Alina's Adventures

Tell me a tree story- one about the ways roots dig and reveal.

When my dad came to visit last week, we took the kids to River Road Park and wandered around, struck by the way in which the exposed roots paralleled family reunions. The way family life leaves us exposed and vulnerable at our most tender spots, the areas which keep us connected to this earth and the world of meaning woven by intimate interactions.

Every family, like every tree, has its own adaptations to the soil and environment in which it grows.

There are ways, for example, in which my trunk is crooked with cravings for books and tender touch, desires so exorbitant that the native soil in which I grew could not possibly have met them. 

Over time, we reflect the way in which light and shadow crossed our path. Each new branch suggests a new growth- a new way of reaching towards something in life- so each hope becomes a possibility, a fork in the endless numbers of path defining who we are and how we grew into it.

"Tell me a story about trees and roots," I ask the Eldest, hoping the lilt in my voice will go unnoticed. He tells me about the way the tree trunks facing the river bear more moss on their sides. I am struck by the courage with which he tells a story that remains open to the question of "why".

There is a sense in which I am just an unintended audience, a woman on the banks of the Black Warrior River who happens to overhear a boy's conversation with the trees. A bystander inclined to read too much into the seeing the reflection of the ivy's burden staring back up from the water.

There is more to see. I find myself admiring the graceful tree whose roots are completely exposed. How the root stretches sideways into the bank, building strength into the horizontal axis.

I make a note to myself to journal the associations of the word exposed and horizon or horizontal.

I make a note to myself to honor the engravings of time in my dad's face, setting them next to the trunk of a tree, discovering how life marks us with the storms we have weathered.

"Hey dad," I say, stifling a laugh, "keep talking like that with your arms in the air..."

The professor expounds his contrarian views on climate change. I agree to let myself disagree with him, saying only that we are responsible for the ways in which we change the world, whether for better or worse. It is easy to argue with the professor- and easy to love him in spite of the disagreements. The Strawberry Shortcake sticker on the underside of his sleeve ends his serious lecture and leaves us laughing. 

Bunicu and the king, between beards.

Find a tree, survey the roots, and tell its story. The words you find, like the soil we cultivate, are held in common.

DIY woodland tea party cards.

Since their valentines to E. and A. would travel by mail, the kids buzzed and begged to make "different valentines" for their further-away friends. So we created these woodland tea party cards, which can serve as a valentine or just a special way of connecting with treasured friends by mail.

SUPPLIES

cardboard or cardstock
scissors
glue stick 
watercolor paint
paintbrushes
water
newsprint paper (or another thin kind of paper)
stickers of various woodland creatures
stickers of tea party set (or cut-outs from magazine)
plastic bags and mailing labels

PAINT

Start by using the newsprint paper as a place for a painting frenzy. Arm all with paintbrushes, watercolor paints, and a little glass of water. There is no rhyme or reason to the painting- just the impetus to add an assortment of colors and brush strokes. When finished, set aside the painted paper to dry.

PICK

Now have the kids go through their sticker collection, looking for stickers of woodland animals. At this point, I should add that the kids revised my original idea by including stickers of toadstools and flowers, in addition to the requisite tea party pot and cups. If you don't have tea party stickers, then flip through magazines and cut out a few pictures of tea cups and kettles. Your friends can use a glue stick to add them to the woodland tea party scene.

Stickers were chosen and put into plastic baggies with a label and a name on the front. 

EXPLAIN

Finally, the kids included a message to their friends, instructing them to create their ideal woodland party tea scene with the added request that, perhaps, at their next meeting, they might act out the woodland tea party of their dreams.

As she sealed the envelopes, Prophet told me that she "loved making the kind of valentine" she "wanted to get." My "me, too" went without saying.

An unexpected camellia nature study.

 Gnome and Prophet ran into the house and dropped two handfuls of camellias into my lap. I put the workbooks away and opened my mind to the teachable moment in hand. 

"The queen of the winter flowers, the camellia...." I wondered how her leaves helped her bear the cold weather. Prophet noted that she was the "only pink outside" during the cold. 

"And she always makes flowers when we have snow!" piped Prophet, pleased with her own observation. We agreed that this might mean camellia's blooms were signalled and started by a certain a cold temperature. 

Gnome pointed to the buds.

"One bud is more open than the other," I observed.

Quickly, Gnome pressed her fingertip against the slightly open bud.

Prophet arranged the two buds side by side for a closer look.

How are the petals held together? We answered our question by carefully removing the little cup at the base of the bloom- the part that connected the stem to the flower. The Eldest warned us that our actions would make the bloom "flimsy". 

Our bloom did appear more flimsy from the underside without its basket.

All the looking led us to imagining how the flower would look without its "eye", or the pistil and the stamen at the center. Gnome did the honors of plucking off the petals. Prophet joined the fun. 

 Soon, a pile of pretty petals sat next to the flower parts on the white paper.

The girls wanted to put the camellia back together. I figured it was a great opportunity to review the flower parts in a way that engaged multiple forms of intelligence.

They worked so hard. Gnome concluded, "Mommy, the flower was perfect- we's can't make it perfect like that." If they learned only one thing from our experience, I figured this little lesson was the one to keep.

Since the Eldest had already explored the parts of the camellia, I found a free pamphlet from the Alabama Cooperative Extension which offered a detailed explanation of this winter bloom. 

The Culture of Camellias: The State Flower of Alabama (PDF)

He pored through it and made a list of questions about information in the text. He also determined that the specimen in question was the Kate Mallory, as described in the pamphlet.

Why art is more likely to appear as a drag queen than a mailman.

