing and sketching whisked perfect "clean the house" moments from our day. We would be grateful for that alone if there weren't so much more on his website to celebrate. Since we didn't have time to do everything, this means we did, at least, have time to do something. We discovered poems in magazine articles. "Found poetry". Poetry made from words which emerge from a periodical page and arrange themselves magically into a poem.

A found poem found by Austin Kleon which seems quite worthy of a tee.

Like a scupltor faced with a block of granite, wondering what shape will emerge, the poet of found poems stares long and hard before beginning the process of elimination and carving that will reveal the poem among the wasteland of words.

Max chews on his tshirt while scouring the printed magazine page for words.

Our eyes felt a little heavy after carefully sifting through all the fine print, but it was a fun and simple lesson in constructing poems from those building blocks called words.

You find more leeway for wackiness in both grammar and syntax and, in the process, find a way to discuss grammar and syntax in a manner that does not lead to immediate death by boredom.

I'm sure you could play this by circling found words rather than painting over the non-found words, which would make this a great game for long car trips and other moments in which sitting in one place is required.

Jazz guitar and Django Reinhardt.

The perfect sunshine conversed with a chatty breeze this morning- a morning so golden, an air so sonorous, not even new books could keep us inside. Eventually, the books came up in conversation, and Max wanted to read, so we each took our place in the puddles of sunlight and read Django: World's Greatest Jazz Guitarist by Bonnie Christensen.

Jean Reinhardt's early life was filled with travel in caravans. As a Roma, an ethnic group who originally migrated from northern India about two thousand years ago, family, music, and traditions enriched his days and extended his nights. Though known as travelers, much of the Roma's traveling was not by choice. They were persecuted and driven from town to town. It is estimated that the Germans killed nearly one and a half million Roma in concentration camps during World War II.

The passionate gyspy dances inspired Django.

"Django", his gypsy nickname, means "I awake" in Romany. His first instrument, the violin, is characteristic of gypsy music. When he was 12 years old, Django recieved a banjo-guitar which had the body of a banjo but the neck and fretboard of a six-string guitar. 

Django struggled to learn how to play the guitar again after his hands were horribly burned when his wagon burned to the ground.

Django's music was recorded on 78 rpm phonograph records, which could be played on both sides. You can hear the phonograph in some of the recordings.

So what is jazz guitar? And how does this music which flew from Django's nimble fingers really sound? There's only one way to find out.

BOUNCING AROUND by Django Reinhardt

First, we sat still, closed our eyes, and listened (and the birds chimed in).

Then, we acted out the song by moving our bodies in the way that the music made us feel.

Then, we acted out the song in the way we thought Django himself might have imagined the "bouncing around".

Max chasing shadows.

The next tune lent itself well to a different medium.

CHASING SHADOWS by Django Reinhardt

The kids decided to color and paint "chasing shadows" while they listened to the song. This song differs from the previous one because it was recorded after Django began playing with violinist Stephane Grappelli and the Quintette de Hot Club du France. You can hear more sets of strings and even a little percussion towards the end. 

The World is Everything That Is the Case by Daryl Hine.

Four Pharoahs by John Rombola, 1964. Gouache and inl on paper.

The World is Everything That Is The Case

a poem by Daryl Hine with reference to Ludwig Wittgenstein

Embodying the liar's paradox,
    Why did he have to reinvent the wheel?
    Unable, he said, to lie or cheat or steal,
Or understand it when a lion talks,
How to construe a language game that mocks
    Significance, too scrupulous to feel
    That others are indubitably real,
Puzzled the solitary chatterbox.
 
Ultimate mystery, another's pain
    Even the saint that caused it might refuse
        To recognize, like a strange, native place.
What does it profit anyone to gain
        His own, imaginary soul, and lose
        Forever everything that is the case?

A diamante for little old me?

He knows me well. He knows that the only kind of diamond I like is the kind chiseled from words in a poem. Awful to realize the weekend is ending and tomorrow he will be back at work, away from us, the thick hours of the day wasted in dutiful pursuit of this sad thing called "money". 

