Assignment #20 -- Write about the color of hunger
The color of hunger?
What do I know
about the color of hunger?
I have never gone to bed hungry
a night of my life
When it wasn't by choice.
Ask me about the color of love
or even the color of rage
and I might
perhaps
have something to say.
But what do I know
about the color of hunger?
Hunger is a black beast
It stalks the desolate places
Where the poor
Who have nothing
Search through garbage cans
For the scraps people like me cast away.
It is a ravenous gnawing hopelessness
That preys on the weak
In a land of scandalous abundance.
What do I know of hunger?
I who have spent most of my life
Trying to curb my appetites
To avoid excess weight?
Hunger is a stranger to me
I have seen it in the faces of children
And old men on the side of the road
Holding "Will Work for Food" signs.
But it isn't something I know
Not intimately.
So how am I supposed to write
About what color is hunger?
Sunday, November 21, 2004
Saturday, November 20, 2004
Skipping ahead since the last several prompts weren't applicable or were really boring....
Prompt #19 -- Begin a story with the words, "There once was a chance I didn't take..."
There once was a chance I didn't take, a chance to spend a summer basking in the sun in Greece. A chance to spend three months living in a culture not my own but with the advantage of a friend by my side to help me bridge the gap. I've often wondered what would have happened if I'd gone with him that summer.
It was the summer of 1990. I was a senior in college attending Memphis State University. Sean was my crazy Greek musician friend. My boyfriend and I spent hours at Sean's apartment with a group of friends that gathered most weekends (and many weeknights) around Sean's avacado green upright piano. I remember those nights with fondness even now. Sean would play and those of us that were inclined woulds sing or play along. I remember sitting perched atop the piano like an old time saloon girl belting out "Mack the Knife". It was at the end of one of these lazy spring evenings that Sean asked me to go with him to Greece for the summer.
I remember staring at him in amazement. "It'll all be paid for. All you have to do is come. I do USO stuff all over Europe. Come with me." There was nothing asked of me other than my company. But something would not let me say yes. Even as someone told me he'd support me if I wanted to go. Harold would have let me go. He trusted me that much. He trusted me implicitly and he trusted Sean enough to grant me the freedom to go.
I couldn't imagine dealing with the reaction of the families when I announced I'd be spending the summer in Greece with another man. I couldn't imagine finding words to explain to my mother that Sean and I were "just friends" but that I was going to spend the summer with him in another country. I couldn't imagine Harold having to explain why he "let me go". In the end, I was too afraid to lose everything in life that truly mattered to me, even for the "opportunity of a lifetime." I said no.
Sean had a seizure in Greece that summer. In the midst of the seizure he walked out of the post exchange with something in his hand that he hadn't yet paid for. They didn't believe him when he tried to explain about the epilepsy. I've often wondered if that would have happened if I had been there with him. I've often thought that if that hadn't happened he would never have had the surgery that left him a shell of himself, robbed of his short term memory and suffering grand mal seizures instead of the petit mal ones he'd had in the past. I've often looked at that summer and wondered, if I had gone with him would everything be different.
"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that made all the difference." The wisom of Robert Frost. We cannot predict the outcomes of roads not taken. Regret is an exercise in futility. And so I will never know what could have been. My life is good and I am happy. But there once was a chance I did not take.
Prompt #19 -- Begin a story with the words, "There once was a chance I didn't take..."
There once was a chance I didn't take, a chance to spend a summer basking in the sun in Greece. A chance to spend three months living in a culture not my own but with the advantage of a friend by my side to help me bridge the gap. I've often wondered what would have happened if I'd gone with him that summer.
It was the summer of 1990. I was a senior in college attending Memphis State University. Sean was my crazy Greek musician friend. My boyfriend and I spent hours at Sean's apartment with a group of friends that gathered most weekends (and many weeknights) around Sean's avacado green upright piano. I remember those nights with fondness even now. Sean would play and those of us that were inclined woulds sing or play along. I remember sitting perched atop the piano like an old time saloon girl belting out "Mack the Knife". It was at the end of one of these lazy spring evenings that Sean asked me to go with him to Greece for the summer.
I remember staring at him in amazement. "It'll all be paid for. All you have to do is come. I do USO stuff all over Europe. Come with me." There was nothing asked of me other than my company. But something would not let me say yes. Even as someone told me he'd support me if I wanted to go. Harold would have let me go. He trusted me that much. He trusted me implicitly and he trusted Sean enough to grant me the freedom to go.
I couldn't imagine dealing with the reaction of the families when I announced I'd be spending the summer in Greece with another man. I couldn't imagine finding words to explain to my mother that Sean and I were "just friends" but that I was going to spend the summer with him in another country. I couldn't imagine Harold having to explain why he "let me go". In the end, I was too afraid to lose everything in life that truly mattered to me, even for the "opportunity of a lifetime." I said no.
Sean had a seizure in Greece that summer. In the midst of the seizure he walked out of the post exchange with something in his hand that he hadn't yet paid for. They didn't believe him when he tried to explain about the epilepsy. I've often wondered if that would have happened if I had been there with him. I've often thought that if that hadn't happened he would never have had the surgery that left him a shell of himself, robbed of his short term memory and suffering grand mal seizures instead of the petit mal ones he'd had in the past. I've often looked at that summer and wondered, if I had gone with him would everything be different.
"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that made all the difference." The wisom of Robert Frost. We cannot predict the outcomes of roads not taken. Regret is an exercise in futility. And so I will never know what could have been. My life is good and I am happy. But there once was a chance I did not take.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Assignment #11
Here are three sets of words. Use all the words in each set to write mini-stories in 300 words or less.
Set 1
Paper clips, principle, lunchbox, swing, girl with a pink ribbon
It’s 8:30 in the morning and already it’s been the worst day of my life. See, I have a bad habit of swinging my lunchbox as I walk. Swing, swing, swing, swing back and forth in rhythm with my steps. I’ve never paid much attention to it actually until today. I was hurrying along, running a bit late, so I was swinging it harder and faster than usual. Hard enough that when the handle broke it flew probably twenty feet through the air before it hit the little girl with the pink ribbon in the head.
It knocked her clean out. The ambulance came and she had to go to the hospital. They said something about a concussion. So here I sit. Counting the paper clips spilling from the container on Principle Hale’s desk. He’ll be here soon demanding an explanation. It was an accident, though they’ll never believe it. I don’t even know her and they’re convinced I tried to decapitate her with my lunchbox. Is it MY fault the handle broke? The stupid lunchbox maker should have made it stronger than that. Maybe I can use that as my defense. Yeah. Works in court.
There are 23 paperclips on Principle Hale’s desk. Life stinks.
Set 2 -- Biology, class card, foreign student, leaf, blood sample
She looked at her class card again. Biology 101, Jones Hall, Room 314, 11:00 am, yes, this was the right place. “How odd,” She thought, “No one is here.” She checked her watch again. 11:05 am. She was late actually and somehow she was still the first one there. “Something must be wrong,” she muttered to herself as she turned to leave. As a foreign student sometimes she still had problems with the language and she wanted to be sure she hadn’t misunderstood the schedule.
“Pardon me,” she said to the young woman behind the desk. “Can you tell me what happened to the 11 o’clock Biology 101 class that is supposed to be meeting in Jones Hall?” She brushed at a leaf that had somehow landed in her hair and waited for an answer. None came. “Excuse me.” She said a bit more forcefully. The startled young woman behind the desk removed the ear buds of her iPod from her ears. “I’m so sorry. Did you ask me something?” Sighing, she repeated her question and finally discovered that her biology class had been cancelled and she would have to register for another section.
Frustrated, she strode purposefully away to the registrars office and found a spot in the long line. After giving the registrar what seemed like everything but a blood sample she finally got the class she needed. She laughed a bit at her own frustration. How quickly she’d become accustomed to getting what she wanted. How different a future this was than the one she’d have had if Saddam hadn’t been overthrown. She smiled at the flag flying over the quad. God bless America.
Set 3 -- typewriter, filing cabinet, puncher, clerk, carbon paper, janitor
She looked around the dilapidated office that the janitor had just unlocked for her. It looked as if it were a museum from the 70’s. An olive green army surplus desk dominated the room and a matching filing cabinet stood in the corner. On the desk was a massive IBM Selectric typewriter. She hadn’t seen one of those in twenty years. “What next,” she wondered, “carbon paper?”
She’d slaved for years as a card puncher. She’d been a retail clerk. She’d been a factory worker. She’d worked in a lawyer’s office. She’d punched one time clock after another in a series of dead end jobs until she’d scrimped and saved enough to try to make a go of it own her own as a writer. She’d rented this little office sight unseen. A fact she was now beginning to regret. Oh well.
She thanked the janitor, asked him about the cleaning schedule and closed the door behind him when he left. This was it. She was on her own. Taking a set of stencils and a bottle of gold paint from her briefcase she carefully stenciled on the glass of the door. “Tara Scott, Author.” She opened the door again and admired her handiwork. Looking around the office again she smiled. With a banker’s lamp on the desk it would look exactly the way a stereotypical writers office should look. She’d be happy here. Hopefully she’d be successful too. Time would tell.
Here are three sets of words. Use all the words in each set to write mini-stories in 300 words or less.
Set 1
Paper clips, principle, lunchbox, swing, girl with a pink ribbon
It’s 8:30 in the morning and already it’s been the worst day of my life. See, I have a bad habit of swinging my lunchbox as I walk. Swing, swing, swing, swing back and forth in rhythm with my steps. I’ve never paid much attention to it actually until today. I was hurrying along, running a bit late, so I was swinging it harder and faster than usual. Hard enough that when the handle broke it flew probably twenty feet through the air before it hit the little girl with the pink ribbon in the head.
It knocked her clean out. The ambulance came and she had to go to the hospital. They said something about a concussion. So here I sit. Counting the paper clips spilling from the container on Principle Hale’s desk. He’ll be here soon demanding an explanation. It was an accident, though they’ll never believe it. I don’t even know her and they’re convinced I tried to decapitate her with my lunchbox. Is it MY fault the handle broke? The stupid lunchbox maker should have made it stronger than that. Maybe I can use that as my defense. Yeah. Works in court.
There are 23 paperclips on Principle Hale’s desk. Life stinks.
Set 2 -- Biology, class card, foreign student, leaf, blood sample
She looked at her class card again. Biology 101, Jones Hall, Room 314, 11:00 am, yes, this was the right place. “How odd,” She thought, “No one is here.” She checked her watch again. 11:05 am. She was late actually and somehow she was still the first one there. “Something must be wrong,” she muttered to herself as she turned to leave. As a foreign student sometimes she still had problems with the language and she wanted to be sure she hadn’t misunderstood the schedule.
“Pardon me,” she said to the young woman behind the desk. “Can you tell me what happened to the 11 o’clock Biology 101 class that is supposed to be meeting in Jones Hall?” She brushed at a leaf that had somehow landed in her hair and waited for an answer. None came. “Excuse me.” She said a bit more forcefully. The startled young woman behind the desk removed the ear buds of her iPod from her ears. “I’m so sorry. Did you ask me something?” Sighing, she repeated her question and finally discovered that her biology class had been cancelled and she would have to register for another section.