Art is a true account of the activity of mind. Because consciousness, in Husserl's formulation, is always consciousness of something, art thinks ever of the world, cannot not think of the world, could not turn its back on the world even if it wished to. This does not mean that it's going to be honest as a mailman; it's more likely to appear as a drag queen. The problems I mentioned earlier, as well as others not taken up, enforce complexity. "We do not spend much time in front of a canvas whose intentions are plain," writes Cioran. "Music of a specific character, unquestionable contours, exhausts our patience, the over-explicit poem seems incomprehensible." Flannery O'Connor, an artist of the first rank, famously disliked anything that looked funny on the page, and her distaste has widely been taken as a tough-minded put-down of puerile experimentalism. But did she also dislike anything that looked funny on the wall? If so, a severe deprivation. Art cannot remain in one place. A certain amount of movement, up, down, across, even a gallop toward the past, is a necessary precondition.

An excerpt from "Not Knowing", an essay by Donald Barthelme

I took the last two lines as a morning journal prompt for myself and the Eldest. He ruminated about our trip to Transylvania, and how it connected him with sheep and Dacian history- how wearing his wool vest reminds him of the rhythm of village life.

Leaf miners nature study: Our discovery of serpentine mines.

It was Prophet who led us to our study of leaf mining insects. Prophet tends to express dismay over what she calls the "ugly leaves" with all the holes and "messy places" on them. I usually stifle a laugh- mostly at the fact that the word "messy" is one she uses negatively, amusing in light of her perpetually-messy mom. And then, I usually look for a segue into something else...

"Let's find out why some leaves have holes in them- and why some leaves get brown blotches," I ventured. The gypsies were game.

They collected as many blotchy or "hole-y" leaves as they could find. We sifted through each leaf, trying to decide what had caused its particular variations. It was hard to ignore the fantastic constrast of textures and webbing in the leaves. I imagined fabrics comprised of similar patterns.

Holding up the leaves against the light helped us see the serpentine mines, distinguished for the way in which they undulated like a precipitous mountain road. The Eldest thought he saw a few blotch mines as well, which he noted, alongside my dissent.

As we sat in the front yard surveying our leaf miners, a gregarious cardinal perched on the fence nearby. He cocked his head to one side and narrowed his little black eye. 

Flipping the leaves, peering closely at the possible miners, we found a hard white crescent along an underside leaf vein. The Eldest seemed certain it was a leaf miner pupa. Certainty, I reminded him, requires corroboration. And corroboration would have to wait until later in the day. 

Prophet wondered about the "dark places" around the holes. The Eldest wasted no time in guessing that the brown spaces were correlated with the mines in the leaves. Or, in his words, "the leaf is being starved of nutrients and is dying in those places because the leaf miners pig out on all the nutrients."

After observing the mined leaves, nature journals came out. Gnome treated her nature study journal with the utmost care, tracing leaves as the Eldest recorded his thoughts ("I like to pretend my eye is a microscope," he explained.)

We talked about why sketching the outline and contour of the leaf required different tools than filling in the colors and shades.

And we pondered the size of these tiny creatures that find their nourishment between the upper and lower surfaces of a the cell walls within a paper-thin leaf. I marveled, aloud, at how the leaf miner leaves his life's itinerary on the surface of a leaf, each one as unique as the creature that created it.

The Eldest found the contour lines of this leaf particularly compelling. It was the prospect of trying to replicate all the amazing interior patterns and veins that intimidated us.

Out came the colored pencils and watercolor paints- we agreed there was no way to capture the intricate details with watercolors alone- hence the pencils- but also that the uniform tone of the leaves would benefit from a watercolor wash at the end.

The Eldests' watercolor impression of his serpentine mine leaf.

Confessions of a bibliophilic bibliomaniac.

The piles of words rise like mountains, obstacles to climbing out of the bed, or reasons to linger and read my way out. Pausing to touch the jacket elicits the temptation to do more.. to read it, to lose myself in the wranglings of another mind, another place, an alternate time.

I can't wrap myself around a digital book in the same way- can't pause in the margin to inhale the scent of printed words, can't dog-ear my way through places so marvelous that the corners rub off. For one who prides herself on adaptation, the digital book barrier remains impermeable.

Yes, pixellation engages the sense with its brilliant colors and virtual reality. But it's the physical reality of books that I can't trade in for the cool mod version. (Anyone who reads this blog already knows I'm not cool or hip or anything that lends itself to fashion.) What I want is the experience of reading in a way that is sensual, rather than merely sense-driven. I want to touch the pages, run my fingers over the coffee cup marks, find a reason for that mysterious marginalia I must have written long ago. My relationship with the text is tangled up in my relationship with the physical body of the book. It's complicated.

The classic bibliophile is one who loves to read, admire and collect books, often amassing a large and specialized collection. Bibliophiles do not necessarily want to possess the books they adore- only to collect the knowledge of their existence.

But there is a sense in which bibliophilia blurs with bibliomania, which wikipedia defines as "an obsessive-compulsive disorder, involving the collecting of books to the point where social relations or health are damaged, and in which the mere fact that an object is a book is sufficient for it to be collected or loved".

Some use the term "bibliomania" interchangeably with "bibliophily". Wikipedia also claims that the Library of Congree does not use the term "bibliophily," but rather refers to its readers as either book collectors or "bibliomaniacs". Perhaps I am a bibliomaniac rather than a bibliophile- it's hard for me to discern the difference. I love books- love love love them. Ultimately, the moniker used to describe my fascination will probably change sooner than my relationship with the books themselves. Now, back to stacking and sorting and, yes, savoring....

March 1st Yoga Workshop for you and a friend.

Based on the teachings of Dr Geeta Iyengar and Dr. Lois Steinberg, this workshop is open to women of all ages, either new to yoga or long-time practitioners.

You can try out different yoga sequences appropriate for various stages and particular situations in your lives. Learn how to create your personal practice or adapt your existing yogic routine to better fit your current needs. Expand your knowledge about yoga and connect with your practice at a deeper level of understanding. Come explore the warm and welcoming environment of The Yoga Center of Tuscaloosa, under the caring expertise of Metka Zupancic, PhD, 500RYT of whom I am personally quite fond....

YOGA FOR WOMEN: A Workshop at The Yoga Center
Saturday March 1st
1 to 3:30 p.m.