Patrick's poem about a chair.

He's a clever fellow, this husband o' mine. And handsome as dickens in that old man hat.

Brian Wildsmith's "Blue Bird": A story and art.

Brian Wildsmith's books are dazzling. I always get goosebumps as I begin to open a cover with his name on it. So it was with great pleasure that we settled into the story corner pillows to read Maurice Maeterlinck's Blue Bird, illustrated by Wildsmith, this afternoon.

Watercolor captures the softness of the sleeping children, Tytyl and Mytyl.

Textures, colors, and prints to make trees.

Triangles and sharp edges shape the appearance of the soul of Fire.

Long slender ovals and various shapes juxtaposed add dimension.

The land of children not yet born.

So many collages and pictures to inspire. To introduce Max to the poetic form of diamante poems, I showed him the structure and then we wrote a diamante together about a character in this story.

Berylune

old, young

waving, creating, bewitching

she commands with magic

changing, flying, sparkling

colorful fantastic

fairy

Then Max wanted to write his own- the form is so fun and puzzle-like- so he chose the topic of fire, as inspired by the Soul of Fire in the story. He began:

Fire

orange, hot

flaming, burning, crackling

dies when burned out,

devouring, playing, flicking

And then, suddenly, he stopped. "I want to write a diamante about Vanilla", he declared. So he threw away the fire and came up with the following:

Max's ongoing love story with Vanilla deserves an epic poem. But a diamante will do for now. I added it to the Diamante Poem Party, even though he can't win a prize since I'm hosting the party. Would your children be inspired by your reading this week to try to express an image or idea in a diamante?

Love letter #45: 10 things I will make in the month of February.

And if I don't make them, at least I'll have actively dreamed of making them and noted my dream in a way which allows me to return and re-dream it. A thank-you to all the creators linked below who take a few minutes to show me how.

1

Embroidery hoop organizer baskets

2

A poetry portrait- a poem about a person which describes and delineates

3

A woven winter fork with the munchkins- maybe we'll leave it out for the local giants to use

4

A Julia-Gunther-inspired stripey girl

5

A kudzu basket

6

Pocket pals

7

A medieval shade pavilion

8

A Kandinsky-inspired tree collage

9

An upcycled cashmere toddler dress

10

Upcycled patched sweater slippers

A creepy diamante poem.

The snail Max discovered.

To emphasize that there should be no shame in trying to speak the language called poetry, I let this photo of Max and his snail lead me through my own little diamante-writing experiment. The form is very restrictive, which is nice because it tends to provoke an imagery-driven approach. Find a photo and see where it leads you. Or step outside and narrow your horizon to one tiny living object. 

Snail

rotund, modest

rolling, sliming, sticking

table, pebble, rock, trunk

creeping, inching, leaking

viscous, glistening

trail

<center><a href="http://www.alinasadventuresinhomemaking.com/diamante-poems.html" _mce_href="http://www.alinasadventuresinhomemaking.com/diamante-poems.html" target="_blank"><img alt="Diamante Poem" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-UgXy7AwpWP4/TxuREeTioNI/AAAAAAAARyw/Ic_NuMt8DRI/s200/IMG_02760.jpg" _mce_src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-UgXy7AwpWP4/TxuREeTioNI/AAAAAAAARyw/Ic_NuMt8DRI/s200/IMG_02760.jpg"/></a></center>

How to write a sparkling, brilliant, fair trade diamante poem.

A diamante is a shaped poem which looks like a diamond. It consists of 7 lines arranged in the following pattern:

noun

adjective adjective

participle participle participle

noun noun noun noun

participle participle participle

adjective adjective

noun

Needless to say, diamante-writing provides an opportunity to cozy up to those parts of speech and play around with your favorite words.

Join the Diamante Poem Party going on until February 21st. Use the prize as an excuse to pen a poem.

A painting with a thousand words: Botticelli's "Mystic Nativity".