Frustrated, she strode purposefully away to the registrars office and found a spot in the long line. After giving the registrar what seemed like everything but a blood sample she finally got the class she needed. She laughed a bit at her own frustration. How quickly she’d become accustomed to getting what she wanted. How different a future this was than the one she’d have had if Saddam hadn’t been overthrown. She smiled at the flag flying over the quad. God bless America.
Set 3 -- typewriter, filing cabinet, puncher, clerk, carbon paper, janitor
She looked around the dilapidated office that the janitor had just unlocked for her. It looked as if it were a museum from the 70’s. An olive green army surplus desk dominated the room and a matching filing cabinet stood in the corner. On the desk was a massive IBM Selectric typewriter. She hadn’t seen one of those in twenty years. “What next,” she wondered, “carbon paper?”
She’d slaved for years as a card puncher. She’d been a retail clerk. She’d been a factory worker. She’d worked in a lawyer’s office. She’d punched one time clock after another in a series of dead end jobs until she’d scrimped and saved enough to try to make a go of it own her own as a writer. She’d rented this little office sight unseen. A fact she was now beginning to regret. Oh well.
She thanked the janitor, asked him about the cleaning schedule and closed the door behind him when he left. This was it. She was on her own. Taking a set of stencils and a bottle of gold paint from her briefcase she carefully stenciled on the glass of the door. “Tara Scott, Author.” She opened the door again and admired her handiwork. Looking around the office again she smiled. With a banker’s lamp on the desk it would look exactly the way a stereotypical writers office should look. She’d be happy here. Hopefully she’d be successful too. Time would tell.
Ok. Yesterday's assignment took me forever to come up with an object. I told you I didn't like that assignment. Hopefully the result will be ok though.
My Life as A Switchboard
Until very recently
I've spent my life
As A human Switchboard
The point of contact
Between a diverse group of people
That found it more convenient
To pass messages through me
Than to deal directly with one another
I had been a switchboard for so long
That I didn't realize
There was anything else to be
Or that there could possibly
Be anything wrong
With being a switchboard
I was a very reliable switchboard
Only passing along messages given me
Not adding my own spin on them
Yet it seemed I was constantly
In the middle of someone else's conflicts
And genuinely puzzled as to how I got there.
C had an issue with D but came to me
Because I knew how to handle D
So why then is D mad at me?
It was a puzzlement.
Many fights
Many talks
Many tears
Before finally I understood
A switchboard is an object.
You use objects.
You love people.
And I was being USED.
So I ceased to allow myself
To be an object
And when I was no longer
Living my life as a switchboard
Peace came.
And the people who really loved me
Remain.
Sometimes old users
Still try and plug in
But now they get
"All circuits are busy
Please contact the party you wish to deal with directly
The switchboard is closed."
And I am happy.
My Life as A Switchboard
Until very recently
I've spent my life
As A human Switchboard
The point of contact
Between a diverse group of people
That found it more convenient
To pass messages through me
Than to deal directly with one another
I had been a switchboard for so long
That I didn't realize
There was anything else to be
Or that there could possibly
Be anything wrong
With being a switchboard
I was a very reliable switchboard
Only passing along messages given me
Not adding my own spin on them
Yet it seemed I was constantly
In the middle of someone else's conflicts
And genuinely puzzled as to how I got there.
C had an issue with D but came to me
Because I knew how to handle D
So why then is D mad at me?
It was a puzzlement.
Many fights
Many talks
Many tears
Before finally I understood
A switchboard is an object.
You use objects.
You love people.
And I was being USED.
So I ceased to allow myself
To be an object
And when I was no longer
Living my life as a switchboard
Peace came.
And the people who really loved me
Remain.
Sometimes old users
Still try and plug in
But now they get
"All circuits are busy
Please contact the party you wish to deal with directly
The switchboard is closed."
And I am happy.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Assignment #10
Write a poem about an object that describes you. First choose an object. Next list the reasons that this object describes you. Which is the most powerful? Which conveys the strongest image of you? Once your main image is chosen list supporting ideas. Build your poem from there.
Once again, I'm not wild about this assignment. I shall think on it awhile and be back.
Write a poem about an object that describes you. First choose an object. Next list the reasons that this object describes you. Which is the most powerful? Which conveys the strongest image of you? Once your main image is chosen list supporting ideas. Build your poem from there.
Once again, I'm not wild about this assignment. I shall think on it awhile and be back.
Monday, October 25, 2004
Assignment #9
Write about how you feel right now using your sense of smell. If you feel frustrated, write about what your frustration smells like. Use lots of adjectives.
Can I just say I don't like this assignment.
PMS Smells like Chocolate
I woke up this morning with that feeling,
ladies you know the one.
When nothing is right
and everything hurts
and ain't nothing gonna get done.
The name of the mess is PMS
and when it comes ain't no place to run.
And PMS smells like chocolate
Bittersweet
Dark
Almost biting
It's all I want and nothing I need.
I smell it in my dreams.
The soothing aroma of cocoa beans
Only a man would have written of life
In terms of lemons and lemonaid
Cause women all know
When the going gets tough
That's the reason that chocolate was made.
And PMS smells like chocolate.
Write about how you feel right now using your sense of smell. If you feel frustrated, write about what your frustration smells like. Use lots of adjectives.
Can I just say I don't like this assignment.
PMS Smells like Chocolate
I woke up this morning with that feeling,
ladies you know the one.
When nothing is right
and everything hurts
and ain't nothing gonna get done.
The name of the mess is PMS
and when it comes ain't no place to run.
And PMS smells like chocolate
Bittersweet
Dark
Almost biting
It's all I want and nothing I need.
I smell it in my dreams.
The soothing aroma of cocoa beans
Only a man would have written of life
In terms of lemons and lemonaid
Cause women all know
When the going gets tough
That's the reason that chocolate was made.
And PMS smells like chocolate.
Friday, October 22, 2004
Assignment #8
Make a list of 40 things that have happened to you in the last month. They can be funny, embarassing, happy or infuriating. Pick one and write about it.
Ok I did this a bit differently I didn't write about a single incident because as I was listing a pattern showed up...so I wrote what I hope will be an article for our homeschool newsletter about learning as a homeschool mom. Enjoy.
Never Stop Learning
One thing I find interesting about being a homeschooling mom, particularly one who leans toward “unschooling” as a philosophy is that I am ALWAYS learning new things. I sat down and made a list of forty things that happened to me this month.
In the last thirty days alone, I have learned over a dozen new things. That’s quite an accomplishment for a fairly well educated thirty-something.
Since I took on teaching my child, teaching myself something no longer intimidates me. I started teaching myself to knit recently. I have a book and I’m working on a scarf. I’ve taught myself how to “cast on” and how to knit a “stockenette” stitch. When the time comes I’ll teach myself how to “cast off” and finish my project. Is it perfect? No. But its good enough and once I know if I enjoy it or not I’ll find someone to show me what I don’t know so that I can become truly proficient at it.
That’s something I’ve learned from homeschooling. Half the game is finding the right resources. For example, I wanted to learn to dance. I have videos but I just wasn’t getting it from watching the videos. I needed to find someone to teach me. So Jessica and I are taking a line dancing class at the local YMCA. Our teacher is an 82-year-old dynamo named Juanita Joyner. So far we’ve mastered 6 different dances and are working on several more. We’ve got “the Roller Coaster”, “The Little Black Book”, “The Hank”, “The Honky Tonk Stomp”, “The Line Waltz” and “The Ten Step Polka” fairly well mastered. We’re working on “The Catfish”, “The Cowboy Cha Cha”, “The Boot Scootin’ Boogie” and a few others that I don’t yet recall the name of. A month ago I couldn’t say with confidence that I could dance ANYTHING except “The Macarena” and it went out of style 5 years ago. I love this class. Wanna dance?
Another thing I have learned as a homeschooling mom is the importance of having the right tools. We spent hundreds of dollars on reading programs for Jessica before finding the one that fit her. Once we did, she learned to read in a matter of days. How does this apply to me? I’m learning to play the bass. I have a great bassist living here with me and I’d be a fool not to take advantage of that knowledge. Yet I haven’t had a lesson in 6 months. Why? My bass didn’t fit me. I have a beautiful white Fender P-bass that I bought when I started trying to learn. It wasn’t until I started playing it that I realized that it was too big for me. The neck stock was too wide for my small hands. I struggled along trying to learn and fighting the instrument. Finally I quit. But I still wanted to learn the bass. So I’ve been trying basses everywhere we went. I bought a new bass this month, a bright red, heart-shaped, daisy-rock bass. A bass designed by a female guitarist for female guitarists. It’s 30 inches long and half an inch narrower at the neck than my Fender was. It is the right tool for me and it is a joy to play. I’m on my way to mastering “Green Eyed Lady”.
Opportunities to learn are all around us. We just have to have our eyes open to them. We need to be willing to take risks and try new things, to find the right teachers and resources to help when we get stuck, to make sure we have the right tools for the job. But most of all NEVER stop learning. Life is too interesting to stagnate.
Make a list of 40 things that have happened to you in the last month. They can be funny, embarassing, happy or infuriating. Pick one and write about it.
Ok I did this a bit differently I didn't write about a single incident because as I was listing a pattern showed up...so I wrote what I hope will be an article for our homeschool newsletter about learning as a homeschool mom. Enjoy.
Never Stop Learning
One thing I find interesting about being a homeschooling mom, particularly one who leans toward “unschooling” as a philosophy is that I am ALWAYS learning new things. I sat down and made a list of forty things that happened to me this month.
In the last thirty days alone, I have learned over a dozen new things. That’s quite an accomplishment for a fairly well educated thirty-something.
Since I took on teaching my child, teaching myself something no longer intimidates me. I started teaching myself to knit recently. I have a book and I’m working on a scarf. I’ve taught myself how to “cast on” and how to knit a “stockenette” stitch. When the time comes I’ll teach myself how to “cast off” and finish my project. Is it perfect? No. But its good enough and once I know if I enjoy it or not I’ll find someone to show me what I don’t know so that I can become truly proficient at it.
That’s something I’ve learned from homeschooling. Half the game is finding the right resources. For example, I wanted to learn to dance. I have videos but I just wasn’t getting it from watching the videos. I needed to find someone to teach me. So Jessica and I are taking a line dancing class at the local YMCA. Our teacher is an 82-year-old dynamo named Juanita Joyner. So far we’ve mastered 6 different dances and are working on several more. We’ve got “the Roller Coaster”, “The Little Black Book”, “The Hank”, “The Honky Tonk Stomp”, “The Line Waltz” and “The Ten Step Polka” fairly well mastered. We’re working on “The Catfish”, “The Cowboy Cha Cha”, “The Boot Scootin’ Boogie” and a few others that I don’t yet recall the name of. A month ago I couldn’t say with confidence that I could dance ANYTHING except “The Macarena” and it went out of style 5 years ago. I love this class. Wanna dance?