COST: $30 or $25 each if you sign up with a friend

For more information and to register for the workshop, contact Metka by email at [email protected] (you can click the link below), or call the Yoga Center at 205.507.7001.

Mining a fallow field for stories.

The ordinary response to atrocities is to banish them from consciousness.... Certain violations of the social compact are too terrible to utter aloud: this is the meaning of the word "unspeakable".... Atrocities, however, refuse to be buried....Remembering and telling the truth about terrible events are prerequisites for the restoration of the social order and for the healing of individual victims.... When the truth is finally recognized, survivors can begin their recovery. But far too often secrecy prevails, and the story of the traumatic event surfaces not as a verbal narrative but as a symptom....

Judith Lewis Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 1992

Yesterday, the Eldest and I sat on the damp grass, writing in our nature journals- his eyes locked on a story he was telling about henbit. But the henbit didn't interest me, not enough, not really. I wrestled with the words that lay sleeping. The colors of the storm-drained day forced me to seek the life around me, to push against the temptation of laziness and lack of color, strain my eyes to find the green on the field.

I turned quietly to the Eldest for inspiration. His nature journaling was notable for its flow state. I felt suddenly self-conscious- the laggard in the long line of people excited about the goal behind the waiting. Why was the wonder absent? How could I retrieve it? 

Nevermind that the attempt to control wonder- to force it to the surface- fails for its willed desperation. It's the babies we most want to conceive- the ones that we intend to fit into the perfect plans for our lives- that give us grief for their refusal to arrive upon demand.

I remember lying on the king-sized bed and talking to my eggs. "Look guys," I said, hoping the Eldest would not overhear, "your job is to get fertilized and give me that baby we want so badly." Ultimately, the conversation ended badly. I didn't get pregnant for another eight months- exactly three weeks after I'd given up on getting pregnant. Prophet, whom I'd hoped to will into existence, eluded me so long as my desperate pursuit retained the aura of a supplication.

I'm the kind of person that fears those moments in which I can't find the story that ties the room together. Like the Dude, I need the rug, my woven waft of words, to anchor everything else.

The uncharmed moments- the ones that don't "speak" to me- ruin plans and turn delight into drudgery. Like a woman holding a grocery-store corn cob, whose perfect rows of kernels add a foreign presence to the kitchen, it seems all there is left for me to do is to add water and boil it. But what's the point of adding to heat to an unhusked object? How am I different from a tool when my only task is to push the right button?

Judith Herman's insights into the transformative, liberating power of narrative resonate with me. For it's not only trauma that requires narrative liberation- the cycles and rhythms of everyday life bud and bloom best when untangled through stories. Yet, we dread the presumed price of honesty, weighing it against our self-concept and pride. I assume being "myself" means being the self I have known and recognized for all these years. I find excuses to keep from telling the stories that threaten this static, unchanged self. 

"I move to keep things whole," Mark Strand reminds me. The true story of a self can only be a quest, a tale in which the protagonist changes and adapts, acquiring the traits discovered in leaves and creatures along the path. Being dedicated to a story about an unchanged self generates its own forms of trauma- the trauma of living in the past and never marveling over how those lines suddenly appeared around my eyes. Under the circumstances, all that matters is getting rid of those lines that make me look "older". Being physically "young" becomes part of the story I tell about the past self, the only one I can love enough to narrate. 

"I move to keep things whole."

So read my nature journal entry for yesterday's 45-minute observation period. The Eldest covered four pages, front and back, with scribbles and scrawls about sapsucker marks on trees and the perfect seeding method of tulip trees. I settled for six words.

But those six words reminded me of the story I continue to observe in the social ecology of American family life- a story woven of many strands, one that looks different enough to obscure the shared loom, the common threads. Maybe the only stories worth telling are the ones that lead us into a livable present. Maybe the only wonder worth engaging is the kind that creeps up on us, uninvited, and reveals the leaf miner at the heart of the leaf. 

One day, baby, we'll be old.... think of all the stories that we could've told....

How an unexpected child adds joy and meaning to my life.

Magical night- one in which the entire magic centered around Little B.'s ability to sleep without watching TV or throwing a tantrum. She slept in her own bed, sharing a room with the girls because- as she confessed- she "doesn't like to sleep alone". 

"I don't like to sleep alone, either," I explained. "I like to know there is someone next to me- it makes me feel warm and relaxed."

Little B. nodded. I asked her if she ever got scared at night. She nodded again. I wondered aloud what scared her. Missing Pops and her home down the street- with its more flexible bedtimes hours and lack of TV rules- was part of what Little B. expressed.

The other parts- missing her recently-deceased grandmother- didn't come to the surface (and I wouldn't expect a little person to be able to articulate something as ineffable and complicated as grief). There are moments when Margaret's amazing, powerful shadow- the way she captured all the light in a room and turned it into the sort of fire by which you long to warm your hands- fills the space, makes her absence more prominent. How to discuss these dark places around us- the places inhabited by the memory and fleeting presence of Margaret?

Initially, Little B. had insisted on having her "own room"- so we tried to make the guest room her room. But her 4-year-old wants were at odds with her natural need for company and reassurance. In a way, Little B.'s desires also flew in the face of her new status as part of a team of siblings, a way of holding on to her long-established identity as an only child. "I wan-n-t-t-t-t...." she sometimes wailed, as if the mere of act of wanting was its own justification.

"I want things too, Little B.," I said, struggling to keep my tone even as my heart raced and my head pounded. The physiological effects of hysteria on those who must watch are notoriously effective and disconcerting. In a sense, hysteria removes the hysteric from feeling for others around them- it severs their ties to other humans and allows them to express the most extreme, exaggerated form of any feelings passing through their minds. The hysteric is unconscious of the world around them. They are lost in the moment, upping their own antes, chasing a feeling straight into its most destructive variants. 

