I'm proud of 'em, and I get mamma-bear mad when folks have low expectations of 'em.
And then I take it as an opportunity to clarify my philosophy of education. In sonnet form, of course.
http://thereforeiambic.blogspot.com/2011/01/these-fine-strong-sons-of-mine-it-is.html
1.31.2011
1.20.2011
Plumb Line
One of the best things about having lots of kids is that you get to hear yourself reflected back--my interactions with them get played back over and over again in the way they talk to each other, and so I get to find out how I really sound.
And so it was that I was doubly pleased the other day, when I heard September speaking to Will with such gentle, loving firmness.
"Willie, I'll let you play with my football, but not in the bathroom, because I don't want you to flush it down the toilet. You shouldn't flush things down the toilet that don't belong to you."
And so it was that I was doubly pleased the other day, when I heard September speaking to Will with such gentle, loving firmness.
"Willie, I'll let you play with my football, but not in the bathroom, because I don't want you to flush it down the toilet. You shouldn't flush things down the toilet that don't belong to you."
1.17.2011
Clutter
I’ve been reading the newspaper this afternoon—a rare indulgence. Newspapers are terribly messy and clutterful, and so I tend to get most of my news from the internet. With all the temptingly distracting hyperlinks, I suppose that the internet produces even more mental clutter, but at least it all stays contained in my head, rather than getting scattered about the house.
Of course, mental clutter is even more crazy-making than paper-clutter… until in finds its way out onto paper. It works just the same way as with the house—the more stuff you let in, the more of your life you have to spend organizing it all. There’s a richness in simplicity, and I’m trying to rid my life of extraneous junk. At the very least, I’m trying to count the cost for everything I bring into my life—not just the initial investment, but also the cumulative cost of constantly having to put it away, over and over again. It’s all too easy for the meaningless to crowd out the meaningful, for words to multiply, and dreams to crowd out their fulfillment.
Of the writing of books there is no end, but once they’ve been scattered all around the floor for the umpteenth time, they need to get put back into place so I can stop tripping on them. Yesterday, when I was trying to pick up the week’s accumulation of clutter, I found myself instead following my husband around while he cleaned, and chattering incessantly. I was explaining to him about why I really needed to write more, so that I wouldn’t drive him up the wall by talking his ear off quite so much. I stopped short as soon as I picked up on the irony, but he assured me that I wasn’t actually annoying him. He doesn’t mind when I talk about writing. It’s just when I talk about… certain things. He couldn’t remember what.
This afternoon, our beautiful, newly tidy room was strewn about with comics and economics and the weekly “Around the Area” column on local murderings and gristly accidents. I read aloud all the particularly infuriating snippets from editorial after editorial, and Andrew finally remembered what it is that always bugs him. Ah, yes. Politics. He can’t stand it when I talk about politics.
We’re pretty much on the same page, and though our views have evolved through the years, they’ve been changing in lockstep. But our attention spans are different, and Andrew is forever drawing me out of the endless round and round of the now, back to the slow, meticulous study of history that makes sense out of it all.
And of course, when I sat down to write, I had the intention of drawing some profound point out of all this.
It was terribly profound and wonderful, but it seems to be buried in a big pile with several pages of newspaper, some dirty dishes, and some unfolded laundry.
Of course, mental clutter is even more crazy-making than paper-clutter… until in finds its way out onto paper. It works just the same way as with the house—the more stuff you let in, the more of your life you have to spend organizing it all. There’s a richness in simplicity, and I’m trying to rid my life of extraneous junk. At the very least, I’m trying to count the cost for everything I bring into my life—not just the initial investment, but also the cumulative cost of constantly having to put it away, over and over again. It’s all too easy for the meaningless to crowd out the meaningful, for words to multiply, and dreams to crowd out their fulfillment.
Of the writing of books there is no end, but once they’ve been scattered all around the floor for the umpteenth time, they need to get put back into place so I can stop tripping on them. Yesterday, when I was trying to pick up the week’s accumulation of clutter, I found myself instead following my husband around while he cleaned, and chattering incessantly. I was explaining to him about why I really needed to write more, so that I wouldn’t drive him up the wall by talking his ear off quite so much. I stopped short as soon as I picked up on the irony, but he assured me that I wasn’t actually annoying him. He doesn’t mind when I talk about writing. It’s just when I talk about… certain things. He couldn’t remember what.
This afternoon, our beautiful, newly tidy room was strewn about with comics and economics and the weekly “Around the Area” column on local murderings and gristly accidents. I read aloud all the particularly infuriating snippets from editorial after editorial, and Andrew finally remembered what it is that always bugs him. Ah, yes. Politics. He can’t stand it when I talk about politics.
We’re pretty much on the same page, and though our views have evolved through the years, they’ve been changing in lockstep. But our attention spans are different, and Andrew is forever drawing me out of the endless round and round of the now, back to the slow, meticulous study of history that makes sense out of it all.
And of course, when I sat down to write, I had the intention of drawing some profound point out of all this.
