Summer Arrives

Some of us think walking in the woods delightful.

While some of us prefer to roll very fast down 45 degree, 100' slopes, 

and live on the wild side.

 The bike helmet was at Grandmother's house.

A chainsaw helmet works in a pinch.

 But we can all agree on our sweet treats. 

 Elk Rock Garden and gluten free Kyra's in Lake Oswego 

   If things are quiet around the blog space this summer, it's because I'm writing my heart into a middle grade historical fiction story about Thomas Nuttall. I'm nearly 23,000 words into his story, and he's got me. As such, I've promised him I'll write 2 hours each day, 6 days a week. There you have it! That's what I'm doing in the woods this summer.

June Bug Days a Coming

   I left May a bit stunned. I'm still in denial that June is upon us. The stack of receipts to process, reminds me I'm definitely not running ahead. Not down trodden, but a bit dazed. Like I've smacked into the window, and need a breather.

   Happily, the hubby surprised me with a weekend away in Hood River. It was all sun, thunder, lightening, coffee, wine, and books. A lovely weekend there. Truth is, we both needed it, and grandmas make all things possible. Non-stop souls they are. Rest and renew. 

   June bug days are coming. A different pace. Even the rain has settled into a spring patter, not a pouring forth. At night, the frog's croaking keeps me awake, and beckons me early. While the dove's coo reminds me to savor the day.

   I count doves all day long. On their perches, they speak peace. If I'm in a bit wider space the hawk reminds me to soar, and the ravens remind me God feeds us in the desert spaces we wander within and without. Yes, I count all day long, and I'm counting the days until summer break.

   As we wrap up school, soccer, and swim, we're thankful for the opportunities. He'll still work on soccer skills, and we'll enjoy family soccer together. She'll still work on her flip kick. We'll be thankful for the rest. For mornings to sleep in, with no one to wrangle out of bed. Time to write alone, and time to steadily stroke the stream of words in morning silence.

     The sun seeks us out, as do the Oregon strawberries. But as we process berries, we talk about summer explorations, and what we'll incorporate into our summer learning whether by canning, camping, or cursive.

   For brother, there'll be the rewriting of Aesop's Fables and 642 Things to Write About. I'm pondering putting him through the IEW Geography course, but not sure I want to subject myself, or him to the headache :-) He uses all his words verbally, but needs to pace himself, and put some to paper. Writing is not his favorite thing, so we persevere, and focus on tools to make it easier, as well as practice, practice, practice.

   I'm waiting to hear on some writing news, even as I'm blessed as a finalist here in unpublished children's fiction. Feeling very blessed. It's year two of being a finalist. Hoping to change the unpublished part soon, but honestly that's God's area of expertise. I show up for work. 

   Sister and I have been busy finishing up school, but she too, will focus on math and writing this summer, at least a bit. We have about 15 lessons in order to finish up Saxon Math 8/7. They'll both work at/for Khan Academy this summer in math. 

   She also very much enjoys cryptography at Khan, and I like teasing her: "You know the NSA knows who can solve those cryptography puzzles fast. Better slow down or they'll come recruit you to solve puzzles all day long."

   For those interested in the resource, I want to share that she and I have really enjoyed our two Coursera courses this spring. In many ways, they are school "lite", especially the AstroTech class comparative to the water class. Yet, they have been a much needed change to help us push through the spring school doldrums. I highly recommend Water in the Western United States.

   I just finished The Storied Life of A.J. Fikery. It's really gotten me thinking about the books that have most impacted me. More on that topic soon. 

   I'm on to Oregon native Gina Ochsner's, The Russian Dreambook of Color and Flight. I am wrapped up in her word narrative. She portrays a journey in which we are all born with abundant words, then struggle dearly to hold onto them as we face oppression and sorrow. Try we must. I'm counting on the story ending with the words winning. Showing us that the journey of articulating our stories is worth the effort, and worth the sorrows.  

   I've been pondering a picture of words. That is, a word carried within every rain drop. But so often, the word rain drops fall to the page as our sorrows. We must remember that even if our words sink into the mire, within them, is the potential to rise up and give life. Let it be. 

Here's to finding our summer wings and soaring high.

We Wish

    We wish upon dandelions, and watch their seeds float away. You are the seed. Will you take root somewhere and thrive? Will you be hardy or hardened to your world?

  There are no words for the gut ache one feels when sending children off into a world where they are not safe. Not unless the One watches over them and leads them through. Saves them.

   After eight days and goodbyes, my heart is a jumble of, "Why and what are you going to do about them God?" I'm reminded of the answer we got months ago which was, "You. You are what I'm going to do about them." And it hurts to have your heart broken. It's hard to let go and let God, knowing the future of precious ones is in His hands, and so often those hands are on human flesh and are part of broken world systems.