Another thing I have learned as a homeschooling mom is the importance of having the right tools. We spent hundreds of dollars on reading programs for Jessica before finding the one that fit her. Once we did, she learned to read in a matter of days. How does this apply to me? I’m learning to play the bass. I have a great bassist living here with me and I’d be a fool not to take advantage of that knowledge. Yet I haven’t had a lesson in 6 months. Why? My bass didn’t fit me. I have a beautiful white Fender P-bass that I bought when I started trying to learn. It wasn’t until I started playing it that I realized that it was too big for me. The neck stock was too wide for my small hands. I struggled along trying to learn and fighting the instrument. Finally I quit. But I still wanted to learn the bass. So I’ve been trying basses everywhere we went. I bought a new bass this month, a bright red, heart-shaped, daisy-rock bass. A bass designed by a female guitarist for female guitarists. It’s 30 inches long and half an inch narrower at the neck than my Fender was. It is the right tool for me and it is a joy to play. I’m on my way to mastering “Green Eyed Lady”.
Opportunities to learn are all around us. We just have to have our eyes open to them. We need to be willing to take risks and try new things, to find the right teachers and resources to help when we get stuck, to make sure we have the right tools for the job. But most of all NEVER stop learning. Life is too interesting to stagnate.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Assignment #7
No, I didn't "quit"...the prompt site has been down.
OK...today's prompt. "Electricity is a recent invention. Think of 12 things to do when the power is off." Hmmmm...don't care for this one very much but let's see what I can do with it.
I know! I need practice with outlines. I'll work on outlining.
Twelve Things to Do When the Power Is Off
Family
1. Calm
2. Cuddle
3. Chat
Food
1. Grill
2. Glow
3. Gourmet
Fun
1. Games
2. Giggles
3. Gab
Faith
1. Scripture
2. Songs
3. Silence
Ok...now to write.
Storm Survival Guide
The storm howls and blows outside. Weatherbug alerts again that there is a severe storm warning in the area. Suddenly, zzzot! The power fails and the neighborhood goes black. Now what? With no computer, no TV, none of our modern conveniences available to us, what do we do until the power is restored? How will we cope? Today I offer twelve suggestions of things to do when the power is off. After all, our great-grandparents got along without it quite nicely. Surely we can too.
Family first. At our house there is a little girl and a little dog who are both afraid of storms. So the first thing that happens at our house when the power goes off is that we find the child and make sure that she is calm. Often that means that we spend some time cuddling together in the downstairs hallway while listening to the weather radio to make sure we're safe. We chat about how lightening is made and that God is watering the plants and flowers.
Once that is settled and it becomes obvious that we're in for the long haul with this power thing its time to start thinking about food. We get gourmet when the power is off. If the rain has stopped we get out the grill, which we keep supplied with gas year around after having been one of the only families in our section of the apartment complex to have the ability to cook during the ice storm of 1994. Since we know we can trust the freezer for at least a day or two we eat anything that remains in the fridge first. This has lead to some interesting combinations, but in the glow of the candlelight anything looks wonderful.
With a seven year old in the house, keeping the fun going is important. We play games by candlelight. Candyland is a favorite still around here but we've been known to get into some marathon rounds of Monopoly Jr. and Uno. We also share clean jokes and giggle together about silly things that only we find funny. Power failures can be fun. With nothing else to distract us we find time to gab about life, the universe and everything. Sometimes profound stuff comes up in the quiet. Sometimes not. But always we find something new about the people we love.
For me personally, I find the enforced quiet of a power failure is good for my faith life. I take a Kerosene lamp and find a quiet corner and spend time in my bible and prayer. I sing. Usually starting with the old southern gospel song "Til the Storm Passes By" (I was a little girl afraid of storms once too.) and moving on to contemporary praise and worship choruses that make me aware that God is in control even in the storms of life. Then I am simply silent. Quiet is hard to carve out of a normal day surrounded by the distractions and business of life. In the absence of my electronic hum, I find solitude and time to "be still and know that he is God."
A power failure can be a positive thing. A time for spending with Family, enjoying good Food and Fun and renewing my Faith. Twelve simple ideas make a time that could be a waste a joy and a memory for us all.
No, I didn't "quit"...the prompt site has been down.
OK...today's prompt. "Electricity is a recent invention. Think of 12 things to do when the power is off." Hmmmm...don't care for this one very much but let's see what I can do with it.
I know! I need practice with outlines. I'll work on outlining.
Twelve Things to Do When the Power Is Off
Family
1. Calm
2. Cuddle
3. Chat
Food
1. Grill
2. Glow
3. Gourmet
Fun
1. Games
2. Giggles
3. Gab
Faith
1. Scripture
2. Songs
3. Silence
Ok...now to write.
Storm Survival Guide
The storm howls and blows outside. Weatherbug alerts again that there is a severe storm warning in the area. Suddenly, zzzot! The power fails and the neighborhood goes black. Now what? With no computer, no TV, none of our modern conveniences available to us, what do we do until the power is restored? How will we cope? Today I offer twelve suggestions of things to do when the power is off. After all, our great-grandparents got along without it quite nicely. Surely we can too.
Family first. At our house there is a little girl and a little dog who are both afraid of storms. So the first thing that happens at our house when the power goes off is that we find the child and make sure that she is calm. Often that means that we spend some time cuddling together in the downstairs hallway while listening to the weather radio to make sure we're safe. We chat about how lightening is made and that God is watering the plants and flowers.
Once that is settled and it becomes obvious that we're in for the long haul with this power thing its time to start thinking about food. We get gourmet when the power is off. If the rain has stopped we get out the grill, which we keep supplied with gas year around after having been one of the only families in our section of the apartment complex to have the ability to cook during the ice storm of 1994. Since we know we can trust the freezer for at least a day or two we eat anything that remains in the fridge first. This has lead to some interesting combinations, but in the glow of the candlelight anything looks wonderful.
With a seven year old in the house, keeping the fun going is important. We play games by candlelight. Candyland is a favorite still around here but we've been known to get into some marathon rounds of Monopoly Jr. and Uno. We also share clean jokes and giggle together about silly things that only we find funny. Power failures can be fun. With nothing else to distract us we find time to gab about life, the universe and everything. Sometimes profound stuff comes up in the quiet. Sometimes not. But always we find something new about the people we love.
For me personally, I find the enforced quiet of a power failure is good for my faith life. I take a Kerosene lamp and find a quiet corner and spend time in my bible and prayer. I sing. Usually starting with the old southern gospel song "Til the Storm Passes By" (I was a little girl afraid of storms once too.) and moving on to contemporary praise and worship choruses that make me aware that God is in control even in the storms of life. Then I am simply silent. Quiet is hard to carve out of a normal day surrounded by the distractions and business of life. In the absence of my electronic hum, I find solitude and time to "be still and know that he is God."
A power failure can be a positive thing. A time for spending with Family, enjoying good Food and Fun and renewing my Faith. Twelve simple ideas make a time that could be a waste a joy and a memory for us all.
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Assignment 6
Write down all the cliche's you can think of. Pick the one you are most familiar with, or the one that strikes your fancy, and write a poem with it.
If The Good Lord's Willing, And the Creek Don't Rise...
by Terri Wilson Weaver
If the Good Lord's willing and the creek don't rise
I'll accomplish marvelous things
I'll clean my house
Write a book
Compose new songs to sing
If the Good Lord's willing and the creek don't rise
I'll visit far and wide
I'll see my best friend
My mom and dad
My Grandma in Georgia
That baby you had.
If the Good Lord's willing and the creek don't rise
I'll learn so many new things
How to knit
How to quilt
How to build a barn
How to make music on these here bass strings
There's so many things I'll see and do
So many things I'll try
And you can take that as a promise too
If the Good Lord's willing and the creek don't rise.
Write down all the cliche's you can think of. Pick the one you are most familiar with, or the one that strikes your fancy, and write a poem with it.
If The Good Lord's Willing, And the Creek Don't Rise...
by Terri Wilson Weaver
If the Good Lord's willing and the creek don't rise
I'll accomplish marvelous things
I'll clean my house
Write a book
Compose new songs to sing
If the Good Lord's willing and the creek don't rise
I'll visit far and wide
I'll see my best friend
My mom and dad
My Grandma in Georgia
That baby you had.
If the Good Lord's willing and the creek don't rise
I'll learn so many new things
How to knit
How to quilt
How to build a barn
How to make music on these here bass strings
There's so many things I'll see and do
So many things I'll try
And you can take that as a promise too
If the Good Lord's willing and the creek don't rise.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Assignment # 5
Choose a poem you like. Take the last line and use it as the first line of your own poem.
I chose "Never Give Up" by Vincent Godfrey Burns. The last line reads... "When hope returns with the morning light."
Start Over
When hope returns with the morning light
And a spark of Joy in my soul ignites
All praise to the Lord
Who gives me life
And bids me
Child, start over.
As long as the morning brings the sun
Nothing in life cannot be undone
God works them for good
Every one
And bids me
Child, start over.
Its not what you do
That defines who you are
No matter how deep the stain
Or scar
The Lord of love
Reaches where you are
And bids you
Child, start over.
If you find yourself in the pit of despair
Know that God will meet you there
And lift you from the mire with care
And bid you
Child, start over.
When hope returns with the morning light
And you're weary of the struggle and fight
And your heart longs to again be right
God bids you
Child, start over.
Choose a poem you like. Take the last line and use it as the first line of your own poem.
I chose "Never Give Up" by Vincent Godfrey Burns. The last line reads... "When hope returns with the morning light."
Start Over
When hope returns with the morning light
And a spark of Joy in my soul ignites
All praise to the Lord
Who gives me life
And bids me
Child, start over.
As long as the morning brings the sun
Nothing in life cannot be undone
God works them for good
Every one
And bids me
Child, start over.
Its not what you do
That defines who you are
No matter how deep the stain
Or scar
The Lord of love
Reaches where you are
And bids you
Child, start over.
If you find yourself in the pit of despair
Know that God will meet you there
And lift you from the mire with care
And bid you
Child, start over.
When hope returns with the morning light
And you're weary of the struggle and fight
And your heart longs to again be right
God bids you
Child, start over.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Assignment #4
Fairytales have happy endings. All of us know what happened in that mushy fairytale, Cinderella. Yeah, its romantic, the prince actually finding Cinderella. They lived happily ever after. But happy endings can be, well...boring. No zing. So predictable. So...happy. What if the shoe fit one of the sisters? What happens then? Play with your imagination here. Be funny if you like. Or serious if you feel like it. Or be an Alfred Hitchcock. Whatever you are into, write your ending to the Cinderella story -- but this time make it so the shoe fits one of the icky sisters. What does Prince Charming do? How does Cinderella cope with it? And what about the Fairy Godmother? Start your story here.
Ok this assignment is evolved into a nine page skit for a short play "The Trial of The Fairy Godmother". It is way too long to post here. If you want to see it shoot me a comment with your e-mail address and I'll be happy to share it with you.
