I’ve always had a thing for self-portraits (if you can’t tell by my blog header). At times they have been hard for me to take, but still, I am drawn to them. I always try to encourage people to take more photos of themselves, because I think it’s a powerful action. (You know you want to take some!) It’s also vulnerable, which is my new word, so I’m in for a year full of self-portraits.

We’ve been using Ambleside Online to give us a basic, yet flexible schedule for some of our learning, and the past couple weeks we’ve been looking at Albrecht Durer’s paintings. (The Wing of a Roller pictured above is my favorite of his). Lots of artists choose to do self-portraits in one way or another. I think as artists we are drawn to really giving something our attention, and so it’s only natural and healthy that we would be drawn to studying ourselves.

Looking at Albrecht Durer’s paintings and then thinking of some of the paintings I’ve seen Rick Beerhorst create, led me to this self-portrait project with my kids.

They picked out costumes and then posed in a chair by a window, so I could take their pictures with good lighting.

We talked about how the painting of Albrecht would probably have had to been created with him looking in a mirror. We talked about how the light hit his face, making it appear lighter on one side than the other. We talked about where the light source must be coming from and we decided it was probably candlelight. They studied his painting and tried to pose similar to him, sitting up tall and maintaining their best straight faces.

I printed the kids photos out and then they went to work drawing their self-portraits.

Later, I added my own versions of the self-portraits, drawn with pencil on lightly gessoed scrap cardboard.

For the sake of full-disclosure, I should tell you that this project did not go smoothly. But a bumpy life is far more exciting, right?

My 3-year-old was sick with a fever and so he took a nap and missed the whole thing.

My 8-year-old got frustrated because she started with an ink pen and couldn’t erase. I tried to tell her about Danny Gregory who encourages the use of ink pen and not being perfect, but she wasn’t buying it. So I gave her a pencil and passed out giant artist erasers to each kiddio.

My 5-year-old son knew he couldn’t possibly make his drawing look as realistic as Albrecht Durer’s self-portrait, so he didn’t want to participate. Not. At. All. I got out one of my new favorite art books, Basquiat, and showed him how Basquiat made his guys. He started to smile through his tears, as I re-explained Ish, and reminded both of us that we create our own unique art that does not have to look a certain way in order to make it right. I also told him I would be his partner through the whole entire process, helping him when he got stuck or felt scared of failing. He faltered a few times in the costume selecting and in the actual drawing process, but overall he stuck it out and created his best realism drawing to date.

About a month ago I sat down with my kiddios and asked them what things they were curious about. We made a long list. On the days when they are bored, and by bored I mean fighting with each other incessantly, we gravitate towards the list. It helps keep the peace, if you know what I mean.

Our recent exploration was robots. It started one Monday morning when Luther did his usual routine of watching the EWWWWW! truck (otherwise known as the trash truck) dump the trash. As we watched the driver operate the mechanical arm to pick up the trash can, I said out loud, “Hey, that’s a robot.” I remembered that robots were on their curiosity list, and thus the learning experience was started.

We looked up robots in our The Way Things Works book.

We reserved a bunch of robot library books and a couple videos.

We watched this Ted video about this amazing robot that flies like a bird.

We talked about factories and how they use robots. We watched an old favorite video of mine from Mr. Rogers, on how crayons are made.

We watched The Iron Giant, and perhaps shed a few tears.

We made paper robots thanks to a link from our friend Zach.

We talked about the people on Tony’s team at work called Digerati and how many of them are good at writing computer code and computer code is what tells a robot what to do.

Our robot talk spurred spin-off conversations about inventions. The girl’s talked about tying up their hair with a ribbon like Violet Bauldelaire does whenever she is inventing something in A Series of Unfortunate Events. Charis is angry because she can’t figure out how to invent a shrinking machine or a machine that turns things invisible. I’m so at a loss to help her. I’m thinking Phineas and Ferb might be better teachers.

We drew plans for and invented our own Rube Goldberg machines after watching this video and this one.

We got out all the robots we had and played with them.

We learned that our word robot comes from the Czech word robotta which means forced labor. And we talked about what jobs we would like to force robots to do for us. Cleaning the house ranked high on the list, but my kids wanted to be sure they’d still get their chore money even if a robot did the work for them.

Luther learned about balance. It was a self-directed study.

We also talked about saving our money and buying this robot that we could build ourselves. We thought it would be fun to have it follow lines of tape around our home.

Even though we are kind of burnt-out on robots now, my kids are still pointing them out to me every now and then. “Hey mom, isn’t the garage door run by a robot?” “Hey mom, that bar that raises to let cars pass through, that’s a robot!” It’s fun to see them so engaged in a topic they selected.

My mom even made them robot cards to celebrate our learning. They were a big hit.

—

If you want more information on the way we follow our curiosities, check out this e-Book.

And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love.

- William Blake

I’m learning to call people all the time and ask for help, which is about the hardest thing I can think of doing…I’m beginning to believe…that someone somewhere is always well if you’re just willing to make enough phone calls.

- Anne Lamott, Operating Instructions

Well I know you are frightened, and I know you are angry
And I know you tired of the unknown
But I am beside you, and I will remind you
That you don’t have to go it alone

- Kendall Payne

Today marks the end of our family’s homeschool co-op. We will break for summer and reconvene next Fall, when the weather is hinting at crispness and the trees are flirting with color.

Last year, this ending couldn’t come fast enough. Perhaps it was due in part to the fact that I was teaching art all three hours of our co-op. I have no doubt this added to the overwhelmed feeling I had every Thursday morning as I lugged in art supplies and wondered if the kids would be into creating that day and if I really had anything worthwhile to offer them. But to be honest, there was more. More beyond the lesson plans.

Last week one of the co-op moms asked me if I was “in” for next year. I looked at her inquisitively, not sure what she was getting at. “Is your family coming back? Are you going to be apart of all this next year?” I surprised myself with an adamant, “Oh yes!” And even though it felt foreign on my tongue I wish I would have added, “We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

What had changed in me since this time last year. What made me such a passionate convert? What if I did leave what would I, what would we, me and my family, really be missing?

And then the faces. The faces began to pour into my mind, parading memories across my heartstrings. There was the little baby I held in my arms and fed a bottle while I worked in the nursery the first hour of our co-op this year. The baby who was born earlier then expected to a dear friend of mine. The baby who spent his first days in the NICU. The baby who might not have made it.