Personally, I doubt the "cathartic effect" of hysteria. I've never met a hysterical person who realizes anything about life or themselves while lost in a fit. Nor have I heard of situations in which hysteria made people "feel better". Usually, it draws us deeper into the morass of our own heads without enabling us to understand it or cope with our feelings. The underlying causes of hysteria range from PTSD to anxiety to panic disorders or phobias. What all these underlying causes have in common is a solution that encourages learning to express and articulate our feelings and fears in order to find solutions or adaptations to the way in which they cripple our lives. Hysteria is not really the sort of behavior left best unattended.

A recent review of psychotherapeutic and psychoanalytic studies led to the conclusion that there is "no hard evidence for a cathartic effect of tears, even for so-called cathartic therapy, in which patients are asked to recall as vividly as possible their traumatic experiences". Randolf Cornelius likewise concluded that, in contrast to a catharsis, “crying is associated with increases in arousal, tension and negative affect … Crying does also not appear to be necessarily beneficial to one’s health, as the cathartic model of crying would predict.” 

Despite this evidence, crying is something we value in the Coryell Castle. There are complicated feelings or moments in which tears and hugs feel better than talking. But hysterics are not about hugs- they push everyone else away. It literally hurts to watch a hysteric tantrum. As an adult, you ache for the little person who kicks you away. As a child, you feel terrorized by the possibility of an impending reign of terror that can wake you from your sleep, destroy a family dinner, cause your own little heart to race with anxiety, and make your home feel like an unsafe, unloving place.

In agreeing to remain attached and emotionally empathetic to our children, we stay vulnerable to the feelings of a little person. This includes the way in which their hysterics can unmoor our hearts and nests. More importantly, however, it includes the contagion of their happiness. We carry the joys of the smiles across the room, the brilliant flashes of light when she comes to me, wraps her arms around my legs, hides her face in my knees, and says, "I love you, mom".

There is no way to describe the way her trust and affection makes me feel; no words to express the way in which it evokes the familiar while opening my spirit to something entirely foreign- the amazing love one feels for a little person who enters your life unexpectedly and carves her name on your heart in a way that makes it impossible to not feel her pain or to keep from co-feeling her frustrations.

"It's a root," I told her. "We all have roots that keep us from losing our place in the world...." 

"And you are so special and lucky- you have many roots to keep you safe, many arms to love you, many hearts to call home..."

Last night, the magical night, left me with a sense of peace. The King read the girls a bedtime story and kissed them goodnight. He tiptoed into the living room, beaming- "She's asleep", he whispered. It went without saying that our hearts felt light.

Watching Little B. struggle to sleep alone as she screamed when presented to alternatives has been painful- all the more painful for her refusal to be comforted. The my-way-or-the-highway mentality common to little people was only reinforced by recent traumas in her young life. Little B. needs to feel she is not at the mercy of circumstances- and this need is a legitimate one. 

I snuck in to peep at her around 9:30- she was fast asleep, long legs having kicked off the covers in her usual fashion. I was happy for her- just happy for her peace at that moment. Around 2 am, I thought I heard a little stirring in the girl's room. The King ventured in and I followed, bleary-eyed, slightly worried. 

Little B. was lying in her bed- she'd woken up for a moment and wanted someone with her. We pointed to the girls. She smiled. I put on an audio story of the "The Little Engine That Could" and kissed her on the forehead, then the cheek, then the wrist, and then the tip of her nose.

She smiled, again, simply, as if it were easy and natural. "I love you Little B.," I whispered. "And you are so lucky to be surrounded by the love of so many people." Little B. hugged my neck.

"There must be something very, very special about a little girl who is loved so very, very much," I whispered, trying not to do that "ineffective" thing known as crying. She let me go, her eyes drifting towards the voice telling one of my favorite stories. It was a good night- one to inspire us and give us hope.

What we read in a newspaper from Linden, Alabama.

We had stopped en route to the beach back in 2013. Perusing the local newspaper as we sat to eat lunch at a diner in Linden, Alabama, I read a letter to the editor that, in my opinion, deserved a re-reading. As covertly as possible with three bouncy kids and a paper-football-making husband, I tucked the newspaper into my backpack for aforementioned extended perusal.

Click on the image to enlarge the picture if you can't read it all on your screen.

The other day, as I was cleaning out the rather crumpled corners of my backpack, I found a copy of the Linden newspaper from our visit last year. And I found the letter to the editor that cause me to sneak in into my backpack.

Let it never be said that teachable moments cannot be stumbled upon in rural diners. Though I might not agree with Evelyn Robinson's application of scripture, I empathize with his efforts to remind the white folks of Linden that racial equality is not an accomplishment but rather an ongoing work in progress. Clearly, some citizens of Linden need to get off their laurels and get back to the business of seeking justice in their own community. Justice should not be a privilege for the few, but a fact of life held and pursued in common.

Sketchbook shapes: The shapes of a face.

The Eldest's face shapes sketchbook entry.

There are so many cool shapes in the human face.

It all began with a large oval, the shape of a face.

To make our collage mouths, we talked about symmetry.

I cut out a heart by folding a piece of paper- "How could we make this a mouth?", I asked.

The paper was folded again and Prophet trimmed the edges.

Her mouth inspired my own.

The Eldest remarked, "Prophet's nose looks like a Picasso..."

"Speaking of Picasso," I murmured, as the Eldest revealed his own face collage.

Gnome chose, instead, to use a "banana" shape for her handsome fellow's mouth.

All agreed that Gnome's face was the friendliest.

As for my face collage, the Eldest wanted to know why it read "40%".

"Because it's 40% true...."

One quick way you can make the world a better place right now.

I had big plans for the weekend- massive plans involving backpacks, a tent, the King and myself narrowed by the weather to still-grandiose plans involving the kids, the road, and a visit to Newbern. Ultimately, the plans were abandoned, replaced by the surprising deliciousness of my husband's Red Cabbage Borscht and those notebooks covered in meaningful scribbles which I keep hoping, one day, to revise in a manner worthy of publication.