Mystic Nativity by Sandro Botticelli, 1500 (oil on canvas).

Max enjoyed staring at this painting for a long time- "there are lots of things happening but I can't tell if people are happy or scared".

We learned from wikipedia that the Greek inscription at the top translates as:

This picture, at the end of the year 1500, in the troubles of Italy, I Alessandro, in the half-time after the time, painted, according to the eleventh [chapter] of Saint John, in the second woe of the Apocalypse, during the release of the devil for three-and-a-half years; then he shall be bound in the twelfth [chapter] and we shall see [him buried] as in this picture.

It seems that Botticelli believed himself to be living during the Tribulation or the Biblical end times, perhaps due to political turmoil and war in Europe at the time. We talked about symbolism in paintings, and Max made a list of all the symbols he could see in the painting and what they represented. I don't know if it's a developmental phase or a personal preference but he is currently a big fan of "perfect painters", or "guys who know how to make things look right".

Max didn't see any inconsistency of vision when comparing this to Botticelli's more famous work, like The Birth of Venus. I think that we adults tend to project our own discomforts with Greek and Roman mythology on little people to whom such stories make formidable sense. I remember as a child finding it very difficult to imagine a God who was not, in some sense, like me. And the character of God in the Old Testament includes a rich texture of human emotions, including rage, unhappiness, loneliness, and frustration. I wonder how Max understands Christ's role and character....

Mudheads: Folk art, readings, and a podcast.

A Zuni pueblo mudhead from Mud Matters.

With so much rain, Max observed that Pontullia is "peaking" and "it's a great time for mud". He wanted to know more about the Mudheads so we did a little morning browsing. We found this information on a kachina website:

The Koyemsi, or Mudhead Kachina, is a clown who may be seen in most Hopi ceremonies. Mudhead Kachinas drum, dance, play games with the audience, and may act as announcers for events. They often give prizes or rewards for the races and guessing games they organize. The term "mudhead" comes from their masks which have mud applied to them.

Most of the time they accompany other kachina; probably the only time when they do not appear with other personages is during the Night Dances. Koyemsi are usually the ones that play games with the audience to the accompaniment of rollicking tunes. These games are generally guessing games or simple attempts to balance objects of performances of some common act and the rewards are prizes of food or clothing.

They may appear as a chorus, and on First Mesa and possibly other villages their songs are in Zuni. During the rests in a dance, they may engage in games with the boys and girls in the audience. At other times, only a single Mudhead may appear as a drummer for a group. Should a dancer not have the proper mask or be late in arriving, he can easily become a Mudhead by donning that mask. These kachinas appear in almost every Hopi dance.

A Zuni mudhead mask from New Mexico currently at the Met.

Alina reads an excerpt from Mud Matters in which author Jennifer Owens Dewey describes her experience at a Hopi mudhead ceremony (6:21)

Editorial note: You can enjoy Milla's latest vocalization phase in the background. She is currently exploring screaming at the top of her lungs and then looking around to see if Micah or Max will scream with her. I am so very glad they did not.

Hopi mudhead masks for auction.

Sonnet LXIX by Pablo Neruda.

An adobe mask on our wall, a souvenir of New Mexico.

This poem was translated from Spanish by Constantino Diaz-Duran with "more of a mind for meaning than metrics". Nobel Laureate Pablo Neruda's death is currently being reexamined by those who suspect natural causes were not enough to kill this man.

SONNET LXIX by Pablo Neruda

 

To not be is, perhaps, to be without you being;

without you slashing through midday

like a blue flower; without you walking, later,

through the fog and on the cobbles;

without that light you carry in your hand,

a light which others may not see as golden,

a light which no one knew was growing

like the crimson cradle of the rose.

In sum, with out you being, without your coming

brusque, inciting, to know my life.

You, gust of a rosebush, wheat of the wind.

And since then I am, because you are.

Since then you are, I am, and we are.

And for love I will be, you will be, we will be.

 

Love poem by John Frederick Nims with podcast.