There was the athletic and muscial teenager who was diagnosed with a brain tumor, and whose smile persisted despite the troubling news that said tumor was growing. I watched as our little community drew around him and his mom and his siblings in the only way we knew how to. Who were we to comfort, we who knew so little about walking through fear the size of mountains? And yet I watched as we plunged in anyway, making it up as we went along because even though it’s awkward it’s better than doing it alone.

There was the mom who, though haunted by the loss of a baby in her past, plunged gallantly forward into a new pregnancy and as those strange and unpredictable demons of fate would have it, broke her leg days before her due date. Are you kidding me? “Anyone,” I kept thinking. “Anyone but her.” Hasn’t she been through too much? When does a person break beyond repair? She was absent from co-op for awhile, but when her face returned I swear a portion of me, the portion that had been holding it’s breath, finally breathed again and thought how blessed that I get to walk in close proximity to saints such as she?

There were the 3 year-olds that called me “hey teacher.” That asked me to draw them monsters, to build them doggy cages, to fly fighter helicopters with them, helicopters disguised as upside down chairs. And there was the mom that sat with me that hour, co-leaders in creativity, who stunned me with her imagination and asked me poignant questions and discussed art and beauty and the things of faith that simply don’t make any sense, but lure us ever closer anyway.

There was the face of a momma, watching her already injured daughter fall from the slide. The sigh of my heart as a curse word tumbled from fearful lips and then a tinge of deep love and appreciation for humanity as she placed hand to mouth and apologized for what had slipped out. Oh thank God for the raw. Thank God for the imperfect showing up in what some might call the most Christian-ish of places. Because I need to know I can be real, and now it is safe here. She has made it safe for me.

There were the faces of the older kids. My son’s favorite “grown-up kid” who without question would let him sit with the “big kids” at lunch and his sister who always managed to hold my 2-year-old when my arms couldn’t handle one more task. There were the guys who carried my stuff to and from my car, who actually passed me the ball during pick-up games of basketball in PE, and who occasionally beamed me with dodge balls (even though I was sitting on the sidelines), but always offered their sincerest of apologies. There were the sweet pre-teen girls, dancing wildly into beauty and shyly warming my heart with their soft, “Hi Miss Mandy’s.”

There were the faces of my children’s friends. The laughter alighting on stone-padded playground. The secret meetings, the holding of hands, the young innocent questions of love and friendship and even betrayal. Lesson upon social lesson, and me just thankful to get to be a part, some small part.

And the faces go on and on. Faces of women unashamed to share the messy details of parenting and marriage and home-educating. Faces of women who taught me what it means to ask for help. Faces of women who champion story after story of hurt and hang-ups and heroic proportions of fighting for joy and richness in the mundane. Faces of women who exchanged texts and emails and within those exchanged laughter and tears, because we just want to get this one life as right as possible and we know this means in some way or another letting others in close.

So today, today, this last day of co-op, I am feeling something new born within me. The awakenings, the beginnings of, the dawning of what it means to be vulnerable in the company of another. Something that was foreign to me last year as I walked co-op halls trying to do it all, all of it, all on my own. To shoulder full responsibility for education and parenting and marriage and art and womanhood, to clean-up the messes that incur, all. by. myself. And I see that it was not co-op that I did not like, it was the letting of others in. It was the opening to love. It was the surrendering to the need I have for others. It was the acceptance of differences (for we have many differences) and the realization that this Mama does not always know best. And this year, this year is the deep sigh of I need you and I want you and I’m awkward at this, but I certainly can no longer imagine life without you.

So no, it does not end today. It begins. And there is so much left to learn and, thank God, an environment conducive to doing so.

I haven’t shared many creative happenings from around our house recently. I was looking back through photos, and found this project that makes me smile. This is my favorite thing we’ve created with clay so far. We did this in August. I have no idea where the worms are now. They probably got broken and thrown away. Ah well, it was fun while it lasted.

I wanted to share some new things with you about my Messy Canvas Bookstore.

FIRST

I have a brand new e-Book available!

Homeschooling our children greatly feeds into me as an artist. It is inspiring me to be creative, to think outside the box, to chase dreams and curiosities and exploration and adventure and story. It teaches me to want the most out of my today. It makes me live more childlike. It also teaches me a lot about mess and being imperfect.

If you are considering homeschooling or are currently homeschooling, but just aren’t happy with the results, I hope this e-Book will be an inspiration to you. I hope it will empower you and inspire you to do exactly what is best for your unique family, and I hope you’ll have fun in the process.

You can read more about it here.

SECOND

From now until the end of this year (December 31, 2010) all sales of the Angry Homemade Noodles e-Book go to the charity A Beautiful Idea. If you’ve been wanting a pick-me-up as a mom or want to give some hope to a struggling mom, I believe you will find this e-Book inspiring. And now your money goes twice as far, by also supporting a good cause.

THIRD

There have been nearly 700 downloads of the FREE e-Book Messy Canvas: You Are An Artist. What Will You Create? It’s so exciting to hear feedback from readers whose hearts are awakening to what has been lying dormant inside them for far too long. Thank you for sharing the e-Book so generously with your own friends and family and blog readers. Please continue to do so. This creative movement is far bigger than any one of us. It’s fun to just play a part in the stirring.

I was driving my car this afternoon and ended up on a road that is near a college campus. I slowed down to let a guy with a backpack make his way across the street. I took in his overgrown hair, his laid back attire, his calm stride that I would label a mosey. There was an heir about him that flashed me back into my own college experience, remembering what the students were like, remembering how I was hardly ever comfortable in my own skin at the time.

Students would go to coffee shops. They would go to the Waffle House. They would make plans. They would sit on the hills of our campus and play bongo drums or strum a guitar. They would hike trails or cook meals together. They would live life.

I didn’t go to college to live life. And that stemmed from the fact that I didn’t go to high school to live life either. In fact, I wonder when it was that I did exactly stop living life? Now let me be quick to say, this is not an anti-study rant. I believe that I am certainly wired to enjoy learning and reading books and researching and writing. However, it was rare in college that I was reading and researching what I wanted to be. Who has time to do personal research about coffee flavors or the Appalachian outdoors or to read one novel after another simply because you can’t get enough of Bronte or Steinbeck? Certainly not me. I had, at times, as many as 5 syllabuses to conquer, and I wasn’t about to leave a single detail out.