   You child, are a seed buried, in what's going to be really rough ground for awhile. The slope is rocky and the ascent is up. Pray for wings.  

"Give them wings, God. Give them wings to soar."

   I realized this weekend that when we gather with others who are also making a difference for kids, who also are involved in their communities, I find it's easier to talk about broken systems and poor communication than the children. It's easier to talk about anything but your brothers and you, and all the children just like you. Children who may well be fighting for safe their whole lives.

   We certainly don't sit around the dinner table and talk about what we whisper in your ear in sacred moments. We don't mention sacred conversations where we pray, where we hope that hope was imparted. Yes, we are trying to whisper "hope" with every breath.

    There are dreams and wishes we wish for you. Sometimes, I think we are afraid of talking about them lest the power of the dreams and prayers fall away as you go. The wishes we wish for you feel like wind, so easily slipping through our fingers, just as you do. I have no clue where you are going, and you float off too soon.

   The quiet moments with you are the most difficult to reflect upon. Moments where we sought to throw you an anchor in the storm of now, and also an anchor for the stormy days ahead. This time around, nothing prepared me for how I need my own anchor at your going. The questions toss me about.

   Will you remember this is not a lesson for you? You wanted to know if it was all a lesson for you. "No, this is not a lesson, but yes it's an earthquake right now. The ground is shaking, but God is in your shaking world. He is with us. He promises not to leave nor forsake us." Will you remember the prayers spoken over you? Will you remember the broken oak? How her heartwood just split in two, but that the potential for even more life comes from those twisted limbs on the ground?

   Will that trip to OSU mean anything to you? Will all those machines, gadgets, and people become an embedded memory that one day leads you to wide open spaces of learning? You were wide eyed with wonder. Might you be college bound someday because of one short visit to see an Engineering Expo? Will that math dictionary stay with you? Will you use it? Will you remember, “You are strong, good, loving, and going to be a great builder with your hands and be a leader of people?”  Can words overcome the mess of your daily world?

   As a writer, I ask, "Are words enough?" Immediately, I know they are not. Words are powerful only when framed with a hug, a laugh, a bowl of food, and a warm bed. Words are powerful only when embraced within the gift of presence.

   We offered presence as best we could, now I will hold close sacred words and secret conversations, while the bars rattle all around you. I will keep praying for you and your brothers. I will write your names down in my book of remembrance. From a distance, I will keep speaking into your fears and pushing them back.

   Remember child. Remember us. Remember God cares. Remember this is not a lesson for you. This is not your fault. Remember we are praying. Remember you are going to change your world with that beautiful broken heart. Remember to guard your heart.  Remember to dance. 

Guest Post: Miss Conolly et Dolley Madison

   Miss Conolly has my head spinning with her take on Dolley Madison. Maybe being the life of the party was not so pleasant after all! Her fictional letter from Dolley to her mother was an assignment for her IEW class; she surely prefers fiction to non-fiction writing.

Dolley Madison, 1804, by Gilbert Stuart

Dolley Madison

First Lady

Executive Mansion 

1817

 Dear Mother,

    I am exhausted, completely exhausted. All this partying, which has gotten to my nerves, is very tiring. I am constantly entertaining all the diplomats that come to see James, and need a break. Of course, Lady Elwin was visiting from England with her husband, so a huge ball was held in their honor. As usual, I was expected to attend. I must admit something about the Elwin's to you, Mother. It is so annoying to be a president's wife, with all the nagging responsibilities that come with being a “leader of society”. Sometimes, as I sit in the huge parlor waiting for callers to arrive, I wonder what my life would be like if James had stayed a simple small town lawyer. (And, Mother, do not think I am calling James a simpleton. He is one of the smartest people I know.) Mother, this town life, which is absolutely horrible for me, is never anything but parties! Only an extroverted person could call this city home. It as grown as distasteful to me as that hateful liquid that is considered “coffee” by the people that live here!

    Mother, I must admit something. Sometimes I wish there was no such person as Lady Elwin. Ever since she arrived in Washington, there have been no parties at all, except those that were balls. It has become as dull as possible to hold parties, even though every girl in town has sore feet from all that dancing. I believe some of my acquaintances have become hypochondriacs for the duration of Lady Elwin's visit. You would think she was a Comtessa, or at least a duchess. All the lakes have frozen over, but you barely ever see those of the better class who used to come out and skate. They are all busy dancing at one ball or another. Apparently Lady Elwin likes only balls, and I assume they are treating that obvious fact the way all the ladies who pride themselves on being fashionable treat the latest fashions from France. I don't mind being well dressed, Mother, but there is a time when you have been to and held so many revels that you can't stand them. I am afraid I am at that point. I have had Lady and Lord Elwin over for dinner only once, I am afraid. We ate in the state dining room, but nothing festive was done. As it appears Lord Elwin does not like parties very much, it really is too bad for him that he decided to marry Elinda. That is Lady Elwin's name, I am afraid to say. Anyway, I suppose what I wanted to tell you was this: The senators and representatives actually did something together for once! Or rather, their wives did, as all of the Mrs. Senators and Mrs. Representatives got together to transform the Capitol building into a festive ballroom, with the room used for the House of Representatives as a banquet hall. Do you know that they did all that work just for Lady Elwin? Apparently one of the lowest forms of English aristocracy is highly celebrated here in America. Some of the ladies in my sewing circle even want to turn American democracy into American monarchy. I am afraid, Mother, that I must admit to not liking Lady Elinda Elwin very much, mostly because of the negative influence I feel she has worked over the city of Washington.