 

On the unexpectedly lovely side, we made it to Sunday morning services early enough to warrant a stroll through the budding trees on campus.

As I sit and sift through dinner preparations tonight, even the day's beauty fails to distract me from the sense that there was something I should have done- a tiny kernel within those well-wrapped plans that might have made a difference in someone's life. It's the demise of our planned visit to the Newbern Public Library, a current project undertaken by Auburn's Rural Studio, that sticks in my mind. 

Image of library vision from Rural Studio tumblr.

So I return to the website, calculating a way to squeeze the roadtrip into our planned activities for the coming week. It is gazing at pictures of the work in progress that leads my eye down to a tiny link reading "Newbern Library Wish List". Lo and behold, the possibility of books we can donate to the kids of Newbern suddenly appears on my screen, accompanied by the following request:

Select the "ADD GIFT" option and indicate your name as book donor and/or to whom you wish to honor with this gift. By purchasing from this list, you are helping to found a library collection for the community of Newbern, Alabama. The library organization is recently formed with an emphasis on children's learning. Thank you for your support!

Is it silly that I felt a flood of happiness as I purchased Iggy Peck, Architect from the Newbern Library wish list? Such a tiny, little action- and the opportunity to acknowledge Mr. Peanut's hospitality- whisked the mislaid plans from my mind and returned my mind to the dinner at hand.

Sometimes those extra-big plans of the monumental kind can be husked to expose the kernel, the tiny little seed of action which made the plans so exciting in the first place. The plans were first formulated because I wanted to pay tribute to the Rural Studio students building this library for the kids of Newbern. At the heart of the hope was the way in which the little people growing up in Newbern are being honored by this project. We couldn't drive to Newbern this weekend. Yet I could help build their book collection by purchasing a book from the library wishlist.

Why put off until tomorrow what we can do today? Have a look at the Newbern Library Wish List and see if there is something simple that you can do today- right now, this very minute- to help build the Newbern Library. Get little people involved by encouraging them to pick which book your family should gift or the wording of the gift message. 

Our wind lapbook.

Inspired by our drive through miswestern states pockmarked with wind turbines, the girls and I decided to create a lapbook all about wind this week.

W w handwriting and wind poem (Education.com)
Our introduction.

  Tale of Wendy Wizard (The NEED Project)
A tale about how the sun is related to wind.

Wind and Saltines (The NEED Project)
A fun experiment about how wind moves mills and turbines.

Wind turbine label diagram (Suzie's Home Education Ideas)
A simple introduction to wind turbines.

Windy_paperboat coloring page and how-to

DIY paper boat mobile (Ann Wood)
To make boats and sail them on a puddle or pond.

The North Wind and the Sun, a fable by Aesop (NFB One)

Will the Wind Blow It?: A Simple Science Experiment (PDF)
You will need a fan and a few household items for this fun activity.

The cover of our file folder lapbook.

"You Learn", a poem by Jorges Luis Borges.

The paintings that were cut into hearts for heart-and-seek.

After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,

And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security.

And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,

And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,

And you learn to build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight. 

After a while you learn…
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.

So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure…

That you really are strong

And you really do have worth…

And you learn and learn…

With every good-bye you learn.

Snow romping on rewind with a little lesson on sibling rivalry.

During all the wild craze concerning two inches of snow, I decided to steal some quiet moments while the King took the kids on a snow romp. 

The second hand reports from the Eldest emphasized the romping-ness of the affair. Little B. explained that her clothes were "too big" for the slide, and she got stuck.

But the secondhand reports relayed by Prophet emphasized the sibling rivarly that can poke out its head even in the middle of the woods, mid-adventure.

Upon discovering the secret bench in the woods, the King wanted to get a photo. But Little B. said Gnome could not be in the photo- that she "didn't want" to be on a bench with Gnome. The King was confused because there hadn't been any fights or spats between the two, and Gnome was being her usual feisty, three-year-old self. 

"I'm going to take a picture and everybody can be in it," he told Little B. "If you don't want to be in the photo, you don't have to sit on the bench," he added, "but I'm not going to tell some people they can't be in it."

Little B. sulked and thought it over. She finally decided she wanted to be in the photo. However, she would only be in it if she could turn her back towards the Gnome. So the King snapped the first shot.

"Do you guys want to trade places on the bench?" asked the King, hoping it might soothe ruffled feathers. Little B. did not want to trade places- she stayed put. Gnome and Prophet switched. 

When Prophet reported the bench fiasco to me, I went to find Little B. and pulled her into my lap. It seemed important for her to hear what Prophet was saying, to be part of the discussion in an attempt to understand her feelings. Little B. refused to explain why she didn't want Gnome to sit next to her on the bench. At one point, she said it was because she "didn't like" Gnome.

"But you play with Gnome- just the two of you- all the time," I pointed out. "And you hug her and say how much you love to play with her...."

Little B. had a hard time finding words to express her resentment of Gnome. I wanted to validate her feelings while helping her to understand why they might be hurtful and unworthy of her focused attention. So I explained to the three girls that it is the most natural thing in the world to feel frustrated and resentful of siblings after going from being an only child to being part of a troupe of kids within a family.  

"Imagine if you went from being the baby to being one among four," I began. "Until four months ago, Little B. was the baby- she got all the attention the littlest member of the family receives. But she was also the oldest, with all the privileges of being the oldest. Don't you think that sometimes it is hard to explain why being a middle child can be frustrating?"

Prophet nodded. Little B. curled her legs in my lap. I could tell that Prophet's empathy engine was working hard; she began to explain why Little B. might be "missing" getting "all the attention the way you get when you are the only one". Prophet's thoughtfulness really came out, however, when she gave the following example:

"My favorite time with Mommy is when she takes me somewhere with just me and her. We have fun and no one is whining or crying. It makes me feel like Mommy is my best friend when I get to be alone with her."