My last semester of college was spent at Focus on the Family Institute in Colorado Springs. I remember so clearly the message the faculty tried to get across to us the first day. It went something like this:

“Your application process to get selected for this program proves that you are all smart, proves that you all are achievers, proves that you are all some of the best students at your respective colleges. This is going to make it hard to hear what we’re saying right now. Try to hear anyway. This semester is not about getting A’s. Your identity cannot be wrapped up in what grade you get. This semester is about learning to become a leader, learning to live your life, learning about yourself, following your heart, valuing community. We have purposely given you more work then you should be able to accomplish for each class. Please don’t attempt to do it all. You will have to pick and choose what you make time for. There will be times the wiser decision will be having a one-on-one conversation with a friend or going out to do something with a group, or doing something fun for you rather than doing an assignment. You’ll have to be the judge of that.”

I found this one of the most shocking and confusing moments of my young adult life. And to be honest, I didn’t do a great job that semester of figuring out how to let some assignments go. But it was the beginning stages of a change in my life. A look into the legalistic way I’d been living out my faith and a look into the unsatisfying way I had been living my life. I did things because I was told to do them with little regard for what my heart had to say about it.  There were many things I was missing out on because I was letting others dictate what had value. I remained a back-seat driver in my own life, scared to speak up when I thought we were heading in the wrong direction because, afterall, I wasn’t the one in charge.

As I watched this college student pass before me today, crossing the street in his attractive mosey, I had an odd feeling settle over me. I wished to be in college. Even though I am 32, I feel as if I never lived that part of my life. At least, I didn’t live it in the way that attracts me now. I wish now that I had read a few less chapters out of that boring, dry history book, and traded those hours for a coffee with a friend or reading a novel that wasn’t assigned, but that my professor spoke of so lovingly, or going out to listen to a band play.

I felt my life was on hold at the time. Maybe it was because I was wanting to get married. Maybe it was because I was in the wrong major. Maybe it was because I was split between different locations to call home. Whatever the case may be, I was in survival mode, please the professors mode, check off the to-do boxes mode. I was not in living mode. I did not hang framed pictures on my walls. I did not get to know the community outside of my college campus. I did not engage in society. I was just a walking student ID number, making sure I didn’t draw attention to myself by messing with the status quo.

Today that moseying college student with his torn jeans and flip flops called my bluff in a blame game I have been playing for some time now. My problem was not with my education, like I preferred to believe. My problem was with me and my desire to get good grades. I realized today why I was always jealous of those B, C and D students. Because many of them were having fun, while I was busy doing the right thing. If only I realized the pursuit of passion, the living of a life. If only I realized that acquiring knowledge out of a love for learning and a love for life was worth the messy imperfection of a few well-earned C’s.

At 32 I’m going back to school, and I’m learning from what academia would call those “average” students. The students who chase what they actually love instead of what they are told to love. My professor is an oblivious shaggy haired 20-something and he’s teaching me an imperfect mosey that my rigid muscles are testing out a bit at a time. He is teaching me to learn what I love, to focus on what ignites me, to care less about the rules and more about the passion. I don’t write on my blog because some syllabus told me it’s time to, I write because I can’t help myself, and I hope it’s why you’re here reading. Life is too short to live for straight A’s or to do something you either don’t agree with or don’t give a rip about.

My neighbor Amy recently gave me a cookbook called Deceptively Delicious. It’s by Jerry Seinfeld’s wife, Jessica Seinfeld. The basis behind the cookbook is that you create vegetable and fruit purees to include in your meals, so that your kids are getting the benefits of eating healthy food without even knowing it. I focused solely on the vegetable purees since I have no trouble getting my kids to eat fruits.

This past week my kids ate butternut squash, beets, summer squash, sweet potato, spinach, carrots and cauliflower and didn’t complain! We talked about what vegetables were hidden in each dish and then how each food was helping their bodies.

While the process of pureeing was a bit intense and took me longer than I expected, there was something very satisfying in buying all that produce and actually consuming it as a family without a fight on my hands. I bought raw beets and a butternut squash for the first time ever, which was fun simply because I was doing something I had never done.

The artist in me was delighted with the rich colors represented in the purees. I wanted to paint with the beet puree (while simultaneously holding my nose because of the stench.)

I am not sure I have it in me to puree this much consistently, but we loved how all the recipes tasted, and I walked away with some more healthy tricks to use in the kitchen.

I was watching ballet how-to videos with my kids for homeschool. We were learning the 5 positions and then watching as seasoned ballerinas took those beginning positions to the next level, creating elaborate dances. While watching one video there were words to read on the screen. The words spoke of how the strength of the ballerina is masked by her beauty. But make no mistake, the strength is there.

I recently tried out the P90X yoga workout which came highly recommended. In the midst of one of the stretches the trainer throws out the phrase, “Calm in the storm.” He brings attention to the intense work that a man’s leg and foot are doing to hold him balanced and contrasts it with the serene and relaxed look of the man’s face. Surely it’s not that calm man who is connected to that fully engaged, even trembling foot. But it is. He has found the ability to be hard at work in one part of his body, yet at peace in the rest.

In having a baby, I remember so vividly the feeling of breathing through contractions. Of hearing Tony encourage me, saying “That part of the body is working hard to push down the baby, but the rest of your body is relaxed, sinking deeply into the bed, feeling no pain.” I remember the strange feeling of letting my body contract in one place and yet breathe in other places. I felt disconnected with myself, like I was in two parts. One part fully at rest, the other fully at work.

I’ve been taking a yoga class at our local YMCA. After my second class, a woman in the class introduced herself and encouraged me to stick with it. She gave me a lot of positive feedback and then talked about what yoga has meant to her. I appreciated her insight and told her I hoped that what I learned in yoga would transfer off the mat. I need to learn to breathe through life, just like I breathe through a class. She gave me a look of complete understanding and said, “So do I. So do I.”

There are endless moments to breath deeply in my life, to find an inner calm despite an outer storm. Sometimes to even find an inner calm despite an inner storm.  The endless moments presented to me are chances to try out my new practice.

It’s the breathing I mentioned before in this post. It is knowing the breathing is enough. I am so excited to see my physical fitness effect my spiritual and mental fitness so strongly. I’m happy to be at a place where all my energy seems to be targeted in one direction. I love the transformation I feel taking place. An ever-growing strength masked by an unfolding beauty.