Writing this way is stretching me. I've never done anything like this before and I'm really enjoying it. If you are interested in using the writing prompts I'm working from the site is www.creativewritingprompts.com
Fairytales have happy endings. All of us know what happened in that mushy fairytale, Cinderella. Yeah, its romantic, the prince actually finding Cinderella. They lived happily ever after. But happy endings can be, well...boring. No zing. So predictable. So...happy. What if the shoe fit one of the sisters? What happens then? Play with your imagination here. Be funny if you like. Or serious if you feel like it. Or be an Alfred Hitchcock. Whatever you are into, write your ending to the Cinderella story -- but this time make it so the shoe fits one of the icky sisters. What does Prince Charming do? How does Cinderella cope with it? And what about the Fairy Godmother? Start your story here.
Ok this assignment is evolved into a nine page skit for a short play "The Trial of The Fairy Godmother". It is way too long to post here. If you want to see it shoot me a comment with your e-mail address and I'll be happy to share it with you.
Writing this way is stretching me. I've never done anything like this before and I'm really enjoying it. If you are interested in using the writing prompts I'm working from the site is www.creativewritingprompts.com
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
Ooooo FUN!
I like today's assignment.
Randomly pick 10 words from the dictionary. DON'T look at their meanings. Write them down on a sheet of paper. Now you're going to have fun. Create meanings for those words.
So, without further ado, I give you...
Teribear's Ten Word Dictionary of Hick
Cryptanalysis (crip - t - an - alice - iss) -- What a grave robber does before entering King Tut's tomb. "My cryptanalysis shows the treasure room should be right about here.
Epiblast (Epy - blast) -- A contraction of Epic and Blast meaning one hell of a big explosion. "That bomb we dropped on He-roe-she-ma must have made one more epiblast"
Mahound (ma - hound) -- a singular possesive for a prize hunting dog. "Mahound over there is the best damn coon dog in three counties."
Marduk (mar - duk) -- a unit of measure used by duck hunters "Mahound got marduk than any other hound in the whole dang hunt."
Parasang (paris ang) -- A resident of Paris "She's a Parasang, lives on the champ lease a with a view of the eyeful tar."
Selma (sell me) -- A feminine name. "My great aunt Selma makes the best pickled okra in town."
Subgenus (Sub gene us) -- A lack of smarts. "He ain't too smart, he's one of them Subgenus."
Tottenham (tot ten ham) -- an accomplishment at the smokehouse. "He's so strong he can tottenham by hisself without droppin' any of 'em."
Vittle (Vi tul) -- Food. Usually used in the plural. "Can I carry you to the church pickneck on Sunday Selma? They're gonna have some mighty fine vittles."
Whitleather (whit leather) -- A measure of strength. "She may only be 4'1" but you don't wanna mess with her. She's tough as whitleather."
I like today's assignment.
Randomly pick 10 words from the dictionary. DON'T look at their meanings. Write them down on a sheet of paper. Now you're going to have fun. Create meanings for those words.
So, without further ado, I give you...
Teribear's Ten Word Dictionary of Hick
Cryptanalysis (crip - t - an - alice - iss) -- What a grave robber does before entering King Tut's tomb. "My cryptanalysis shows the treasure room should be right about here.
Epiblast (Epy - blast) -- A contraction of Epic and Blast meaning one hell of a big explosion. "That bomb we dropped on He-roe-she-ma must have made one more epiblast"
Mahound (ma - hound) -- a singular possesive for a prize hunting dog. "Mahound over there is the best damn coon dog in three counties."
Marduk (mar - duk) -- a unit of measure used by duck hunters "Mahound got marduk than any other hound in the whole dang hunt."
Parasang (paris ang) -- A resident of Paris "She's a Parasang, lives on the champ lease a with a view of the eyeful tar."
Selma (sell me) -- A feminine name. "My great aunt Selma makes the best pickled okra in town."
Subgenus (Sub gene us) -- A lack of smarts. "He ain't too smart, he's one of them Subgenus."
Tottenham (tot ten ham) -- an accomplishment at the smokehouse. "He's so strong he can tottenham by hisself without droppin' any of 'em."
Vittle (Vi tul) -- Food. Usually used in the plural. "Can I carry you to the church pickneck on Sunday Selma? They're gonna have some mighty fine vittles."
Whitleather (whit leather) -- A measure of strength. "She may only be 4'1" but you don't wanna mess with her. She's tough as whitleather."
Monday, October 11, 2004
Assignment number two...a picture is worth more than a blank page. Take out those dusty photo albums. Pick out photo #14. Count however you like but make sure you stop at photo number 14. Look at the photo for 2-3 minutes. Then for ten minutes, write down all the feelings that the photo made you feel. Don't censor yourself. Just write.
The rules didn't say I had to start at the beginning. So I started at the beginning of a section and counted from there. Maybe starting at the beginning would have been easier, how many feelings would a picture of a duck have stirred up? But no. I had to pick my 22nd birthday and the 14th picture is Sean at the keyboard. This is hard. Feelings abound.
Sean Platon Curry
When I close my eyes and bring up Sean Curry in my mind he is always sitting at the keyboard. Always playing the piano. Often I hear the music. This night, the day after my 22nd birthday, was one of the last times we were happy.
The buzzed hair suits him. But the scar snaking its way above his left ear is the harbinger of things to come. The scar, a meandering reminder of the surgery that stole him from me, makes me angry. I didn't want him to have the surgery. I was afraid of losing him. I knew the risk. But I couldn't deny him the chance to be "normal" so I didn't even try to talk him out of it. I regret that decision to this day.
Then Sean I knew never came home from the hospital. A shadow came home in his place. He came home with a railroad of staples snaking across his skull and having traded his petit mal seizures, not for the normalcy he was promised but rather for grand mal seizures and the total loss of his short term memory. The focus of my anger shifted to the doctors. I was heartbroken for him.
But on this night we were still happy. We were still celebrating my birthday. Seeing his apartment again makes me smile. The Palm frond wallpaper was truly awful. I can almost smell the scent of cigarettes and stale beer overlaid with incense. He's at the electric keyboard. It's resting on the utility spool directly under the "chandelier". To call it a chandelier was a kind lie. He'd crafted from a bicycle tire frame, two empty Bud quarts, an empty fifth of Stoli, an empty bottle of Ouzo and about a dozen discarded Pepsi cans.
He's playing. He's playing "China Grove". Don't ask me how I remember that, but I do. Though he's the only one in the picture I know that Dave is on bass and I'm playing tenor sax. Other pictures on the page tell the rest of the story. Music filled the apartment, spilling out the open front door and drawing folks from all over the complex. We jammed into the wee hours of the morning. It was one of the five best birthdays of my life.
Can it really have been 14 years ago? How is the loss still so fresh? The pain still so great? About a year after this photo was made his brother came and took him away. I never saw him again. All searches have come up empty. Is he dead? Is he alive? Did he recover ANY of the things his grasp for "normal" cost him? So many unanswered questions. As always these pictures are bittersweet. I miss him so badly.
The rules didn't say I had to start at the beginning. So I started at the beginning of a section and counted from there. Maybe starting at the beginning would have been easier, how many feelings would a picture of a duck have stirred up? But no. I had to pick my 22nd birthday and the 14th picture is Sean at the keyboard. This is hard. Feelings abound.
Sean Platon Curry
When I close my eyes and bring up Sean Curry in my mind he is always sitting at the keyboard. Always playing the piano. Often I hear the music. This night, the day after my 22nd birthday, was one of the last times we were happy.
The buzzed hair suits him. But the scar snaking its way above his left ear is the harbinger of things to come. The scar, a meandering reminder of the surgery that stole him from me, makes me angry. I didn't want him to have the surgery. I was afraid of losing him. I knew the risk. But I couldn't deny him the chance to be "normal" so I didn't even try to talk him out of it. I regret that decision to this day.
Then Sean I knew never came home from the hospital. A shadow came home in his place. He came home with a railroad of staples snaking across his skull and having traded his petit mal seizures, not for the normalcy he was promised but rather for grand mal seizures and the total loss of his short term memory. The focus of my anger shifted to the doctors. I was heartbroken for him.
But on this night we were still happy. We were still celebrating my birthday. Seeing his apartment again makes me smile. The Palm frond wallpaper was truly awful. I can almost smell the scent of cigarettes and stale beer overlaid with incense. He's at the electric keyboard. It's resting on the utility spool directly under the "chandelier". To call it a chandelier was a kind lie. He'd crafted from a bicycle tire frame, two empty Bud quarts, an empty fifth of Stoli, an empty bottle of Ouzo and about a dozen discarded Pepsi cans.
He's playing. He's playing "China Grove". Don't ask me how I remember that, but I do. Though he's the only one in the picture I know that Dave is on bass and I'm playing tenor sax. Other pictures on the page tell the rest of the story. Music filled the apartment, spilling out the open front door and drawing folks from all over the complex. We jammed into the wee hours of the morning. It was one of the five best birthdays of my life.
Can it really have been 14 years ago? How is the loss still so fresh? The pain still so great? About a year after this photo was made his brother came and took him away. I never saw him again. All searches have come up empty. Is he dead? Is he alive? Did he recover ANY of the things his grasp for "normal" cost him? So many unanswered questions. As always these pictures are bittersweet. I miss him so badly.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
So I've decided to start working on my writing again...
And since I seem to be suffering from writers block lately I've signed up with a couple of writing prompt sites.
Today's Assignment: Close your eyes. Think of an object in the room. Focus on that object after about three minutes, without looking at the object, write about the object.
Behind The Glass
She keeps me behind glass, safe, waiting for a special occasion that never seems to come. From her grandfather to her grandmother to her I have been handed down and yet I have spent most of my life trapped behind the glass. A service for 20, made for entertaining, made to be the centerpiece when family and friends gather, instead I gather dust. When does being cherished become being useless? When does being valuable become being wasted? I do not know, but I feel useless and wasted.
Creamy white with a band of silver around my edges, pink and yellow roses scattered along my borders, I was made to be pleasing to the eye. Has my beauty rendered me somehow untouchable? I am lonely. How gladly would I take the risk of being chipped or broken as long as it meant I would be serving the purpose for which I was made. Yet it seems I am destined to be kept "safe". Cloistered in this accursed china hutch wasting away never achieving the purpose for which I was created.
We are both being cheated. I of my purpose. She of the joy that I could bring her if she would let me. If she were brave enough to risk. Perhaps someday, before I am passed on to her daughter, she will understand that her family is enough of a special occasion to bring me to the table. That she is saving me for the wrong people. That the best, her best and my best, belongs to those she loves the most. Maybe then, when she has become what she is intended to be, she will rescue me from this prison of glass and let me be what I am intended to be. How I long for the day.
And since I seem to be suffering from writers block lately I've signed up with a couple of writing prompt sites.
Today's Assignment: Close your eyes. Think of an object in the room. Focus on that object after about three minutes, without looking at the object, write about the object.
Behind The Glass
She keeps me behind glass, safe, waiting for a special occasion that never seems to come. From her grandfather to her grandmother to her I have been handed down and yet I have spent most of my life trapped behind the glass. A service for 20, made for entertaining, made to be the centerpiece when family and friends gather, instead I gather dust. When does being cherished become being useless? When does being valuable become being wasted? I do not know, but I feel useless and wasted.