    Lately, Mother, I have been thinking about my life as a president's wife, which I sometimes find extremely tedious. However, living in the Executive Mansion certainly keeps me on my unspeakably sore toes. (Did I tell you that I was made to attend yet another ball?) Living here, while it is quite nice to have someone doing the cooking, means constant work. My morning is spent confirming the menu for dinner, making sure the public spaces are clean for the many visitors who tour the downstairs every afternoon, and leading the sewing circle that I established. In the afternoon I sit in my parlor embroidering and waiting for callers or paying calls. Then I retire to dress for tea, always a complete wonder full of croissants and cucumber sandwiches, and pay any formal calls or occasionally go to a friend's house for ice cream and cookies. Of course, after tea I generally spend my time helping James or reading a book. I wish less diplomats came to dinner, as I always have extra work to do, mainly supervising the domestic staff, when James and I are obliged to entertain foreign ambassadors. Though many of my friends believe that it is a wonderful thing to have the life of a first lady, I have no idea where they formulate their opinions, as I have decided I have no use at all for having this social obligation that has been thrust upon me.

    On nights where I am having a frightfully hard time trying to go to sleep, I sometimes get to thinking about what life would be like if James had chosen to remain a nobody with only a small law practice. Life, which is now horribly busy, would still be peaceful and calm, and James would come home early each day instead of sitting up all night puzzling out a country-sized bucket of problems. Mother, sometimes I want to be back living in that small log cabin that was and will be our home. I yearn for the simplicity of the simple country life we led, James in his office and I in my kitchen. I think even James was not prepared for all this important “cityness” that Washington spreads. He may have thought big, but James never reckoned on something this big. After his term is up, I think James will be perfectly happy to go back to our small little country village. He isn't and won't be a nobody anymore, and James likes that. While we may be well-known, when we return to our cabin, I will be so awfully glad. Actually, I would be quite happy if James had never ran for president, a very tiring job, and we had lived all this time in our cabin and had not been compelled to lead so public a life.

    Mother, do not ever come to this city. Washington is dreadfully busy, which I believe you would find annoying, and the coffee brewed here is as weak as a child's watered-down tea! I wish James had never ran for president, as I detest this whole experience of living in Washington, a very dirty place. For some reason people seem to think that Washington is a wonderful and idealistic place, Mother, even though most of this place is swampland. There are many things I must confess to you, Mother, chiefly my complaints of the people and the culture. Being a first lady in this crazy city is so very trying, I sometimes feel like screaming, so seethingly swampy and surely scatterbrained is this place. Mother, this place, as nice as it sounds, completely exhausts me!

Love from your exhausted daughter,

Dolley

The Children's Crusade by Ann Packer

   In A Children's Crusade, we have not entered the Holy Land. We have simply embarked upon a disastrous journey. We have misjudged and been misguided.

   I fear I lack the heart needed to endure the Blair family drama, especially one that doesn't redeem itself in the end, at least in any gratifying way. 

   I'm missing the purpose of an ending that says, "sell the house, do your own thing, and do what most preserves your personal interests." Yes, we are nation of adolescent novelists, forever seeking novelty.

   Or maybe, I missed the arrival of modern day man, who so neatly arranges for his own redemption. So far, I've not yet met anyone who can redeem himself. 

   Packer dismisses faith from the fabric of the Blair family life. Faith is nothing to the Blair family, yet most of our planet claims a faith. How can the reviews claim Packer's spoken to us? 

 

   No matter the scores of positive reviews, A Children's Crusade is neither gratifying, nor edifying, nor eloquent. Packer kept me up to read something that only filled me with angst: not peace, not wisdom, not joy, not sorrow, just angst and aggravation. I rarely get worked up about books I dislike; I simply set them down. I rarely engage in negative reviews, and I don't write Amazon reviews, but I will not be conned into believing that trashy talk is necessary to develop Packer's characters, nor indeed, that she's developed them, at least into people of any depth. They are simply good actors.