His name is Grey Wolf Magic Dancer. At least that is the name his mama gave him as she left her teepee shortly after giving birth to him and her eyes landed on a grey wolf and the tribal mountain dancers in the distance. His father, a white man, named him Mark. It’s what his birth certificate reads, but he has resented that name ever since. “Just because you call a watermelon a peach,” he told me, “doesn’t mean it’s a peach.”

My daughter Charis was attempting to fill up her water bottle at the park, only to find that the water fountain was spraying water everywhere, making it near impossible to catch anything but a few drops in the bottle. Enter Grey Wolf, who kindly showed her his tricks and successfully filled the bottle. We thanked him and I marveled at how the conversation somehow transitioned naturally into a talk about cougar hunting.

I think you tend to take in the most details of a person when it is your first encounter with them. You notice things like interesting mustaches, crooked teeth, and a wheelchair full of simple belongings. You also walk a fine line of “Can I trust you?” and “Can I get to know you?” We were testing each other out, dancing that awkward first dance of a first meeting. But as I looked into his eyes, I could have sworn I had met him before. He reminded me of other people I have met along the way. People who are night and day different to me, who are watermelons while I am a peach. And yet who, just like me, simply long for the chance to be heard, the chance to talk, the chance to tell their story.

So we listened. We listened, my kids and me, as he taught us about shrieking cicadas and grey wolves and how to grow corn in sand. We listened as he taught us about reflecting light and homeless people and the Apache temper. We listened as he opened up doors to a world we have never been a part of, but one in which he was so graciously inviting us into. I thought in the back of my head, “This is homeschooling at its finest. This is what I love about being outside, about going on walks, about having no agenda but just heading out to explore.”

At some point I realized my kids had all wandered off to play, and I thanked Grey Wolf for his time. He asked if I wanted to hear a sermon. “I’m a preacher too,” he told me. Intrigued by this preacher who was lighting a cigarette and who told me he wanted to start a street ministry, I asked for his 1-minute sermon.

“If I had one minute, I would give you my testimony. I would tell you about how I found Jesus in jail, and how my life has been forever changed. I would tell you about how I got myself a good family, good friends, a good church, and how I’ve been lining up some honest jobs I could do, even if I haven’t decided to do any of them yet. I would tell you how it’s possible to live just as richly as all these people who drive around in these nice, expensive cars, and to even be more content then most of them, all because of how Jesus changed me.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and gave a crooked smile, nodding his head in satisfaction.

I’m not sure what it is about moments like these that leave me feeling hopeful inside, but as I walked away, I had this sense of connecting with humanity on a deeper level. Of seeing God, somehow, in the squinty eyes and the sun tanned face of Mr. Grey Wolf, and of liking what I saw.

He was awake. I had heard him talking on and off behind his closed door, but the babbling started to intrigue me when it became interspersed with squeals of laughter and gasps of awe. “What is he doing?” I wondered.

I assumed his brother must be playing with him, since they shared a room, but why didn’t I hear his brother’s voice?

Another squeal of joy. My curiosity took rise, and I followed it up to the bedroom door, where I quietly turned the knob and prayed I could catch him in the midst of play.

The first thing I noticed was his older brother, asleep in his own bed. “So he’s playing by himself,” I reasoned, intrigued all the more.

He was standing in his crib, looking down at his body, touching his arm that was dotted in little specks of light that were peeking through the blinds. The light was casting dancing sparkles on the edge of his crib and onto the wall as well. He looked up at the wall and slapped at it, and then let go with another squeal of delight.

“He’s playing with the light,” I thought, taken by the moment. His fist reached out with a quick grab at the illuminated wall, and I could see the mystery was baffling his little mind. “He’s trying to catch the light,” I whispered to myself.

“Your eyes are windows into your body. If you open your eyes wide in wonder and belief, your body fills up with light.” – Matthew 6:22

Now it was my turn to take my own gasp of awe. How simple a delight. Sunshine pouring in at just the right time, in just the right way, to create a magical mobile for my baby, far greater than anything I could have ever purchased in a store. Discovery, exploration, education, right in his own bedroom. I imagined how surprised he must have been when he first opened his eyes and beheld the magical light show. It was, I must admit, quite breathtaking, but I’m pretty sure I would have completely missed it, if it wasn’t for his CHILDLIKE fascination. My children wake me up to simple magic all around me. They awaken me to wonder and I am filled with light.

In early spring Nehemiah, our 4-year-old, decided to use his birthday money to buy some gardening tools and flower seeds. He was adamant that his birthday money be used to create his own flower garden. So Tony took him shopping and they carved out a little section of our backyard and filled it with rich dirt where the seeds were then planted.

I didn’t expect to be taken in by the process, but I have been. We all have been.

In the beginning Tony would protect the little sprouts from downpours and wind by covering them with our recycling bin.

Nehemiah would ask, “Are my flowers okay?”

“Yes, I kept them safe,” Tony would reply.

From the very first green to the very first bloom, it felt as though we were holding our breath, anticipating a miracle. And watching the growth process, seeing tiny sprouts turn into 2 inch thick stems of sunflowers, watching morning glories vine their way around the sunflower stems so they could climb to the sun, and seeing the first colors of bright red zinnias bloom into life, has been nothing short of a miracle. Despite thick heat and flood waters, flowers are blooming, things are springing to life, and we get to watch it all unfold in our very own backyard.

If I had forgotten for a moment that there is great wonder in this world, I am now reminded. Thanks to the wishes of a 4-year-old, CHILDLIKE wonder has returned to me.

When Tony and I started seriously thinking about homeschooling our children, I did a lot of research. I read book after book after book. I emailed all of my friends that homeschool their children. I journaled out my thoughts and fears and prayers about it. Tony and I discussed a lot. It was no easy decision.

Now, looking back on it, I’m kind of exhausted by all the energy I put into it. I’m glad it didn’t feel exhausting at the time.

I’m still in the baby stages of figuring out what it looks like to homeschool. I feel blessed to live in a state that makes it very easy to homeschool your children. And I feel blessed to be surrounded by all sorts of homeschool families whom I love and connect with. Even so, it feels weird to be on the receiving end now for those inquiring how and why to homeschool. In the last few months I’ve talked, over email mainly, with a few close friends who are testing out the waters and asking a lot of good questions. The same questions I was asking only a couple years ago.