Creamy white with a band of silver around my edges, pink and yellow roses scattered along my borders, I was made to be pleasing to the eye. Has my beauty rendered me somehow untouchable? I am lonely. How gladly would I take the risk of being chipped or broken as long as it meant I would be serving the purpose for which I was made. Yet it seems I am destined to be kept "safe". Cloistered in this accursed china hutch wasting away never achieving the purpose for which I was created.
We are both being cheated. I of my purpose. She of the joy that I could bring her if she would let me. If she were brave enough to risk. Perhaps someday, before I am passed on to her daughter, she will understand that her family is enough of a special occasion to bring me to the table. That she is saving me for the wrong people. That the best, her best and my best, belongs to those she loves the most. Maybe then, when she has become what she is intended to be, she will rescue me from this prison of glass and let me be what I am intended to be. How I long for the day.
Friday, August 13, 2004
I hurt myself
FBS 110 Meds Taken
I stubbed my toe so severely last night that I took the toenail 2/3 of the way off. OUCH! I'll be keeping a careful watch on the situation since as a diabetic I need to be careful of my feet.
My parents are on their way down. We're hoping to get a good start on the drywall this weekend. Of course that means that today I have to hang more insulation and finish cleaning Jessi's room. (Change the sheets and wash the mountain of clothes I found buried in her stuffed animal pile). I'm hoping not to hurt my foot farther.
We'll use the 15/15/15/rest cycle that I used yesterday. It'll keep both of us from overdoing it again.
I'll let you know how it goes.
FBS 110 Meds Taken
I stubbed my toe so severely last night that I took the toenail 2/3 of the way off. OUCH! I'll be keeping a careful watch on the situation since as a diabetic I need to be careful of my feet.
My parents are on their way down. We're hoping to get a good start on the drywall this weekend. Of course that means that today I have to hang more insulation and finish cleaning Jessi's room. (Change the sheets and wash the mountain of clothes I found buried in her stuffed animal pile). I'm hoping not to hurt my foot farther.
We'll use the 15/15/15/rest cycle that I used yesterday. It'll keep both of us from overdoing it again.
I'll let you know how it goes.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
She's Reading!
For two years now I have been nervously watching my unschooled child learn concepts in science and history that were far beyond "kindergarten/first grade" level. I have been fascinated by what fascinates her. But I've also been terrified as the months and then years passed and she still could not read.
When we were in Sparta a couple of weeks ago I had the opportunity to be with a homeschool mom friend of mine who has a daughter Jessica's age. Laurie mentioned how Meg was learning to read with the re-prints of the old "Dick and Jane" readers we'd used when we were in school. I'd picked them up a dozen or more times in a nostalgic "Oh here's what I learned to read with, isn't this neat." kind of way but I'd never seriously considered using them with Jessica. We were driving back to Memphis, on our way home where I was planning to have her tested for some type of reading learning disability, when we took a rest stop in Dickson at a Cracker Barrel resturant that happened to have a copy of the "Dick and Jane" anthology that Laurie and I had just been talking about. I handed Jessi the book with the comment, "Look Jessi, this is that book Ms. Laurie said Meg liked so much. What do you think about it?" She took it. Opened it to the first page and read "Look!" "Mom! That says Look!...I can read!" I wasn't about to argue with her. I just paid for the book. She carried it proudly to the rockers on the porch and she began to read to me. "Look! Oh Look!" She read. She read the entire story, stopping once or twice to spell a word to me that she didn't know. She never asked me the same word twice. Then I called my mom on the cell phone and she read to her. And to her daddy. We got back into the car. She wanted to read to me. I turned off the radio and listened to her read. My child. The one who hadn't read 20 words before. She read to me for almost two hours. 95 pages. The entire first reader and 2/3 of the second. Between Dickson and Jackson. Occasionally she'd stop, spell out a new word, and then once she had her answer she'd continue on. I cried as I drove.
We'd tried "Hooked on Phonics". We'd tried "Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons". We'd tried "Starfall". We'd tried "Reading Reflex". We'd tried virtually everything. She was desperate to read and she genuinely seemed to have a problem processing sounds. But somehow, simply from being read to daily since her birth, she had learned to read despite us. She proved it when she met "Dick and Jane". She's into the second anthology now. Three full readers the equivalent of 1 and 1/2 years of reading instruction in less than a week.
I had almost given up on unschooling. I'd almost convinced myself that it wouldn't work for reading. But it did. My daughter can read.
T
For two years now I have been nervously watching my unschooled child learn concepts in science and history that were far beyond "kindergarten/first grade" level. I have been fascinated by what fascinates her. But I've also been terrified as the months and then years passed and she still could not read.
When we were in Sparta a couple of weeks ago I had the opportunity to be with a homeschool mom friend of mine who has a daughter Jessica's age. Laurie mentioned how Meg was learning to read with the re-prints of the old "Dick and Jane" readers we'd used when we were in school. I'd picked them up a dozen or more times in a nostalgic "Oh here's what I learned to read with, isn't this neat." kind of way but I'd never seriously considered using them with Jessica. We were driving back to Memphis, on our way home where I was planning to have her tested for some type of reading learning disability, when we took a rest stop in Dickson at a Cracker Barrel resturant that happened to have a copy of the "Dick and Jane" anthology that Laurie and I had just been talking about. I handed Jessi the book with the comment, "Look Jessi, this is that book Ms. Laurie said Meg liked so much. What do you think about it?" She took it. Opened it to the first page and read "Look!" "Mom! That says Look!...I can read!" I wasn't about to argue with her. I just paid for the book. She carried it proudly to the rockers on the porch and she began to read to me. "Look! Oh Look!" She read. She read the entire story, stopping once or twice to spell a word to me that she didn't know. She never asked me the same word twice. Then I called my mom on the cell phone and she read to her. And to her daddy. We got back into the car. She wanted to read to me. I turned off the radio and listened to her read. My child. The one who hadn't read 20 words before. She read to me for almost two hours. 95 pages. The entire first reader and 2/3 of the second. Between Dickson and Jackson. Occasionally she'd stop, spell out a new word, and then once she had her answer she'd continue on. I cried as I drove.
We'd tried "Hooked on Phonics". We'd tried "Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons". We'd tried "Starfall". We'd tried "Reading Reflex". We'd tried virtually everything. She was desperate to read and she genuinely seemed to have a problem processing sounds. But somehow, simply from being read to daily since her birth, she had learned to read despite us. She proved it when she met "Dick and Jane". She's into the second anthology now. Three full readers the equivalent of 1 and 1/2 years of reading instruction in less than a week.
I had almost given up on unschooling. I'd almost convinced myself that it wouldn't work for reading. But it did. My daughter can read.
T
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
Indeed I Am
Salvador Dali Melting clocks are not a problem in
your reality. You are an unschooler. You will
tolerate a textbook, but only as a last resort.
Mud is your friend. You prefer hands-on
everything. If your school had an anthem, it
would be Dont Worry, Be Happy. Visit my blog: http://www.guiltfreehomeschooling.blogspot.com
What Type of Homeschooler Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
UNSCHOOLING IS AWESOME!
T
Salvador Dali Melting clocks are not a problem in
your reality. You are an unschooler. You will
tolerate a textbook, but only as a last resort.
Mud is your friend. You prefer hands-on
everything. If your school had an anthem, it
would be Dont Worry, Be Happy. Visit my blog: http://www.guiltfreehomeschooling.blogspot.com
What Type of Homeschooler Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
UNSCHOOLING IS AWESOME!
T
Saturday, May 22, 2004
Signing
I've been learning ASL (American Sign Language) recently. Tonight we signed in church for the first time. Well it was my first time anyway. The rest of the class signed about a month ago. I went in expecting to sign only the Lord's prayer...We ended up signing to two other songs as well. It was an interesting experience.
I feel very self conscious when I sign in front of people. I am speaking a language I don't fully understand and I'm afraid of messing up and offending someone. I want to sign. I can't dance but signing feels natural. Its a way to communicate with the Lord without being distracted by the sound of my own voice. This is probably why I write my prayers as well. Perhaps that is why I feel so odd signing in front of an audience. Like a prayer language, signing for me is between me and God. I feel exposed when I am signing in front of an audience. Like many people feel exposed by being called upon to deliver a public prayer or a testimony. Interesting. Neither of those things intimidate me but signing does. The silence is more intimate somehow. The wordlessness of the communication makes it so.
I learned several new words in my sign vocabulary tonight. I'm reaching the point where I can sign large parts of many contemporary praise songs. It fascinates Harold when I am signing along with the radio in the van.
Our third class begins in two weeks. I can't wait.
I've been learning ASL (American Sign Language) recently. Tonight we signed in church for the first time. Well it was my first time anyway. The rest of the class signed about a month ago. I went in expecting to sign only the Lord's prayer...We ended up signing to two other songs as well. It was an interesting experience.
I feel very self conscious when I sign in front of people. I am speaking a language I don't fully understand and I'm afraid of messing up and offending someone. I want to sign. I can't dance but signing feels natural. Its a way to communicate with the Lord without being distracted by the sound of my own voice. This is probably why I write my prayers as well. Perhaps that is why I feel so odd signing in front of an audience. Like a prayer language, signing for me is between me and God. I feel exposed when I am signing in front of an audience. Like many people feel exposed by being called upon to deliver a public prayer or a testimony. Interesting. Neither of those things intimidate me but signing does. The silence is more intimate somehow. The wordlessness of the communication makes it so.
I learned several new words in my sign vocabulary tonight. I'm reaching the point where I can sign large parts of many contemporary praise songs. It fascinates Harold when I am signing along with the radio in the van.
Our third class begins in two weeks. I can't wait.
Sunday, April 18, 2004
Faith and Fear
A little girl of nine and a little boy of seven made my acquaintance today. I have seen them before as I rush to and fro living my overly busy life. They came to my attention earlier this week when they arrived in my yard wanting to play with my daughter. But today I actually stopped and made their acquaintance. I know what took me so long. I know why I turned the other way and pretended not to hear or rushed into the car or into the house to avoid their greetings. I know and I am ashamed.
I distanced myself because I was afraid. Afraid of two children who have done nothing to cause me to fear. Afraid of two children who have committed no crime. I, who sat inside the walls of a prison at a table with women who had commited unspeakable crimes and loved them, was afraid of two children who had done nothing other than being related to someone who was dating a murderer.
Less than a year ago there was a murder in my neighborhood. Three doors down. A woman I knew well was murdered in her own home. By the boyfriend of the teenaged girl that lived in the house across the street. She wasn't implicated in the crime. But that didn't stop me from deciding that everyone in that house was bad news and should be avoided. Then one day these two children. Little children. Little children that I had never noticed before suddenly appeared at that house. I noticed them when they began to call out to my daughter wanting to play with her. For months I put them off with one excuse or another. Then on a beautiful spring day last week I could think of no more excuses. They played together in our back yard. I hoped they would go away. But they seem to enjoy my daughter's company. And she seems to enjoy theirs. And they are polite and say yes mam and no mam when I ask them to do or not do something. And they go home when they're told to. And they seem to be planning to stay. And I realized then that I was afraid. Of children. Of children who have done NOTHING to make them fearful. Afraid because they were somehow tainted by the guilt of the actions of another. And I am ashamed.