As Little B. puts on a brave face and tries to sort through all the challenging feelings and emotions coming her way, my best hope is that her siblings will encourage her rather than resenting her in return. Sibling rivalry is one of life's greatest challenges. Learning to communicate one's secret resentments on this front can equip you to handle difficult conversations and situations. My prayers for Little B. and the girls are the beginning to every day.

Easy 3-D valentines inspired by our sketchbook activity.

We started with colored pencils, paper, regular old pencil, and the four basic shapes. The sketchbook activity required us to draw the four basic shapes and then add a vanishing point somewhere between them. The vanishing point is the point at which all imaginary lines of perspective converge. The purpose of drawing in perspective is to create the illusion of depth, and to enrich the form of your subject.

Connecting the shapes to the vanishing point required us to draw the shortest possible line from each of the corners to the vanishing point. You don't really have to draw a line from point farthest from the vanishing point on each letter back to the vanishing point. It's a superluous line- one that reduces the illusion.

Somehow, inspired by our sketchbook activity, we decided to play around with 3-D words and then add amusing items near the vanishing point. The Eldest did the letterblocking and coloring, while I messed around with graphics and possible puns.

"Hey," says me, "Why don't we just print out several sheets with the word LOVE in some neat font and get the girls to color with us?"

"Yeah," says he, "let's do it."

"Um-hmmmm," says me, looking for a font.

"Maybe," says he, "there's a little more to it. Like a project or a gift or.... a valentine?"

Sure enough. We colored the words and added another dimension. Then we searched through old photo bins for pictures we could cut and paste just beneath the focal point. The photos we chose were the ones that made us laugh- which means most of the Eldest's came from his toddler years.

It was so fun and simple. You can download the two blank pages with just the word "love" in cool fonts below. And by all means have a merry, giggle-filled blast.

3D love valentines (PDF)

So, we've been geocaching for the past two weekends...

Making notes the castle geocaching log, which we keep in the glovebox for easy access.

Showing the king the shrivelled cache log to which our insignia was added.

Note that, to the rear, the eldest is holding up the tiny, excavated log that was dangling from a branch in the tree. Micro cache, indeed.

All about moths: Our lapbook.

As usual, the topic for the lapbook began with an observation of the subject by one of the kids (Gnome spotted a "white night butterfly" in the window) followed by my meager attempt to narrate the subject in the form of a hand-drawn coloring page.

Our cover for the lapbook, just download and print.

First, we flipped through field guides and illustrated books to gaze at all the marvelous moths and admire their diversity. To download the Moths Acrostic Fanbook, just right click on the image below.

So many moths to explore and discuss. It was hard to know where to begin...

Moths Identification Booklet (PDF)

We began with the goal of identifying a few handsome moth friends. The free printable moth ID booklet above came in handy- it gave us a fixed place to start, an orientation.

Then we focused on one moth in particular- the gypsy moth- in order to study the life cycle of moths. The more we learned about the gypsy moth caterpillar, the more we wondered about those nests we see in our trees every year.

Gypsy moth caterpillar ID booklet (PDF)

How to identify this nefarious caterpillar pest? Turns out, it has something to do with the colors and number of the dots on it back. Five blue dots and six or more red ones. Fill in the number blank on the booklet pages.

"The Moths", a poem by Mary Oliver (PDF)

The narrative side of our exploration began with a poem by Mary Oliver. And the booklet above fit perfectly in the center of the lapbook.

The conversations and questions fluttered forth more rapidly as the girls colored various moths from this free moth coloring book. The Eldest tries his hand at the Encyclopedia of Life's online Moth Memory Game.

Butterflies vs. moths booklets (PDF)

Time to compare butterflies and moths. We looked for distinguishing features, and asking questions like "What makes the monarch butterfly a butterfly as opposed to a moth?". For assistance with the butterflies vs. moths portion of the lapbook, try this.

CRAFTS FOR ALL
Comet Moth Printable Craft (learn create love)
Woolly bear caterpillars craft (Turtle)
Make a moth from leaves (Martha Stewart)
Isabella tiger moths craft (Turtle)
Origami luna moth tutorial (deviant art)
Mending moth holes with moth applique (Nini Makes)

FOR THE ELDEST
"The Death of the Moth" by Virginia Woolf
A memorable essay with reading questions that follow.

"The Lesson of the Moth", a poem by archy.

Geocaching at Annette Shelby Park.

THE LESSON OF THE MOTH

i was talking to a moth 
the other evening
he was trying to break into 
an electric light bulb
and fry himself on the wires 

why do you fellows
pull this stunt i asked him 
because it is the conventional 
thing for moths or why 
if that had been an uncovered 
candle instead of an electric 
light bulb you would 
now be a small unsightly cinder 
have you no sense 

plenty of it he answered 
but at times we get tired 
of using it 
we get bored with the routine 
and crave beauty 
and excitement 
fire is beautiful 
and we know that if we get 
too close it will kill us 
but what does that matter 
it is better to be happy 
for a moment 
and be burned up with beauty 
than to live a long time 
and be bored all the while 
so we wad all our life up 
into one little roll
and then we shoot the roll 
that is what life is for 
it is better to be a part of beauty 
for one instant and then cease to 
exist than to exist forever 
and never be a part of beauty 
our attitude toward life 
is come easy go easy 
we are like human beings 
used to be before they became 
too civilized to enjoy themselves 

and before i could argue him 
out of his philosophy 
he went and immolated himself 
on a patent cigar lighter 
i do not agree with him 
myself i would rather have 
half the happiness and twice 
the longevity 

but at the same time i wish 
there was something i wanted 
as badly as he wanted to fry himself 

Learning about oval shapes with insect collages.

In learning about shapes, I've found it easier to relate the shapes we draw to the shapes we find in nature. Every shape exists in perfect form somewhere in your backyard....

Yesterday, we talked about OVALS, the shape that looks like a stretched circle. And we built our own insect friends from circles and ovals snipped from magazines. 

Of course, I built bugs alongside the kids...

Gnome raved about her "buggies".

The Eldest would not allow himself to be limited to common shapes.