I thought if a few of my friends were asking questions, maybe others were curious about homeschooling too, so I decided to combine the common questions into a Q&A. I added in with it some helpful links to books and resources, some quotes and a blog post on what I’m learning it means to be a teacher. I hope you’ll find it helpful. Please feel free to pass it on to anyone else you think would benefit from reading it. You can get to the page by clicking on The Art of Teaching Tab on the top of my blog.

As artists we daily create what our life is going to look like. We have a lot of creative control over the life we’re living. Don’t we?

I’m not sure we always live like we believe that.

Personally I’m trying to be more and more intentional about the life we create, allowing lots of opportunities and time to explore and imagine.  I’m trying to change my mindset from life happens TO me to life happens BECAUSE of me. I’ve been guilty of feeling I am just a victim of my life’s circumstances, as I sit, passively stuck waiting for the life I dream of to fall out of the sky. Now I’m trying to awaken to the reality that life is what I make it. If I want a CHILDLIKE home that feels magical and exciting, then I’m going to do my creative best to make that come about.

I’m still putting pen to paper on this train of thought, trying to hash out all of the implications that come with knowing and creating the life I long for. These realizations are so exciting to me.

I have to tell you, it’s been neat to see the trail God has me on. As I look back over the past year of my life, there has been a lot of big change occurring. It was just last July that I stopped reading the Bible. I needed a break. I wasn’t finding God there, as crazy as that sounds.

Then in November I started reading Galatians, and I haven’t stopped since. I’ve been on a journey of establishing my own relationship with God, apart from what I’ve been told that needs to look like. That romance with Him, and I call it that because He has stirred my heart greatly as an artist, has led into all sorts of growth that I had been trying to force for years.

The people pleasing I was fighting so viciously with last Spring is beginning to drift away. The more I pursue God naturally, in my own way, the more He reveals Himself to me. My CHILDLIKE awe of Him has returned. He is so much more than attending a church, paying a tithe, taking communion, not sinning and reading my Bible.

He is an Artist! He is in the business of stirring hearts, of breathing life into dead lungs, of taking the mundane day-to-day family life and making it enjoyable.

We long for it to be true. I know I did, last July, when I could see God more in the sentences of Frankenstein then I could in the HOLY BIBLE. But I felt like I wasn’t seeing God in the RIGHT places. I felt like I didn’t have the rules of religion down and that without those rules, He wouldn’t care much to hear from me. Life had become a rut, and even though I wanted out of it, I was scared to move.

Galatians has taught me about my value. It has taught me I am loved not because of what I do, but because God is love and He has sacrificed greatly to love me. God’s love for me is not based on my Bible reading or my life of service or all the rules that I obey.

Artists try and point us to the free life. It pours out of art. Think about the freeing movement of dancing or free-flowing paint strokes or music that makes your heart come alive. We crave freedom, a heart that is joyful. I thought I could get that through religion. I mean there are rules that should govern our faith, right? But the rules make me cold and stiff. The rules make me mad at my husband or kids when they don’t live up to the standards. The rules make my home a war-zone, where we’re fighting with each other instead of for each other. The rules turn friends into enemies. The rules make me tired. The rules tell me I’m stuck. The rules tell me I’m a victim of a broken life I can never repair. There is no freedom to create the life we long for when all we can think about is ourselves and how miserably stuck we are.

I am finding great joy in the freedom that God, the Artist, offers. He invites me to live out a life where grace covers everything. Grace covers my mistakes and grace covers the mistakes of those around me. Grace allows me to move freely, even in my imperfection. (An artist needs to know that!) The grace-filled life invites, the rule-filled life condemns.

So you want your life to look a certain way? You want to be smiling a lot, whistling while you work, waking up excited to step into what is waiting for you? You want to be an artist that is creating out of overflow rather than scraping the bottom of the barrel for security?

I suggest you stop trying to follow the rules. Stop trying to protect your world. Stop trying to hunker down in your trench until the war ends and you’re no longer a victim. I suggest you become CHILDLIKE and get to know the Master Artist. Perhaps you get to know Him like you used to know Him as a child, or perhaps you get to know Him for the first time. Whatever the case may be, pursue Him wherever you hear His voice. Chase Him.

I don’t quite understand it all yet. I don’t have it all figured out. But what I do know is that I have never felt more alive because I suddenly have the freedom to create the life I’ve always wanted, and it’s all because of Him.

Recently our five-year-old neighbor-girl asked me why my kids don’t go to school. I explained to her that they were homeschooled. She asked, “So you’re their teacher?” “Yes,” I replied, somewhat hesitantly. “That’s just weird,” she shot back, shaking her head in disbelief.

As I thought about it more, I realized why I was hesitant in my reply. It wasn’t for fear of her reaction, it was more because I don’t really feel like their teacher. Really, I feel like they teach themselves, and Tony and I are just there to sort of help them along as they have questions. But that answer seemed, so…well…weird. According to the standards that I know of a teacher, I don’t match up. I don’t do things by the book. I don’t have set standards or curriculum. My methods are ever-shifting and ever-broadening, and I look so little like what I’ve always thought a teacher should look like.

I read a book recently called Walking On Water that made me feel normal. It put words to the feelings I have for how I want to educate my children. It made me excited to see clearly defined the teacher I dream of being.

Let me just say, I never dreamed that I would be a teacher. Even though my family history is dotted with all sorts of amazing professional educators, I never saw myself following in those footsteps. I didn’t choose a degree in education, and the thought of standing in front of a classroom makes me weak in the knees. However, life has given me several opportunities to teach, and I would argue, that all of us are teachers in some capacity or another. We teach our children. We teach our peers. We teach our c0-workers. We teach by mentoring those a bit younger than us. We all teach. Some of us are just better at teaching than others. And this book really inspired me to want to be a good teacher.

Let me share some quotes which come from Walking on Water, unless otherwise noted:

The only real job of any teacher, especially a writing teacher, is to help students find themselves.

The only real learning is self-discovered, self-appropriated learning, I won’t try to teach you anything. It’s my job to create an atmosphere where you can teach yourself.