Faith and fear can never co-exist. I know this. So how is it that I forgot so quickly the things that I know?
And now that I have confessed the fear I need to come up with a plan. I need a plan to make Desiree and Jerrell fit into my busy life. I need a plan to fight fear with faith and to teach my child how Christ would have us love others. For now school occupies a large part of their days. Desiree is 9, Jerrell 7. But school will be out for the summer soon and I suspect that Desiree and Jerrell will be a part of our days for many of the long lazy days of summer. I can let this be a reason for concern or for celebration. The choice is mine. I choose faith. I choose to love these "other people's kids" and in doing so to make a difference in my neighborhood.
I made the acquaintance of two children today. Desiree and Jerrell. I'm looking forward to seeing where this will lead.
T
A little girl of nine and a little boy of seven made my acquaintance today. I have seen them before as I rush to and fro living my overly busy life. They came to my attention earlier this week when they arrived in my yard wanting to play with my daughter. But today I actually stopped and made their acquaintance. I know what took me so long. I know why I turned the other way and pretended not to hear or rushed into the car or into the house to avoid their greetings. I know and I am ashamed.
I distanced myself because I was afraid. Afraid of two children who have done nothing to cause me to fear. Afraid of two children who have committed no crime. I, who sat inside the walls of a prison at a table with women who had commited unspeakable crimes and loved them, was afraid of two children who had done nothing other than being related to someone who was dating a murderer.
Less than a year ago there was a murder in my neighborhood. Three doors down. A woman I knew well was murdered in her own home. By the boyfriend of the teenaged girl that lived in the house across the street. She wasn't implicated in the crime. But that didn't stop me from deciding that everyone in that house was bad news and should be avoided. Then one day these two children. Little children. Little children that I had never noticed before suddenly appeared at that house. I noticed them when they began to call out to my daughter wanting to play with her. For months I put them off with one excuse or another. Then on a beautiful spring day last week I could think of no more excuses. They played together in our back yard. I hoped they would go away. But they seem to enjoy my daughter's company. And she seems to enjoy theirs. And they are polite and say yes mam and no mam when I ask them to do or not do something. And they go home when they're told to. And they seem to be planning to stay. And I realized then that I was afraid. Of children. Of children who have done NOTHING to make them fearful. Afraid because they were somehow tainted by the guilt of the actions of another. And I am ashamed.
Faith and fear can never co-exist. I know this. So how is it that I forgot so quickly the things that I know?
And now that I have confessed the fear I need to come up with a plan. I need a plan to make Desiree and Jerrell fit into my busy life. I need a plan to fight fear with faith and to teach my child how Christ would have us love others. For now school occupies a large part of their days. Desiree is 9, Jerrell 7. But school will be out for the summer soon and I suspect that Desiree and Jerrell will be a part of our days for many of the long lazy days of summer. I can let this be a reason for concern or for celebration. The choice is mine. I choose faith. I choose to love these "other people's kids" and in doing so to make a difference in my neighborhood.
I made the acquaintance of two children today. Desiree and Jerrell. I'm looking forward to seeing where this will lead.
T
Thursday, April 08, 2004
Memories of the County Fair
When I was a little girl there was nothing more wonderful than the week the county fair was in town. We lived in a subdivision that sat on a hill overlooking the midway. I remember lying on my stomach at the foot of my bed peering through the curtain at the bright lights of the Ferris wheel.
I remember being allowed to go to the fair alone on “School Day at the Fair” before I was ten years old. I remember having my own money and being responsible for buying my lunch at one of the many booths. My favorite place to eat was the Lions Club booth. They had the best food on the grounds and I knew the people there. Each of the schools had a booth of their own and raised money for special events by the proceeds made each year at the fair.
But School Day had one disadvantage. It was during the day. The midway lost its magic without the colored lights. So we always went as a family at least one night during the fair. Sometimes we went to the Fairest of the Fair pageant but usually we came for the horse show. We walked the midway but didn’t usually ride much. I played a game or two and we got fair food.
Fair food always included two things, cotton candy and a candy apple. I ate the cotton candy. The candy apple was for my mom. No matter what diet she was on there was always room for a candy apple from the fair.
I had an adult cousin that was a “carnie.” She would always let me win at the game booth she ran. I was never very good at the games. Once I blew an entire ten dollars throwing ping-pong balls trying to win a goldfish. The guy finally felt sorry for me and just gave me one. It died two days later. My favorite midway game was “picking up ducks” since there was no way to lose.
Rides were always a challenge. I got motion sick easily and I was afraid of heights so that eliminated most things right there. My favorite ride of all was the tilt-o-whirl. I loved it. The scrambler was a close second. As I got older I began to enjoy riding the paratroopers but I could never learn to love the Ferris wheel no matter how hard I tried. Something about the swaying of the basket and the fact that we were going backwards made me sick every time. As I got older still it was the Himalaya that was the favorite. Riding with the boy I liked and being squished together by the centrifugal force was the teenaged thing to do.
I loved the fair. Perhaps that is why I always return to Sparta for fair week. Eighteen years in Memphis and I can count on one hand the times I’ve missed the White County Fair. My daughter’s birthday usually falls around fair time and we often come home so that she can celebrate with her grandparents and great-grandparents. When we do, we stay for the fair. I can always count on seeing old friends that I haven’t seen in years, or at least since the fair the year before. We have a huge fair here, but it just isn’t the same. So look for me at the fair. Chances are I’ll be there.
When I was a little girl there was nothing more wonderful than the week the county fair was in town. We lived in a subdivision that sat on a hill overlooking the midway. I remember lying on my stomach at the foot of my bed peering through the curtain at the bright lights of the Ferris wheel.
I remember being allowed to go to the fair alone on “School Day at the Fair” before I was ten years old. I remember having my own money and being responsible for buying my lunch at one of the many booths. My favorite place to eat was the Lions Club booth. They had the best food on the grounds and I knew the people there. Each of the schools had a booth of their own and raised money for special events by the proceeds made each year at the fair.
But School Day had one disadvantage. It was during the day. The midway lost its magic without the colored lights. So we always went as a family at least one night during the fair. Sometimes we went to the Fairest of the Fair pageant but usually we came for the horse show. We walked the midway but didn’t usually ride much. I played a game or two and we got fair food.
Fair food always included two things, cotton candy and a candy apple. I ate the cotton candy. The candy apple was for my mom. No matter what diet she was on there was always room for a candy apple from the fair.
I had an adult cousin that was a “carnie.” She would always let me win at the game booth she ran. I was never very good at the games. Once I blew an entire ten dollars throwing ping-pong balls trying to win a goldfish. The guy finally felt sorry for me and just gave me one. It died two days later. My favorite midway game was “picking up ducks” since there was no way to lose.
Rides were always a challenge. I got motion sick easily and I was afraid of heights so that eliminated most things right there. My favorite ride of all was the tilt-o-whirl. I loved it. The scrambler was a close second. As I got older I began to enjoy riding the paratroopers but I could never learn to love the Ferris wheel no matter how hard I tried. Something about the swaying of the basket and the fact that we were going backwards made me sick every time. As I got older still it was the Himalaya that was the favorite. Riding with the boy I liked and being squished together by the centrifugal force was the teenaged thing to do.
I loved the fair. Perhaps that is why I always return to Sparta for fair week. Eighteen years in Memphis and I can count on one hand the times I’ve missed the White County Fair. My daughter’s birthday usually falls around fair time and we often come home so that she can celebrate with her grandparents and great-grandparents. When we do, we stay for the fair. I can always count on seeing old friends that I haven’t seen in years, or at least since the fair the year before. We have a huge fair here, but it just isn’t the same. So look for me at the fair. Chances are I’ll be there.
Sunday, April 04, 2004
Reaction to “A Streetcar Named Desire”
Friday night I attended a production of Tennessee Williams’ “A Streetcar Named Desire” at Theater Memphis. Jason Sullivan, one of my “churchkids” had a significant role in the production and I was there to support him in that. I had seen “Streetcar” before several years ago at the University of Memphis with Dixie Carter in the lead role of Blanche DuBois. I remember being particularly impressed with Dixie’s talent but otherwise I recalled very little about the play. I knew that in one scene Blanche was raped. In that respect I was “prepared” for what I was about to see.
What I was NOT prepared for was the pervasive domestic violence.
In one of the very early scenes of the play there is an argument between Stanley and Stella during a poker game. Stanley becomes enraged and slaps her. She flees the apartment and takes refuge upstairs with her neighbor and landlady Eunice. Stanley is left in the street below screaming her name. Soon she reappears from the apartment above and comes down to where Stanley kneels in the street. He wraps his arms around her and begins the dance of an abusive relationship. The “I’m so sorry baby, did I hurt you? I didn’t mean it,’’ routine. She ends up returning with Stanley to their apartment and to their bed.
I’m seventeen years removed from the “Stanley” in my life. I’ve been happily married for 11 years to a wonderful man that treats me like gold. But I had a physical reaction to what was playing out there on the stage. Even though I knew it was theater, I reacted as if it were real. Every muscle in my body tensed. I’m certain I flinched. Something caused Harold to look my way and when he did he immediately asked “Sweetheart, are you ok?” I was in control. I wasn’t thrown into a flashback like I might have been in the early years of my recovery but I was FAR from Ok. I’m still not sure that I’m ok. Jason was at church today. He asked how I had liked the play. I responded that he was wonderful but that I had forgotten that the storyline involved so much domestic violence and that it had been very difficult. He gave me a hug and to my surprise, I found myself burying my head in his shoulder. On rare occasions I have drawn strength from one of the kids in this way, usually in times of extreme crisis. I am surprised that a play had the power to provoke that kind of reaction within me.
I will never attend a performance of “A Streetcar Named Desire” again.
Friday night I attended a production of Tennessee Williams’ “A Streetcar Named Desire” at Theater Memphis. Jason Sullivan, one of my “churchkids” had a significant role in the production and I was there to support him in that. I had seen “Streetcar” before several years ago at the University of Memphis with Dixie Carter in the lead role of Blanche DuBois. I remember being particularly impressed with Dixie’s talent but otherwise I recalled very little about the play. I knew that in one scene Blanche was raped. In that respect I was “prepared” for what I was about to see.
What I was NOT prepared for was the pervasive domestic violence.
In one of the very early scenes of the play there is an argument between Stanley and Stella during a poker game. Stanley becomes enraged and slaps her. She flees the apartment and takes refuge upstairs with her neighbor and landlady Eunice. Stanley is left in the street below screaming her name. Soon she reappears from the apartment above and comes down to where Stanley kneels in the street. He wraps his arms around her and begins the dance of an abusive relationship. The “I’m so sorry baby, did I hurt you? I didn’t mean it,’’ routine. She ends up returning with Stanley to their apartment and to their bed.