If he perceived a butterfly, a butterfly appeared.

I loved how he cut stripes for the back of one beetle.

The Eldest tries his hand at a pantoum.

Since the Eldest decided to play with pantoums BEFORE I had the opportunity to "teach" him about pantoums, I fooled no one except myself in creating this ex-post pantoum handout on one of poetry's most obscure forms.

For a free handout and activity- Exploring Poetic Forms: The Pantoum- just click on the image below and download in PDF format. Because you should be pantoum-ing too.

 

 

An age-inclusive art lesson on value scales for kids ranging from 3 to 10.

It was only a matter of time.

You see, I'd given the Prophet her first sketchbook- and we spent a hour working on hatching and cross-hatching yesterday. Today, the sketching menu included an introductory exploration of value scales.... but Little B. and the Gnome staged a rebellion and insisted on getting their "own" sketchbooks.

"This isn't like a coloring book, girls. If you want a sketchbook, then you have to sit and sketch for extended periods of time....

"I kn-oo-ww..." sang Little B., "I wi-i-i-lllll..."

"Me too, Mommy," affirmed the Gnome, while trying to break a colored pencil in half with her teeth.

I suppressed a sigh. "Okay, I will make some extra sketchbooks and invite you two to the sketching circle with the Eldest and the Prophet BUT....." I paused for emphasis, preparing myself for the coming sternness, "If either of you begins that abominable whining sound, you will have to leave the circle right away."

Glances and giggles passed between Gnome and Little B. I wondered if this unexpected addition would diminish my ability to help the Eldest and Prophet develop an understanding of form and value. But there was no time to keep wondering- the gauntlet had been laid down. Art for all it would be.

After drafting cursory sketchbooks, I took out our seminal text- The Interactive Art Activity Book- a gift from Grandma Vicki and invited the kids to dip into it with me.

Each page was filled with tiny folds, corners, and booklets anticipating the touch of tiny hands. As we turned through the book, the excitement built up like the urge to use a restroom after drinking a large movie theatre soda.

My excitement grew with theirs.

The time had come for our spontaneous experiment.

colored pencils
paper (preferably inside a sketchbook)
a black ink pen

We discussed that a color has different shades, or "values". I realized I would need a little riddle or trick to keep them interested in a discussion of color values. So I picked up a red pencil....

ME: How many colors are in the pencil I am holding?

GNOME: One! (giggle)

LITTLE B.: (grin and giggle) One.

PROPHET: It's red. Red is one color.

Everyone agreed that there was one color in one pencil- it seemed intuitive. 

ME: What if I told you there were six colors in this pencil?

PROPHET: (scowling) That is a lie.

GNOME and LITTLE B. (giggling and nodding)

I can always count on Prophet for the black-and-white of any matter, including color theory. So I began to draw a value scale for the red colored pencil in my sketchbook- one in which I hatched and cross-hatched six values for red. The kids loved the trick. 

ME: Now it's your turn to do a little magic....

The Eldest created three value scales, using a tissue paper to smooth the edges between the transitions.

Gnome's super value scales.

For the younger ones, I created a small value scale using revealing three values at the top of their paper. Then I drew in three boxes for three different colored pencils and asked them to color the "lightest" shade, the "medium" shade, and the "darkest" shade. We focused on applying varying degrees of pressure to get the colors.

To emphasize the value in the colors, I asked them to draw a line with soft pressure, a line with medium pressure, and a line with hard pressure to the right of each value scale BEFORE they started to reveal the values. All three little ones blew my mind in their interest and dedication to getting those value scales into their sketchbooks. Little B, who tends to color lightly and hurriedly, was especially remarkable for the time and patience she put into her value scales.

They have earned the privilege of their art classes. And I'm not ashamed to admit the honor is all mine.

Two printable games for kids to play on what appears to be a wet and windy day.

So begins the day's play.....

Two simple games (PDF)

I found the games- pebble tag and triangle house- in a international family book from the 1930's. Since the pages were frayed and filled with misspellings, I did a little copywork and added the games to our family play binder. 

The quote from James P. Carse makes a great family play book binder cover- a subtle reminder that the games we enjoy the most don't revolve around winning but on the art of play itself.

Our butterflies and caterpillars lapbook.

I love the caterpillar-butterfly life cycle- it lends itself to such rich narrative metaphors and comparisons. So we began our study of butterflies with the butterfly life cycle.

We used Learn Create Love's butterfly life cycle freebie on the cover, but it was hard to pick from all the stunning butterfly life cycles available for free online. A few other options, depending on your tastes and intent:

Sage and Zoo's butterfly life cycle 
A cute coloring page version that you can cut and paste
Carry on Writing's colorful life cycle 
An Eric Carle version of the cycle

Then I folded over some origami paper and cut out a few butterfly shapes.

"Hmmmm... the butterfly looks incomplete. What is missing?"

Prophet observed that it didn't have a body or "ears".

After cutting a butterfly from watercolored paper, we added a body and labelled the thorax, the abdomen, the head, and the antennae. Prophet learned a new word for bug "ears" or sensors.

The girls colored their own butterflies- and gave them a name. Both names involved variations on the rainbow meme.

We talked about caterpillars- how they metamorph into such beautiful, colorful creatures. Then we discussed why butterflies were, in fact, so beautiful- what was the evolutionary purpose of this design?

Prophet and Gnome illustrated the caterpillar song and the butterfly creation story that I found on a website of Native American legends.

It is the story given by the Papago tribe to explain why butterflies have such beautiful colors, and it includes an interesting perspective on rivalry and jealousy among the animal friends.

Butterfly Song and Creation Myth Booklets (PDF)

We thanked the butterflies of the world for the color they bring to our lives.

And so we looked on our lapbook with pride and a sense of accomplishment and gratefulness for having the chance to make, do and learn together. 

Writing odes inspired by magazine cut-outs: A poetry activity for young folks.