This poem carries the afterglow of reprieve for the woman who couldn't ignore the song of the whipporwill for the sake of a well-oiled family dinner. I have been guilty of many crimes and misdemeanors against the supposed-to-be orders that be. A beautiful love poem honoring the soul of a particular woman-wife rather than the accomplishments of a wife-who-just-so-happens-to-be-a-woman.

LOVE POEM by John Frederick Nims

My clumsiest dear, whose hands shipwreck vases,
At whose quick touch all glasses chip and ring,
Whose palms are bulls in china, burs in linen,
And have no cunning with any soft thing

Except all ill-at-ease fidgeting people:
The refugee uncertain at the door
You make at home; deftly you steady
The drunk clambering on his undulant floor.

Unpredictable dear, the taxi drivers' terror,
Shrinking from far headlights pale as a dime
Yet leaping before apopleptic streetcars—
Misfit in any space. And never on time.

A wrench in clocks and the solar system. Only
With words and people and love you move at ease;
In traffic of wit expertly maneuver
And keep us, all devotion, at your knees.

Forgetting your coffee spreading on our flannel,
Your lipstick grinning on our coat,
So gaily in love's unbreakable heaven
Our souls on glory of spilt bourbon float.

Be with me, darling, early and late. Smash glasses—
I will study wry music for your sake.
For should your hands drop white and empty
All the toys of the world would break.

Love led me to make an audio recording of this poem so I can play it in the car and ponder it as I drive around town. You can listen and download the audio mp3 below.

as read by Alina with Bon Iver and traffic in the background

Light painting makes it big.

Look at who else is a fan of light painting? The husband of Edie Brickell, more obscurely known as Mr. Paul Simon. Though the cover of his new album (which we thoroughly enjoy) looks exciting, I think his people need to get with Tino's people on how to truly paint with light.

Overheard: A conversation between matroyschka dolls.

Ana and her mother, Nina, like to talk when placed near books.

Nina said:

"Ana, you know, George Kennan was a fair observer of what happened when the Soviets came, but he didn't draw the correct conclusions."

Ana said:

"Why are you thinking about George Kennan, mom?"

Nina replied:

"Because he's sitting right behind us. Or, his book is right behind us. And being on the bookshelf always gives me something to talk about."

The skeptical Micah quickly interrupted their conversation to point out that "dolls can't talk". 

Alina said:

"Well, then, how did they just have that conversation, Micah?"

Micah shrugged:

"I don't know. I didn't hear it."

Alina said:

"You didn't? Are you sure?"

Micah said:

"I didn't hear it with my ears, but maybe I heard it with my heart. My heart talks to me sometimes and says things."

Alina said:

"You are one lucky lady, then. Talking and words are not the only ways to communicate, you know. Milla doesn't say words but she manages to tell us what she means and how she feels. Maybe Ana and Nina communicate without words."

Micah said:

"How?"

Alina suggested:

"Maybe they communicate with their bodies and expressions. Maybe they use gestures, like a wave, to say what they mean."

Micah quietly:

"I don't know."

Alina, laughing:

"Me neither. Guess we need to find a book, huh?"

Cultivated plants versus wild plants: An exploration of the amaryllis.

Max pulled me out of bed yesterday with much gusto:

"Mom, mom! You have to see this! The flower bloomed!"

I never thought I would be dragged from sweet slumber to witness the blooming of a flower... Once I was awake enough to regain my senses, I realized how much it meant to me that Max was excited about a flower blooming and that he trusted me enough to share it with me.

He wanted to add an entry to his nature journal as a component of our Knowing Nature Challenge, but I told him that a houseplant wasn't really "natural". Max insisted that it was a "plant" and that it lived in our house and therefore should be included. I maintained that we should focus on wild plants, while Max pointed out that we had already profiled the camellia and other "planted plants" so it seemed unfair to exclude the amaryllis just because she happened to reside in a pot. This led to a long, intricate, fascinating conversation about the different between cultivated plants and natural plants.