A mother is not a person to lean on, but a person to make leaning unnecessary. ―Dorothy Canfield Fisher

I long to do this for my own children. To be the kind of teacher who does not give answers, but who instead asks the right questions. I long to give them space to teach themselves, to wrestle with themselves, with other humans and with God. To say to them as Jensen said in his book:

It will be very hard. You’ll make a million mistakes and you’ll pay for them…But the hard parts will be your hard parts, they won’t be hard parts other people have imposed on you for their reasons. And your ownership of them…makes all the difference in the world.

I also long to give them plenty of time to chase down their passions. Sometimes in English in high school I would have loved to spend another hour discussing The Count of Monte Cristo, but the bell would ring, and I would have to move onto Math Class or World History or Gym. This is a great quote about the luxury of time:

We need to not be governed by external schedules…not told what and when we need to learn, nor what we need to express, but instead we need to be given time, not as a constraint, but as a gift in a supportive place where we can explore what we want and who we are, with the assistance of others who care about us also.

I also believe that teaching is made easier when our hearts and minds are trained to tune into the voice of God, to accept the help of His Spirit. I think there is a spiritual directing that can take place in our lives, and when we learn to trust God and let go of the fear of doing things the way everyone else is doing them, a whole world of possibilities is open to us.

Unquestioned assumptions frame our choices. If we wish to make different choices we must smash the frames that constrain us.

…Mindlessly responding to what everyone else calls necessities is killed off for good. - Galatians 5:24

I’m learning to think of teaching in a new light, in the light of what I feel God calling me towards, directly relating to the responsibility I have of raising Zoe, Charis, Nehemiah and Luther Steward. That’s a unique calling and opportunity for only me (and Tony) and I long to teach them to the best of my ability.

___

This post is included in my e-Book called Artist, Botanist, Cowboy: Homeschooling By Imperfect Curiosity which is available in the Messy Canvas Bookstore.

On a sunny, warm afternoon, my kids begged me for the chance to play outside. Luther was napping, and I was feeling the pull on my eyelids and thinking the couch was looking more and more comfortable. I decided I would compromise. They could play outside, as long as the door was cracked and I could hear them from my horizontal position on the couch. They promised to take care of each other. Thankfully we live at the end of a dead-end street, so playing outside is pretty safe.

In no time at all the laughter and screams from my kids outside faded as I melted into the couch for my typical 15 minute afternoon catnap. Little did I know that they were unrolling a whole entrepreneurial plan while I was sleeping. I awoke to hearing an unfamiliar boy’s voice just outside our garage. I quietly eased open the cracked door, so I could spy. I saw a  junior-high age neighbor boy from across the street. He was talking to my kids who were in a horizontal line and each holding signs. I heard him say, “Well, I don’t have any money on me right now, but maybe I’ll come back over in a little bit when I take the dog out.”

Turns out my kids were throwing a “Water Fiesta.” Charis can’t pronounce her “r’s” very well, and so she is greatly embarassed by saying the wordy “party” because it comes out “potty.” She appreciates when we replace the word “party” with “fiesta.”

What my kids were calling a “Water Fiesta” was actually an Art Sale, with free water as the bonus gift accompanying every purchase. The water was displayed neatly in three water bottles lined up on a kid-sized card table. Naturally the idea was for you to just take a swig after you purchased your artwork. We are all family here.

The larger, $4 artwork was in a wagon. The smaller, $6 artwork was in a upside down bicycle helmet.

It’s hard work running a “Water Fiesta” on a dead-end street in the hot sun. Customers were few, and I found out later from my neighbors that my kids went door-to-door soliciting business. Zoe reported to me, “Don’t worry Mommy, we only went to the houses of the people we know.” The neighbor-boy had been persuaded to come over and check out the wares on his walk home from school.

Poor things, they didn’t sell a thing, but they didn’t seem too bothered by it. They were just thrilled they had done something totally on their own, and I was thrilled with my uninterrupted nap. I also was taken by the realization that my babies are growing up, so much so that they can, solely on their own, host Water Fiestas stocked with attractive signage, comfortable chairs, beautiful artwork and ice-cold water.  Who would have thought?

My friend Deleise gave us this great idea for a Spring Nature Walk.

My kids amazed me. They noticed so many details and were so curious and engaged. We collected rocks and pine cones and acorns and flowers and rolly polly bugs. We touched petals and clovers with dew. We watched birds fly and squirrels scamper. We listened to the birds singing and the wind blowing the leaves and an old rusty chain clanging against a flagpole. And when we got home we played with and documented our discoveries.

While watching my kids explore with CHILDLIKE abandon, I realized two things that apply to creating. First off, I am pretty poor in slowing down enough to be able to pay attention to details. One of the things the novel I am working on is dreadfully lacking is details. I don’t give time to lay out for my readers what my characters looks like, what their quirks are, what colors inhabit their world, what smells, sounds, tastes, sights and touches they are rubbing up against. To notice details = to be all there. To notice details = to be fully engaged in a moment (or in a story.) And if I’m too busy to notice details in my own life, I’ll never learn the necessary and valuable practice of incorporating them into my art. If we, as humans, fail to connect with details, we miss out on a rich, meaningful, and fulfilling connection to our story.

Secondly, we cannot, as artists, constantly be creating. There is this ebb and flow that is necessary to our art. As I was walking with my kids, I realized how much I was enjoying myself. I wasn’t on a time agenda. I wasn’t in a rush to get back home and do something purposeful. I was enjoying a break from creating. I was enjoying living.

As artists we have to live too. We can’t always be stuck in our craft or we risk losing our source of inspiration. The living is where the inspiration comes from. On that walk I felt myself coming alive. I was engaged as I watched my kids engaging. They drew me into a story bigger than myself. As I turned off my productive, busy side of my brain, I was able to relax into soaking-it-all-in mode. Inside I could feel this deep sigh of relief, as my creative wells began to fill back up. The world around me became alive with possibility. Spring colors captured my breath, excited squeals from my kids awakened my heart. These are the things that give me material for my art.

It is through our living CHILDLIKE – living richly and deeply and curiously, and freely and even simply – that we can then have something to feed into our creations. We don’t need some big magical event to occur to inspire us, we just need to be present in our everyday, ordinary life. Then, and only then, do we have something worth sharing.

What are the details of your everyday life? Your details will be unique to your life, unique to your story. Only you can explore them, collect them, know them, describe them, share them.