Writing odes is a wonderful way to celebrate life- and all the little things that leave their mark on us. An ode also provides the opportunity to hone in on details, textures, colors, and particular characteristics of people, places, things, or sentiments. Other learning opportunities and skills involved in ode-writing include:

• Use of figurative language and metaphors
• Juxtaposition of images and colors to create constrast
• Exploration of feelings elicited by objects and places
• How personal associations can be used in writing 
• Experiment with narration

So here's how we ended up making a paper book of various and sundry odes.

scissors 
old magazines (we used an old issue of Oxford American)
glue stick
white paper
stapler
pencil

Scour the magazines for words or images that might make a good topic for an ode. Examples might include nouns, verbs, places, objects- anything familiar enough to invoke a poetic response.

Cut six sheets of white paper in half- you will have an ode on each side of each paper for a total of 12 odes.

Cut and paste the words as a title to each page. For example, one title might be "Ode to My Toothbrush", with the words "my toothbrush" glued on as a cut-out and the word "ode" written beforehand. Then let your poet enjoy the fine art of ode-making, one for each topic.

The Eldest begins his ode book....

"Who Remains Standing?", a poem by Andree Chedid.

WHO REMAINS STANDING?

                by Andree Chedid

First,
erase your name,
unravel your years,
destroy your surroundings,
uproot what you seem,
and who remains standing?
Then,
rewrite your name,
restore your age,
rebuild your house,
pursue your path,
and then,
endlessly,
start over, all over again.

Andree is a Lebanese poetess, a woman well-versed in the art of beginning again. Given the sour aftertaste of an unintended power struggle in lapbooking with the girls today, I found myself closing the books, turning my back on the crafts, and waiting for the howl.

Standing in the room- with the girls and the toys and the half-capped glue sticks, the floor sticky with lemonade, the windows smudged with tiny fingerprints, a sketch I'd started only to find as part of someone's surprise collage- standing still in the center of the chaos, not a word came to my lips.

There was nothing to say.

Or, rather, nothing I said would have shaved the edge from the madness. Nothing would make the cut from the remainder of the well-laid plans any cleaner.

The Prophet wanted to take "portraits". I sat on the floor by the $30 thrift-store couch and gave in.

The images showed me to myself- an immobilized "modern" woman feeling her feminism more intensely with each passing minute- a still life surrounded by motion, by moving life. 

 When I reach out to steady myself, the poems are sturdier than any oak table.

It's not what we know, but what we long to know that keeps us hungry for life. The unquenchable longing is my best friend- the piece of myself I won't relinquish for any man, woman, or child. 

On days like this today, I fold my hands. If I sit still long enough, steadied by poetry, the hubbub dims and narrows, chiseled by words folding one atop the other, thickening to the density of whetstone. I wait to be sharpened. 

AHM #2, a poem by John Bennett.

AHM #2

by Jon Bennett

If I’m going

to be a prisoner

and I am

let me build

my prison

on the ivory plain

of your stomach

in view

of the forest

of your long

brown

hair.

Discovered in the lovely little magazine called Sassafrass. Where I also discovered that Jon Bennett's novel, a spec-fi about autism, is due to be published this year. Where I now have a novel to wish upon.

In which they buried the Snowpocalypse time capsule in the front yard.

The snowpocalypse time capsule was ceremoniously buried by the Eldest, the Prophet, and the Gnome with all the ado they could muster.

The Prophet runs to the "Easter grove" in search of special twigs for the ceremony....

...which she faithfully delivers to the hard-working Eldest.

The Eldest counts ten steps west from the tree to the burial location.

Since the Gnome seemed to be very busy over the by the bench, I wondered if she had a special role to play in the burial. So I made my inquisitive approach.

Lo and behold, the Gnome snacked on show.

Using collage to explore how things are made.

There's nothing like a blank activity sheet to make you realize just how creative kids can be. And there's nothing like a Sunday marked by lack of sleep to prompt the collages.

I explained that a product is the object we buy or sell- it is what commercials and billboards advertise. The source, on the other hand, is the material from which the product is made or created. An simple example- ketchup is a product made from tomatoes, which are the source. A more sophisticated example- a novel is the product and the writer is the source.

PRODUCT AND SOURCE COLLAGE ACTIVITY SHEET (PDF)

Download your own copy, close your eyes, pass over the magazines, and see what comes of it. I'll share what the castle-dwellers produced later.

How the boys played with our expired Christmas tree.

E. and the Eldest have been friends for a long time- ever since they discovered, on a random playground, that both shared an imaginary world. For a few months last year, they didn't speak- there was a rift that needed to work itself out. It was hard to see how much the Eldest missed E. 

So, on Friday, when E. dropped by to play and the boys disappeared into the woods for a few hours, I wondered what they might be doing. As they ladies played outside, mixing mud and twigs, arranging the "house", I complained to my journal about the failures of modern feminism to address the growing market for silicone.

Though I heard the boys' voices, I didn't turn around until the whooping began. Lo and behold, what should I see but the Eldest and E. jumping over our expired Christmas tree, who had moved into a supine position on the lawn.

It didn't take long for Little B. and the Gnome to join the fray. It turned into what one might call a tree-jumping day. 

Little B. moves to the side as the boys approach.

E. masters the art of almost flying over the tree.

When I told E. that he resembled an eagle as he jumped, E. smiled. Then the Eldest jumped. E. didn't hesitate to announce that the Eldest preferred the style of a "fallen bird".

The Prophet runs away after jumping the tree.

Sore about the tree not having received a proper burial in the forest this year, the boys struggled to remove the tree stand before finally giving up and deciding to drag it into the woods anyway, tree stand and all.

The Eldest and E. grinned big when I said the King would probably wonder where the tree stand ended up- and, being a parsimonious King, would want to recoup his financial losses.

"Well, then, we'll made it fun game of hide-and-go-tree..." quipped the Eldest, before disappearing into the woods.

So far, the King has yet to realize the tree and the tree stand are missing. I predict an evening game of hide-and-go-tree sometime in the near future...