I’m seventeen years removed from the “Stanley” in my life. I’ve been happily married for 11 years to a wonderful man that treats me like gold. But I had a physical reaction to what was playing out there on the stage. Even though I knew it was theater, I reacted as if it were real. Every muscle in my body tensed. I’m certain I flinched. Something caused Harold to look my way and when he did he immediately asked “Sweetheart, are you ok?” I was in control. I wasn’t thrown into a flashback like I might have been in the early years of my recovery but I was FAR from Ok. I’m still not sure that I’m ok. Jason was at church today. He asked how I had liked the play. I responded that he was wonderful but that I had forgotten that the storyline involved so much domestic violence and that it had been very difficult. He gave me a hug and to my surprise, I found myself burying my head in his shoulder. On rare occasions I have drawn strength from one of the kids in this way, usually in times of extreme crisis. I am surprised that a play had the power to provoke that kind of reaction within me.
I will never attend a performance of “A Streetcar Named Desire” again.
Thursday, April 01, 2004
Emotional Blackmail -- A book review
Recently I've been reading "Emotional Blackmail" by Susan Forward. I started reading it because the subtitle "When the People in Your Life Use Fear, Obligation and Guilt to Manipulate You" describes several relationships I am in right now. I began reading the book seeking advice on how to deal with those people who are emotionally blackmailing me and I found that, but I also found that I am guilty of emotionally blackmailing others. This book has been both liberating and convicting. That for me is the mark of a balanced "self-help" book.
Too much of the self-help genre is written in such a way that it rewards victim status. It is not liberating for the reader but rather a marketing vehicle for the author to encourage the reader to purchase more of their various related products: workbooks, audio tapes, perpetual calendars. An entire industry has grown up around this genre. One of the things I found particularly refreshing about Dr. Forward's book can be summed up in this quote from the introduction to the second section of the book. The section on "Turning Understanding into Action" This is the section in most books where the author tells you you need to attend her seminar, or purchase the companion workbook, or order the video series, or consult a therapist. Dr. Forward does little of that, only recommending a therapist in cases of active emotional or physical abuse or of past child sexual, physical or emotional abuse. To everyone else she says, "It may sound odd for someone who has been a therapist for 25 years to tell you this, but you can do a lot of this work successfully on your own...All you'll need is courage and determination." The steps that she lays out in subsequent chapters are clear and doable and the reader is left with a sense of hope that they have within them the power to change themselves and in so doing to change their situations as well.
I highly recommend this book. It is positive, well-written and encouraging. This is a rare self-help book, one that is actually helpful.
Recently I've been reading "Emotional Blackmail" by Susan Forward. I started reading it because the subtitle "When the People in Your Life Use Fear, Obligation and Guilt to Manipulate You" describes several relationships I am in right now. I began reading the book seeking advice on how to deal with those people who are emotionally blackmailing me and I found that, but I also found that I am guilty of emotionally blackmailing others. This book has been both liberating and convicting. That for me is the mark of a balanced "self-help" book.
Too much of the self-help genre is written in such a way that it rewards victim status. It is not liberating for the reader but rather a marketing vehicle for the author to encourage the reader to purchase more of their various related products: workbooks, audio tapes, perpetual calendars. An entire industry has grown up around this genre. One of the things I found particularly refreshing about Dr. Forward's book can be summed up in this quote from the introduction to the second section of the book. The section on "Turning Understanding into Action" This is the section in most books where the author tells you you need to attend her seminar, or purchase the companion workbook, or order the video series, or consult a therapist. Dr. Forward does little of that, only recommending a therapist in cases of active emotional or physical abuse or of past child sexual, physical or emotional abuse. To everyone else she says, "It may sound odd for someone who has been a therapist for 25 years to tell you this, but you can do a lot of this work successfully on your own...All you'll need is courage and determination." The steps that she lays out in subsequent chapters are clear and doable and the reader is left with a sense of hope that they have within them the power to change themselves and in so doing to change their situations as well.
I highly recommend this book. It is positive, well-written and encouraging. This is a rare self-help book, one that is actually helpful.
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
I Gave You Ten
It had been three days since I returned from the spiritual retreat known as “The Walk To Emmaus”. While I had been there I had experienced an amazing healing of memories from having been molested as a child. The wall had dropped and I was willing, finally, to let Christ have that part of me and heal me. But today I was struggling.
I sat at my prayer journal and lamented and whined to God about how awful it was that so many men had been so lousy to me over the course of my thirty-three years and how hard being hurt by men made it for me to trust Him.
His still small voice interrupted my tirade. “Baby-girl, I gave you ten.”
I was brought up short. “You gave me ten? What do you mean you gave me ten?” I asked.
The answer came, “For every man that ever hurt you, I gave you ten.”
Suddenly, like water from behind a dam that had been breeched, the names began to flow. As fast as I could type them they kept coming, one after another. More than half a page later the list of names was complete. Some forty names, listed neatly. Teachers, pastors, male friends, “big brothers”, cousins, uncles, some who’d been in my life for years, some who only crossed my path for a brief time when I was in deep need. Yet there they were. For every man that had ever hurt me there were at least ten names listed. Some were people that I had not thought of in literally years. Some were people that were such a part of the fabric of my life that I could not imagine who I would be without their influences. But there was no denying that for every man that had ever hurt me, God had indeed given me ten.
Rebuked, I began to cry. I had allowed my focus to be on the handful of men that had hurt me. I had blamed God for “letting” them. I’d never seen nor acknowledged the scores of men he had placed in my life that had encouraged me or protected me or lifted me up. For years and years I had held God at arms length using the excuse that “men” weren’t trustworthy so why should I trust a God who identified himself as Father. And yet here it was. Undeniable proof that even as I held him at a distance he sent man after man into my life who blessed me in some way. My heart broke. The final stones in my defensive wall fell down and my complaints turned to praise. It was the only proper response to the God who gave me ten.
It had been three days since I returned from the spiritual retreat known as “The Walk To Emmaus”. While I had been there I had experienced an amazing healing of memories from having been molested as a child. The wall had dropped and I was willing, finally, to let Christ have that part of me and heal me. But today I was struggling.
I sat at my prayer journal and lamented and whined to God about how awful it was that so many men had been so lousy to me over the course of my thirty-three years and how hard being hurt by men made it for me to trust Him.
His still small voice interrupted my tirade. “Baby-girl, I gave you ten.”
I was brought up short. “You gave me ten? What do you mean you gave me ten?” I asked.
The answer came, “For every man that ever hurt you, I gave you ten.”
Suddenly, like water from behind a dam that had been breeched, the names began to flow. As fast as I could type them they kept coming, one after another. More than half a page later the list of names was complete. Some forty names, listed neatly. Teachers, pastors, male friends, “big brothers”, cousins, uncles, some who’d been in my life for years, some who only crossed my path for a brief time when I was in deep need. Yet there they were. For every man that had ever hurt me there were at least ten names listed. Some were people that I had not thought of in literally years. Some were people that were such a part of the fabric of my life that I could not imagine who I would be without their influences. But there was no denying that for every man that had ever hurt me, God had indeed given me ten.
Rebuked, I began to cry. I had allowed my focus to be on the handful of men that had hurt me. I had blamed God for “letting” them. I’d never seen nor acknowledged the scores of men he had placed in my life that had encouraged me or protected me or lifted me up. For years and years I had held God at arms length using the excuse that “men” weren’t trustworthy so why should I trust a God who identified himself as Father. And yet here it was. Undeniable proof that even as I held him at a distance he sent man after man into my life who blessed me in some way. My heart broke. The final stones in my defensive wall fell down and my complaints turned to praise. It was the only proper response to the God who gave me ten.
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Frustrated Co-op Vent
I love my homeschool co-op. I love the kids. I like the other moms. Jessica adores her "school". But I'm seeing some things creeping in as we grow that are more and more like institutional school and I don't like what I am seeing.
Item 1: The "Points" System
In an effort to promote good behavior a points system was instituted this semester. I HATE it. I Hate everything about it. It has NOT done what it was designed to do and it has fostered a sense of competition between the kids that I hate seeing. Yesterday as Becky was announcing the current points standings the kids were not only cheering for their own team (which is fine, be proud of your efforts) but booing the teams that were ahead of them and laughing at the teams that were behind. I HATE seeing that dynamic being encouraged. And within the teams the kids are at each other...Which sadly is part of the purpose of the stupid system, bringing peer pressure to bear on the "offender" in hopes of changing their behavior...and mistakes are being met with strong social disapproval. Again, everything I hate about institutional schooling. In the boys class in particular I see one kid being singled out as the "problem child" and his day yesterday was horrible. It doesn't seem to be affecting my kid. She's in one of the two youngest groups and they don't seem to be getting points deducted as badly and/or don't care where they rank. On the flip side of that one of the classes has been consistently in last place and has basically given up hope of "winning" so they don't care what you do to them points wise. In other words the group this system was put in place to motivate...Doesn't CARE anymore so it doesn't even work. How surprising, NOT!
Item 2: The new "Stair Rule"
Again, the boys class. There is an open stairwell in the building where we meet. The kind with the metal handrail that just begs to be slid down or hung from. Some of the boys (not more than 4 of them) have been hanging from the top landing rail and dropping to the bottom of the stairwell. Is this a problem? Of course it is. I'm not denying that. But the way that has been chosen to deal with it is to make a new blanket rule that no child is allowed on the stairs without an adult. GREAT! Group punishment. My Favorite. (Can you read the dripping sarcasm?) Three or four kids have had a behavioral issue. Rather than dealing with those kids personally and privately over it let's make a blanket rule that treats EVERY child like a three year old. Its absurd.
Item 3: Lunch Prayer
I have blood sugar issues, when I need to eat...I NEED to eat. The RULE is that no-one is to begin eating until we are all gathered an can pray. Not a bad rule per se but one that doesn't work for me...and that I suspect doesn't work for many of the smaller kids that it has been several hours since breakfast. Prayer before meals is a good thing but making 40+ people (mostly kids) wait for the stragglers with food in front of them is NOT. More than once I've gotten a nasty look shot my way when I took care of my physical needs in violation of the rule.
On balance, is it enough for me to leave the group? Doubtful. Jessica loves the other kids and this IS school as far as she is concerned. We basically unschool the rest of the week so it isn't a big issue with her. But it IS a big issue with ME. I recognize that this is MY issue. Things that I personally hated as a child in institutional school (even though I loved school) that I see being imposed on kids who have been opted out of institutional schooling. I also see that MOST of the other moms in this group are probably "school at homers" where we are "unschoolers". The philosophical differences are glaring at times. GBD vs Punitive, School at Home vs Unschooling, Authoritarian vs Authoritative. I have to pray about what to do and how to share what I see without alienating the other moms. Help!
I love my homeschool co-op. I love the kids. I like the other moms. Jessica adores her "school". But I'm seeing some things creeping in as we grow that are more and more like institutional school and I don't like what I am seeing.