We have set up an email account for our kids. We did it so they could communicate with close family. At first this meant lots of me helping my kids write messages to their grandparents and aunts and uncles.

But it has become so much more than that.

We have an old iPhone that we don’t use. It was the first one Tony bought. The screen is cracked and so we’ve never tried to sell it, but it is still usable. Tony recently pulled it out and dubbed it the “Kiddio Phone.” What this means is that they have full access to use it. It’s not on a phone plan, but they can still play games, record their voice, “read” books, type memos, take photos, check email and reply with emails.

They started getting adventurous with the phone. I wasn’t needed anymore. They would secretly send out their own emails, sounding out the words and writing them their own special way. They have increased in their desire to read, trying their hardest to sound out and decode emails sent back from family. They send pictures and voice memos as well. There is nothing like hands-on learning.

Not only has it become a reading/writing tool, it has also become a way for them to communicate love and affection to family.

I can’t tell you how much joy it brings me when a random email shows up in my inbox and it’s from one of my kids telling me they love me. It’s the best.

These weaving looms were a Christmas gift from my mom. She also followed up with some additional weaving supplies on Valentine’s Day. She must REALLY want some potholders. But seriously, my kids really got into it. For two days straight they were weaving fools. It brought back memories of making these when I was a kid.

Zoe is weaving in soccer gear. I bet you never knew weaving was a contact sport. It can get really physical, especially right around the shin region. I’m actually very impressed that Zoe stuck with this. She’s not one to like to focus on anything for a long time, but she did great with this project.

I always love it when math sneaks its way into our daily routine. It’s a hard thing for me to want to teach math on purpose, so it’s always a welcome surprise when math shows up uninvited. Well, kind of a welcome surprise, as long as it’s elementary math that I can figure out. While weaving we talked a lot about patterns.

We talked about shapes too. This was how Nehemiah was using his weaving loom.

He used his like this too. Took him about 3 minutes to figure out how to make it into a weapon.

He also used the finished potholders to transport cars. Very resourceful.

That’s Luther’s little hand trying to grab the potholders. He loved the texture. The girls didn’t want him touching them after they worked so hard on them.

Tony told the kids he wanted to take the potholders to work to use as a coaster for his coffee mug. The girls were then inspired to make 13 to take to all of his co-workers. I love their hearts for giving, but that goal hasn’t quite panned out yet. I’m very impressed with the four they did complete. And now, we’re on a weaving hiatus.

In typical Steward-homeschool fashion, my kids came up with something great. Why is it that I stress over whether or not we’re doing school “right.” The days where I am chill and go with their flow are some of the best days we experience. This was no exception.

It started when Nehemiah wanted to play a “pick out all the sharpies in the marker basket and lay them in a row” type game. Then it became a “please can we draw on the biggest paper we have?” activity. Then out of the blue he asks me, how do you spell “Hulia.”

“Spell what, Nehemiah?”

“Hulia.” He repeats again, with added fervor.

“Ummm, I don’t know that word.”

“Just write it,” he says, “right here next to this guy.”

So I do as I’m told.

“What is a Hulia, buddy?” I ask him.

“He lives in the ocean. He eats seashells. And he eats girls’ earrings.” He tells me.

I tell him I better write that down so I won’t forget. I’m pretty impressed with his creativity.

He draws a red oval shape and takes his time coloring it completely in. He asks me to write the name “Fireball” beside it.

Zoe and Charis pick up on the “game” of Nehemiah’s, and they start drawing their own characters.

They fill entire poster-size pages with them. And then they ask me to write out the information as they dictate. It gets really fun and really imaginative.

Then, very last, Zoe names the “game.”

“Mommy? Can you write HISTORIES at the top of my paper?”

“Why am I writing HISTORIES?”

“Because these are all people that lived a long time ago and these are all their stories.”

“Ah, of course.” Brilliant.

A new creative game is born, and my homeschool panic-attack is put off for yet another day.

In California cardboard trash could be recycled curbside. In Oklahoma however, we have to drive our cardboard somewhere to have it recycled. It’s just not going to happen. So I was trying to think of something we could do with all the cardboard that we accumulate. I started to collect it in our art closet, throwing all the smaller boxes and toilet paper tubes into a bigger cheerios box. At the end of 2 weeks we had quite a little stash, and so we pulled it out along with markers and tape and anything else my kids could find. It was fun to see what they combined.

Charis made a ship that she used for her little people and animals.

Zoe made a robot mask.

Nehemiah taped a box shut and Luther walked around in the middle of it all and hit his siblings with cardboard. A good time was had by all.

When they get done playing with what they made, we’ll throw them away and pull out the new stash I’m currently collecting. I think it’s fun for them to have some bigger materials on hand with which to build and invent.

When I first moved to Oklahoma and mentioned to some friends that I was interested in homeschooling, the name Cheryl Lange came up repeatedly. I hadn’t been here a month before I got to meet her. She was every bit as wonderful as was promised. A woman full of wisdom and knowledge and I soon became a fan. It’s nice to rub shoulders with people who can provide some direction, answer some tough questions and give me new things to consider and to challenge my thinking.

Cheryl has a ministry called Lodestar. I’ve been fortunate to attend a few of her workshops (I actually get to go to one this coming weekend!), and I always leave feeling refreshed and rejuvenated to dive back into my version of homeschooling. My version being the one that uniquely fits our family. I don’t think homeschooling is for everyone, and I certainly don’t think there is one way to do it, but I do like to feel empowered and freed up to do the version of homeschooling I see in my head. A very laid-back, organic, curiosity driven, and creative environment. Cheryl makes me feel empowered. You gotta love people like that.

So anyway, Cheryl has a handful of books she always mentions. I think I’ve read nearly every one, especially early on when we were still trying to make our education decision. And finally with some Christmas money, at the beginning of this year I was able to purchase a few of the “activity books” that she always talks about. One of those is called Workjobs.

This past weekend we pulled this book out and I picked a few of the workjobs for us to make. They are basically teaching materials that once created can be used time and time again and my kids can do them with little to no help. We have started a workjobs box. I can imagine how fun it will be once we get a lot of these created. Like many of our homeschool ventures, we might do this for awhile and then tire of it, but for now, I hope we can make a couple of these workjob tools a week. And truthfully the book is stretching me creatively, making me think outside of the box of learning. I love that.