Obviously, Max made some compelling, humanistic arguments for why cultivated plants should not be shunned from the Challenge, so we agreed to include all plants and wildlife in our home and yard.

Turning our attention to the amaryllis plant, we wanted to discover more about bulb plants in general and this one in particular. We learned that its bulbs should be planted between October and the end of April and that its flowering period ranges between late December and the end of June. It flowers for a fantastic period of 7 to 10 weeks!

The larger the bulb, the more blooms it produces. Unplanted bulbs should be stored in a very cool place, lest they decide to try to grow. We talked about why cold air prevents the plant from growing, and hypothesized that it maintains the vigor of the enzymes and cell processes without creating optimum conditions for growth. Both of us were not entirely satisfied by a general explanation on this, so I'm keeping my eyes and ears open for a way to observe this experientially and "in the raw".

Image source.

The amaryllis is related to daffodils and also goes by the name Hippeastrum hybrid. According to Dr. Ombrello at UCC, the life history of a hybrid amaryllis goes something like this:

After the plant’s blossoms wither, the large bulb sends up long strap-shaped leaves. These leaves will persist for at least several months, producing food by photosynthesis and storing it in the bulb. The bulb literally enlarges as the energy is stored.  Eventually, the leaves yellow and die, and the bulb goes into a state of dormancy. In its natural habitat, this would be the cool, dry season. After several months of “rest”, new flower buds have developed and the bulb becomes active as a result of increased moisture and temperature in its environment. Within 6-10 weeks it produces a large flower stalk topped with a cluster of colorful funnel-shaped flowers.

Max was excited to note that our amaryllis has a bulb in the back. When will it bloom? Both Max and I have a strong interest in the answer to this question.

After the amaryllis has stopped flowering, it can be made to flower again. The bulb that never stops blooming. Here's how:

• Just cut the old flowers from the stem after flowering and when the stem starts to sag, cut it back to the top of the bulb. 
• Continue to water and fertilize as normal all summer, or for at least 5-6 months, allowing the leaves to fully develop and grow. 
• When the leaves begin to yellow, which normally occurs in the early fall, cut the leaves back to about 2 inches from the top of the bulb and remove the bulb from the soil.  
• Clean the bulb and place it in a cool (40-50 deg. F), dark place such as the crisper of your refrigerator for a minimum of 6 weeks. Store the bulbs for a minimum of 6 weeks. 
• Plant Again. After 6 weeks you may remove bulbs whenever you would like to plant them. Plant bulbs 8 weeks before you would like them to bloom.

A profile portrait of our amaryllis. She is so beautiful we can't help thinking she must have a very kind fairy which guards her.

We also discovered from several sources that you should not store amaryllis bulbs in a refrigerator that contains apples because this will sterilize the bulbs. Crazy! Why? It looks like we're off on another adevnture with our friend, the amaryllis. Word on the block is that ethylene gas plays a part in why the amarylis and apple can't be friends.

How Max designed his first sewing pattern.

Continuing his conviction that little Milly is a wizard, Max has been urging me to stitch a pair of wizard pants for her. Continuing my tendecy to procrastinate, I've been using the excuse that I don't have a pattern for wizard pants to put off the sewing. Since Max is not one to be discouraged by such details, he took it upon himself to create a pattern for wizard pants which specifies cloth, thread color, and sewing machine (in this case, the overlock).

Max's wizard pant pattern.

Instructions from a Max who leaves little to fate.

He even provided a pattern for a matching wizard skirt. Note the "fringe".

Micah's first landscape painting.

"It's a place outside that I know. But I can't tell you or it will go away."

Milla discovers the guitar.

Last night, Milla stayed up until midnight- her medicine is throwing her a bit too far in the hyperthyroid range for my taste- and discovered the guitar.

Strumming with one finger makes a light, sweet sound.

Pressing on various strings seems to change the sound.

All the possibilites captivated her as she played.

Milla loves the guitar. So she hugs it.