It was terribly profound and wonderful, but it seems to be buried in a big pile with several pages of newspaper, some dirty dishes, and some unfolded laundry.
4.10.2010
Poetry Blog, Take II
Okay, so I don't think, therefore I mess up the launching of my new blog, and then go get a puppy, and never make it onto the internet for a few weeks.
Here it is, for reals: thereforeiambic.blogspot.com
I'm starting out slow--expect weekly Saturday posts for now.
First up, a resurrection poem.
Because Christ is risen!
Hallelujah!
Oh, and in case you're wondering, she's a little white furball of a mini schnoodle, her name is Terpsichore, and although she's very cute, everything they've ever said about housebreaking small dogs is true.
Here it is, for reals: thereforeiambic.blogspot.com
I'm starting out slow--expect weekly Saturday posts for now.
First up, a resurrection poem.
Because Christ is risen!
Hallelujah!
Oh, and in case you're wondering, she's a little white furball of a mini schnoodle, her name is Terpsichore, and although she's very cute, everything they've ever said about housebreaking small dogs is true.
3.23.2010
Poetry Blog
I'm blogging in metered verse over at I Think, Therefore Iambic Pentameter.
First up, I've got a metaphysical sonnet about teabags, with sweetly innocent children's poetry, ruminations on fear of death, and even a little bit of cynical politics coming soon.
I'm also writing nonsense rhymes to supplement the wuggies' phonics lessons, and I may post some of that, too.
I hope you drop by soon.
First up, I've got a metaphysical sonnet about teabags, with sweetly innocent children's poetry, ruminations on fear of death, and even a little bit of cynical politics coming soon.
I'm also writing nonsense rhymes to supplement the wuggies' phonics lessons, and I may post some of that, too.
I hope you drop by soon.
3.10.2010
Remember the Alamo!
We just got back from a little jaunt to San Antonio.
It's an inspiring bit of history, and we like being part of a state with an identity like that.
Along the way to the Alamo, we ended up traipsing through the backroads, and meandering through an old cemetery.
We like walking through graveyards, the skeletal outlines of lives long ago, a set of dates held together by a few lines of poetry. It is good to stand at a distance, to see what really matters after time has smoothed away most of the details, while magnifying others, as an ancient winding stream carves out the riverbed.
Remember the Alamo!
It's strange to think that after all these years, it really doesn't matter whether they won or lost, but it matters tremendously that they died and died valiantly.
We remember that they lost the battle, and we remember that their defeat was part of how the revolution was won.
But sooner or later, I'm sure it all would have turned out this way in the end, and it doesn't really matter how we got here.
But it matters that these brave men fought to the death against hopeless odds, and it matters that their comrades let them die alone and unsupported, and waited to bravely fight the battles that were theirs to fight and win.
All these years later, what matters is not how long their lives were, or even whether in the dying they accomplished their goals. What matters is that they chose wisesly, fought bravely, and died well.
The vic'try or defeat is but a token
of the glory spilled from lives valiantly broken.
It's an inspiring bit of history, and we like being part of a state with an identity like that.
Along the way to the Alamo, we ended up traipsing through the backroads, and meandering through an old cemetery.
We like walking through graveyards, the skeletal outlines of lives long ago, a set of dates held together by a few lines of poetry. It is good to stand at a distance, to see what really matters after time has smoothed away most of the details, while magnifying others, as an ancient winding stream carves out the riverbed.
Remember the Alamo!
It's strange to think that after all these years, it really doesn't matter whether they won or lost, but it matters tremendously that they died and died valiantly.
We remember that they lost the battle, and we remember that their defeat was part of how the revolution was won.
But sooner or later, I'm sure it all would have turned out this way in the end, and it doesn't really matter how we got here.
But it matters that these brave men fought to the death against hopeless odds, and it matters that their comrades let them die alone and unsupported, and waited to bravely fight the battles that were theirs to fight and win.
All these years later, what matters is not how long their lives were, or even whether in the dying they accomplished their goals. What matters is that they chose wisesly, fought bravely, and died well.
The vic'try or defeat is but a token
of the glory spilled from lives valiantly broken.
2.11.2010
Complicated Passages
I was reading a bit of Galatians to the wuggies this morning, simply because that's what I was reading to myself before they got up. Of course, this required a bit of context-building before we launched into the text. We looked up Galatia first on the map in the back of the Bible, then found the corresponding area on the globe, and discovered that it corresponds to modern-day Turkey.
After I explained to them how the people of Galatia had been led astray by bad teachers, September wondered if the Insulations ever got things straight again.
I didn't know the answer to that one.
Nathan, on the other hand, really just wanted to know why the area had changed names.
Another stumper.
But then, all on his own, he figured it out.
The land must have been invaded by chickens.
And there you have it.
After I explained to them how the people of Galatia had been led astray by bad teachers, September wondered if the Insulations ever got things straight again.
I didn't know the answer to that one.
Nathan, on the other hand, really just wanted to know why the area had changed names.
Another stumper.
But then, all on his own, he figured it out.
The land must have been invaded by chickens.
And there you have it.
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