Item 1: The "Points" System
In an effort to promote good behavior a points system was instituted this semester. I HATE it. I Hate everything about it. It has NOT done what it was designed to do and it has fostered a sense of competition between the kids that I hate seeing. Yesterday as Becky was announcing the current points standings the kids were not only cheering for their own team (which is fine, be proud of your efforts) but booing the teams that were ahead of them and laughing at the teams that were behind. I HATE seeing that dynamic being encouraged. And within the teams the kids are at each other...Which sadly is part of the purpose of the stupid system, bringing peer pressure to bear on the "offender" in hopes of changing their behavior...and mistakes are being met with strong social disapproval. Again, everything I hate about institutional schooling. In the boys class in particular I see one kid being singled out as the "problem child" and his day yesterday was horrible. It doesn't seem to be affecting my kid. She's in one of the two youngest groups and they don't seem to be getting points deducted as badly and/or don't care where they rank. On the flip side of that one of the classes has been consistently in last place and has basically given up hope of "winning" so they don't care what you do to them points wise. In other words the group this system was put in place to motivate...Doesn't CARE anymore so it doesn't even work. How surprising, NOT!
Item 2: The new "Stair Rule"
Again, the boys class. There is an open stairwell in the building where we meet. The kind with the metal handrail that just begs to be slid down or hung from. Some of the boys (not more than 4 of them) have been hanging from the top landing rail and dropping to the bottom of the stairwell. Is this a problem? Of course it is. I'm not denying that. But the way that has been chosen to deal with it is to make a new blanket rule that no child is allowed on the stairs without an adult. GREAT! Group punishment. My Favorite. (Can you read the dripping sarcasm?) Three or four kids have had a behavioral issue. Rather than dealing with those kids personally and privately over it let's make a blanket rule that treats EVERY child like a three year old. Its absurd.
Item 3: Lunch Prayer
I have blood sugar issues, when I need to eat...I NEED to eat. The RULE is that no-one is to begin eating until we are all gathered an can pray. Not a bad rule per se but one that doesn't work for me...and that I suspect doesn't work for many of the smaller kids that it has been several hours since breakfast. Prayer before meals is a good thing but making 40+ people (mostly kids) wait for the stragglers with food in front of them is NOT. More than once I've gotten a nasty look shot my way when I took care of my physical needs in violation of the rule.
On balance, is it enough for me to leave the group? Doubtful. Jessica loves the other kids and this IS school as far as she is concerned. We basically unschool the rest of the week so it isn't a big issue with her. But it IS a big issue with ME. I recognize that this is MY issue. Things that I personally hated as a child in institutional school (even though I loved school) that I see being imposed on kids who have been opted out of institutional schooling. I also see that MOST of the other moms in this group are probably "school at homers" where we are "unschoolers". The philosophical differences are glaring at times. GBD vs Punitive, School at Home vs Unschooling, Authoritarian vs Authoritative. I have to pray about what to do and how to share what I see without alienating the other moms. Help!
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
I suppose I should post something that actually requires THOUGHT
I've been thinking a lot lately about relationships. It is after all that time of year. In my Sunday school class we have been discussing Love, Sex and Dating (traditional at our church in February) and I am realizing that so much could be summed up in the single word, RESPECT.
Respect, I thought I knew a long time ago what that word meant. I'm finding that I either didn't or else I am being brought to a new level of understanding. Either way, I am seeing things about myself that I don't like.
Take for example the ease with which I, like most people I know, casually discuss others. Gossip by any other name is STILL gossip. Recently I have begun to take seriously my friends requests of me that they NOT be the topic of conversation. By take seriously, I mean I am hearing that request and acting on it without running it through my mental list of exceptions. For far too long, "don't tell anyone" meant "don't tell anyone except Harold, David, My Mom, Mike, Rebekah, Laura or Stephanie." Rationalizing that "I tell ______ everything" and not caring that the party speaking to me might not know that and might not have shared at such a vulnerable level if they had. Respecting someone means respecting their confidences...Even without a confidentiality clause to force you to do so.
Respect also requires seeing people for themselves rather than in terms of what they are to you. True relationship means loving someone, even when they don't do what you would or what you would like for them to. Anything else isn't a relationship, its an alliance. Alliances are conditional. They last as long as they are mutually beneficial and then can be discarded when they are not. Relationships are deeper than that. They endure when things are not "even" and survive when things are not what you would like them to be. They are based on love, not on if then statements. There is no, "what have you done for me lately", in a true relationship. If I see someone only in terms of what they are to me, I am going to be resentful when others take their time and emotional energy. When I see someone as themselves with their own needs and responsibilities then I can more easily accept that their priorities have NOTHING to do with me. I can ASK for more of their time and tell them that I am missing them and it not be pouting and manipulation. If I feel as though I am entitled to that time and emotional energy that loneliness is likely to come out as resentment and in a way designed to manipulate what I want rather than communicating what I would like. And even if what I am seeing is given in response it is tainted from being forced.
I have at least one friend from whom I need to seek forgiveness. Whom I owe SO much for having stayed and endured when he was getting entitlement and manipulation from me. I owe him a debt of gratitude for not accepting that from me. For knowing that I was capable of better and loving me even while my behavior toward him was anything BUT loving. For believing that I was worth it and that despite what he was seeing for knowing that I truly DO love him. For waiting for me to grow the heck up and stop acting like a spoiled brat. Actually, I have two such friends. And I am amazingly blessed.
T
I've been thinking a lot lately about relationships. It is after all that time of year. In my Sunday school class we have been discussing Love, Sex and Dating (traditional at our church in February) and I am realizing that so much could be summed up in the single word, RESPECT.
Respect, I thought I knew a long time ago what that word meant. I'm finding that I either didn't or else I am being brought to a new level of understanding. Either way, I am seeing things about myself that I don't like.
Take for example the ease with which I, like most people I know, casually discuss others. Gossip by any other name is STILL gossip. Recently I have begun to take seriously my friends requests of me that they NOT be the topic of conversation. By take seriously, I mean I am hearing that request and acting on it without running it through my mental list of exceptions. For far too long, "don't tell anyone" meant "don't tell anyone except Harold, David, My Mom, Mike, Rebekah, Laura or Stephanie." Rationalizing that "I tell ______ everything" and not caring that the party speaking to me might not know that and might not have shared at such a vulnerable level if they had. Respecting someone means respecting their confidences...Even without a confidentiality clause to force you to do so.
Respect also requires seeing people for themselves rather than in terms of what they are to you. True relationship means loving someone, even when they don't do what you would or what you would like for them to. Anything else isn't a relationship, its an alliance. Alliances are conditional. They last as long as they are mutually beneficial and then can be discarded when they are not. Relationships are deeper than that. They endure when things are not "even" and survive when things are not what you would like them to be. They are based on love, not on if then statements. There is no, "what have you done for me lately", in a true relationship. If I see someone only in terms of what they are to me, I am going to be resentful when others take their time and emotional energy. When I see someone as themselves with their own needs and responsibilities then I can more easily accept that their priorities have NOTHING to do with me. I can ASK for more of their time and tell them that I am missing them and it not be pouting and manipulation. If I feel as though I am entitled to that time and emotional energy that loneliness is likely to come out as resentment and in a way designed to manipulate what I want rather than communicating what I would like. And even if what I am seeing is given in response it is tainted from being forced.
I have at least one friend from whom I need to seek forgiveness. Whom I owe SO much for having stayed and endured when he was getting entitlement and manipulation from me. I owe him a debt of gratitude for not accepting that from me. For knowing that I was capable of better and loving me even while my behavior toward him was anything BUT loving. For believing that I was worth it and that despite what he was seeing for knowing that I truly DO love him. For waiting for me to grow the heck up and stop acting like a spoiled brat. Actually, I have two such friends. And I am amazingly blessed.
T
Thursday, January 22, 2004
Political Ramblings
Been thinking a lot about politics lately. I don't understand party politics. I've been debating this on my class BB and It has clarified a LOT about why I always have voted independent. I am registered Republican but only because you had to be SOMETHING to vote in the primaries.
I think that being loyal to a particular party would actually make things easier. Not saying that D’Lo does this (because I’ve debated with him enough to know that he does NOT) but voting party line would make it easier because you REALLY don’t have to think about all this stuff. You just push the button by the person with Democrat by their name (or Republican if you’re of that party) and you’re done. No need to struggle with the ideology of the person if it conflicts with your own.
Basically I have issues with both parties and I can’t seem to overlook them enough to affiliate with either party. I believe in representative government and I want to elect people who most closely represent the things that I value. Sometimes that comes down to a choice of the lesser of two evils, most of the time in fact. Perhaps I feel too strongly about this but in my opinion, voting party without seriously looking into the person is the path to putting the next Hitler or Saddam Hussein into place. I realize that sounds extreme. However, once a person is elected it is THEIR values and beliefs, not those of their political party that will rule the day. I suppose that is why I could never vote a party line.
Like Bruce, I lean Republican because I see them as the party that promotes and rewards initiative and personal responsibility. I am all for social responsibility but see a great deal of what the government is doing (caring for widows and orphans and the poor of this country) as properly the job of the church and once the government took over that function the church washed its hands and said "one less thing for us to do", both institutions have been negatively affected by this and it has bred at least two or three generations that are content to live on handouts. But from D'Lo's side I see the issue of big business being irresponsible corporate citizens and focusing only on the bottom line with the result of American jobs being outsourced overseas. And I think both sides stink on the issue of Life. The Republicans are pro death penalty while the Democrats are pro abortion. So I study the people and see who is most in line with how I feel on particular issues and that is the person I vote for. Period.
T
Been thinking a lot about politics lately. I don't understand party politics. I've been debating this on my class BB and It has clarified a LOT about why I always have voted independent. I am registered Republican but only because you had to be SOMETHING to vote in the primaries.
I think that being loyal to a particular party would actually make things easier. Not saying that D’Lo does this (because I’ve debated with him enough to know that he does NOT) but voting party line would make it easier because you REALLY don’t have to think about all this stuff. You just push the button by the person with Democrat by their name (or Republican if you’re of that party) and you’re done. No need to struggle with the ideology of the person if it conflicts with your own.
Basically I have issues with both parties and I can’t seem to overlook them enough to affiliate with either party. I believe in representative government and I want to elect people who most closely represent the things that I value. Sometimes that comes down to a choice of the lesser of two evils, most of the time in fact. Perhaps I feel too strongly about this but in my opinion, voting party without seriously looking into the person is the path to putting the next Hitler or Saddam Hussein into place. I realize that sounds extreme. However, once a person is elected it is THEIR values and beliefs, not those of their political party that will rule the day. I suppose that is why I could never vote a party line.
Like Bruce, I lean Republican because I see them as the party that promotes and rewards initiative and personal responsibility. I am all for social responsibility but see a great deal of what the government is doing (caring for widows and orphans and the poor of this country) as properly the job of the church and once the government took over that function the church washed its hands and said "one less thing for us to do", both institutions have been negatively affected by this and it has bred at least two or three generations that are content to live on handouts. But from D'Lo's side I see the issue of big business being irresponsible corporate citizens and focusing only on the bottom line with the result of American jobs being outsourced overseas. And I think both sides stink on the issue of Life. The Republicans are pro death penalty while the Democrats are pro abortion. So I study the people and see who is most in line with how I feel on particular issues and that is the person I vote for. Period.
T
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