One of my absolute favorite artists right now is Keri Smith. I have, quite accidentally, started my own Keri Smith library. I picked up this first book while we were still living in California. It’s called Living Out Loud. Since getting this book, I’ve picked up a few others of hers along the way, including this book that I got for Zoe for Christmas. We’ve been doing some of the activities in Zoe’s book and it’s re-sparked my interest in Keri Smith and her books.

Here’s why I love her. SHE MAKES ME THINK OUTSIDE OF MY BOX! She makes me want to read books about things I know nothing about. She makes me want to play. She makes me want to explore. She helps make me embrace my word for this year – CHILDLIKE.

So we are going through the Living Out Loud book as part of our homeschooling. And when we finish that one, I have at least 3, other books of Keri’s that will be equally as wonderful. The Living Out Loud book is more artistic in nature, but some of the others are just plain creative thinking. Exercises to make us think outside of our box. Good stuff!

Last week we made these finders out of cardboard. They allow you to see life in a different way. Looking through our finders we saw things we would have never seen otherwise. Colors, textures, details. Why, I even discovered islands! I was looking with my finder on a globe and I discovered islands way out in the middle of the ocean that I didn’t even know existed!

(*note – I’ve found the finder can also be used when you are in an overwhelming situation, such as if your house is completely cluttered in toys and kid clothes and food crumbs and the like. you can look through the finder to focus in on one little bit of life, and blur out the chaos all around you as you think, “ah, what a nice mix of colors those legos make, strewn so artistically across the floor.”)

I used the finder with my 3 oldest kids. We each picked an object, so 4 in total. We would use our finder to discover something on the object and then we would draw it in our journal. When we were done “finding” and documenting all 4 things we compared drawings. It was so cool to see the different ways our eyes looked at things.

I wanted to add that I used to just flip through Keri Smith’s books. “What nice ideas,” I would think. They are nice coffee table material. But when you really engage and interact with them, which is of course what she intended, something magical happens. She makes you play. The adult in me seldom wants to play.

Our friend Cynthia Ware sent us some of their family’s kid books that they don’t use anymore. This science experiment book was one of them. Being that I am more of the artsy type and not so much the science/math type, I’ve decided to incorporate this book into our homeschooling. I need the help.

My friend Abbi has been working through a cupcake recipe book, and she has inspired me to do the same with some of the books we have sitting on our shelves. (We’re doing this with art some too. I’ll have to share about that in another post.)

Right now we’re doing Science on Wednesday. Last Wednesday we did two experiments. One of them was with oil and water.

Love it that I actually managed to catch their surprised expressions. I must admit here, I was thinking science was pretty dang cool too.

And pretty! Who knew?

This was the second experiment. First we put a ball of clay in the water and it sank, just like the marbles did. Then we had to make the clay into a boat, so that not only would it not sink, it would also hold the marbles. I COULDN’T GET IT TO WORK! Every time I tried to put my clay boat in the water it would sink. Those horrible high school feelings came rushing over me. I instantly remembered when I failed my egg-drop physics assignment. I started hearing in my head, “See? You aren’t any good at science. What made you think you could teach your kids science?”

But I don’t give up easily, and my kids were cheering me on. So we finally figured it out. And can I tell you how excited we all were? It just takes some trial and error (much like art) and some creative thinking (totally like art.) I think I like this science stuff.

Luther was watching too. He’ll use anything as an excuse to stand on a chair. Eventually our boat filled with water and it sank. Then the kids all worked with the clay to try and fashion their own floating boat.

Tomorrow is another Wednesday. Another science experiment. Another challenge, no doubt, for me. But, I actually think it’s helping me as an artist to make my brain think in creative ways it usually doesn’t. I’m telling myself this anyway.

I took a big step recently in my life. I agreed to teach some art classes for our homeschool co-op. This meant I would be teaching three different classes once a week to kids age Pre-K – 5th Grade for the entire school year.

This decision was not made lightly. Afterall, who am I to be teaching art? Right? I have no formal training in teaching or in art. I’m not much for standing up and talking in front of others. I hate long-term commitment to much of anything because I don’t like to be tied down. And quite frankly, the organization, prep and planning needed in teaching kind of freaks this perfectionist out.

I was voicing all of this on the phone to a friend. After I got done venting, she said, “So basically, you’re going to do it, you just haven’t gotten up the courage to say yes yet.”

It was so evident to her, that despite my anxiousness, I had a deeper, passionate desire to teach art and that I believed it to be something God had prepared me for, in my own unique way. Down deep I wanted to believe I had what it took to pull something like this off.

“Yes, I guess you’re right. I’m going to say yes.”

Isn’t it funny how our heart and soul can long for something and yet our mind can convince us it’s just not possible or not worth the risk or it certainly isn’t us?

The night before classes were to begin I could not sleep. I tossed and turned. I played over in my mind how the classes would play out, walking through each detail, checking off each to-do on my mental list. I worried about my inadequacies, my plans, my likability. Finally, at about 2 am I had enough. I got up and wrote these words in my journal:

Tomorrow begins a new day in my life as an artist. Tomorrow I walk boldly into a dream, knowing it is by God alone that I arrive there. I am equipped. I am called into it. I am prepared. I am enough. I don’t have to be perfect, nor do the kids. I am excited, inspired, blessed, and able-bodied. I have a heart full of passion to share, to bestow, to pass on. I am stewarding a mystery to the hearts of tiny soul-filled young ones. I have a whole past that stands in line behind me, preparing me to be the perfect person for such a time as this. Christ in me, Holy Spirit led, in the image of an all creative God. I have nothing they can’t have. I am a teacher but to inspire them, awaken them. I’ve longed for this. I will step into it.

When I woke the next morning to face my challenge, I was met with a neat surprise. An artist who has taught me so much, Sabrina Ward Harrison, had left an encouraging note on my Facebook page about me teaching art. To me, it was all the confirmation I needed. I had boldly decided to trust God and find my worth and confidence in Him as an art teacher and in so doing, I was met with a huge affirmation by a brilliant artist, that yes I did have what it takes. Even I.

A couple weeks ago I stumbled upon a “Dreams List” I had made at the beginning of summer. One of the things on the list was teach art classes. I don’t even remember writing it. But my heart felt so light knowing that at one time, I wrote it down on a list of big huge things that were but distant glimmers of hope and today I can mark it off as a risk I was finally willing to take.