   In some novels, the trash and trash talk may be necessary, and possibly impress upon us the pain, but A Children's Crusade lacks the shimmer of a mosaic that makes broken beautiful.

   The great artists keeps us from frozenness, from smugness, from thinking the truth is in us, rather than in Christ our Lord. ~ Madeleine L'Engle

Noticing Spring

Spring Soccer

Her soccer status quo.

Before

During

After @ Rogue Ales

New chicks

When no one is watching, she gives it a go.

Yep, spring is here.

The Book Stacks

    Beauty is not a luxury, but a strategy for survival. ~ Terry Tempest Williams

   Spring is verifiably here. Yard work calls in spades. I'm wrapping up some winter book readings, and thought I'd share what is sitting on the stacks and what has been blessing.

   Life behind the brownstone front, two flights up and beyond, was delightfully higgledy-piggledy as to System; and Duty and Discipline had become pale, thin creatures that no longer cast shadows except on Saturdays - from four o'clock on. Saturday was dedicated to Aunt Emily and sewing. Lucinda buttoned up her fortitude and her best manners....She believed the devil must have invented the needle.

    There were her books, too, to put on their shelf; and there was the new diary that her mother had bought her and that she had promised to write in often. The books she handled and put in their places with loving care. They filled a large portion of her inner world - a sanctuary built securely to keep out Aunt Emily's and French governesses.

   I absolutely adored "orphaned" Lucinda in Roller Skates by Ruth Sawyer. As a result, I picked up The Way of the Storyteller; I'm really looking forward to Ruth's tutelage. She has left a wide and generous path for storytellers to follow. 

   

   She wrote The Way of the Storyteller in 1942 wishing, "there might be a guild for storytellers today where master and apprentices might work together for the upholding of their art." She clearly felt the hunger of blazing trails in a word wilderness. Had she lived today she would have found some excellent guilds. Our hope is to be utilizing the aforementioned guild in the fall.

Also perusing, reading, tackling, pondering...

A Traveller's History of London (research)

London by AN Wilson (research)

The Children's Crusade

This is the Story of a Happy Marriage (audio)

Book of Ages, The Life and Opinions of Jane Franklin (kind of research)

Unglued

Going Away Shoes 

The History of the Book in 100 Books

    Finding Beauty in a Broken World by Terry Tempest Williams 

   We can no longer say, "Let nature take care of itself." Our press on the planet is heavy and relentless. A species in peril will most likely survive now only if we allow it to, if our imaginations can enter into the soul of the animal and we pull back on our own needs and desires to accommodate theirs. What other species now require of us is our attention. Otherwise, we are entering a narrative of disappearing intelligences.

    If you do violence to me, you do violence to yourself because we are all human beings.

    This morning at breakfast, I ask Lily when compromise is appropriate. After a moment of silence, she says, "Compromise is fine on anything that is not essential, but you cannot compromise your principles. You cannot compromise the dream or the dream dies, and you suffer spiritually."

   Terry Tempest Williams pulls us together in our brokenness. She makes beauty out of ashes, pain, and dust, reminding us, we too must create beauty out of brokenness. She weaves a beautiful mosaic.

Exploring the world, albeit slowly.

Farmer Boy (audio)

The Endless Steppe

Homeless Bird

Listening for Lions

The Broken Blade

Ms. Rapscott's Girls 

The US Space Camp Book of Astronauts

Rats, Bulls, and Flying Machines

The Magna Carta: Cornerstone of US Constitution 

Because this year is the 800th anniversary of the, The Magna Charta

Bard of Avon

Martin Luther, A Man Who Changed the World

Calico Captive

The Captain's Dog

    As we listen to Farmer Boy, I'm suffering serious guilt over our lack of children chores around here. Yet, the arrival of spring is helping rectify the situation! 

   Life is rapidly becoming school, yard chores, and writing, the latter as there is time. Yet, we've upped the ante on writing projects round here. 

   Sister is busy finishing out her IEW year; I'll post another of her papers soon. I'm beginning to wonder if I should quit writing and simply focus on becoming her agent. She recently wrote a letter from Dolly Madison to her mother that takes the cake. Thankfully, she's constraining the drama to her writing!

   Brother has been very busy writing at school and this week he'll also write a bill to prepare for his one day class at Teen Pact. The chosen topic of his proposed bill? Reading in bathrooms should not be allowed. (This is a bit of a personal agenda for him round our house. We won't say who frequently attempts to disappear with a book in the bathroom.) 

  And I've committed myself to a more aggressive pace of writing this year with a few members of my monthly critique group. We have agreed to turn in writing on the 1st and 3rd weeks of the month for perusal and feedback vs. only once a month.

 If you want to change the world, pick up your pen and write. ~ Martin Luther