A sense of hospitality

We could see our temporary home from several points in town, but perhaps we were most surprised to see what it looked like from the highest point, the Fortress of Mont'Alfonso. Due to the Italians' effective use of visual screens for privacy, we really didn't know how many other properties lay around it. But in this photo, you can see the Bertolanis' land just to the right of center, at the top of the hill with the zigzagging road. Their property is the cluster of three brownish houses.

Sr. Bertolani was a gracious man, older than we were, but not old. He still had children at home. He spoke with a soft voice and a lilt (which I can still hear and hope to remember), and while he said he was trying not to bother us, he would appear now and then on business and linger a while to talk. I think he both liked to practice his English and to convey his enthusiasm for his home. We were so glad when he did! Once, when he was giving us a tour of the whole property that he and his wife had restored, he explained, "It gives me pleasure when other people enjoy what we've done." It's a sign of his hospitality that I can't remember whether he said this in Italian or English. Usually he used a mixture, and spoke slowly enough so that we could understand. We tried to respond in kind.

His grandparents had bought the property at the turn of the last century from a banker who had built it for himself. Next to the main house was a smaller house for the farmer who worked the surrounding land. The other half of the farm family's home had housed sheep. We were staying in this house. The other building, now the more luxurious of the two vacation homes, had been the barn.

The Bertolanis' courtyard, showing the back of our house, two structural pins, and some brick grillework.

The Bertolanis were very gracious about CZ's practicing. We tried to close the windows on the courtyard side of the house, but I'm sure they could hear it, and this being a music festival, she practiced a lot. But they seemed to enjoy it, and in fact held a small party for family, friends and the other vacation guests to come hear CZ play.

The Bertolanis' party. In the top photo, you can see our little neighbor friend sitting in his mother's lap. In the bottom photo are Sr. and Sra. Bertolani, sitting next to one another. Unfortunately, none of my photos of them are very clear!

The family vacationing in the other house had a small boy, not quite three, who liked to sit at the top of the steps on the side of his house and wave at us when we were sitting under the gazebo. (And I can't say we didn't start it!) They were from Scotland. During the concert he was sitting on his mother's lap, and the violin piece being long, she leaned over towards the end to ask him how he was doing.

"SHHHH!!" was the reply.

He's now wanting violin lessons.

This being an Italian party, of course it went on long into the night (our new little friend having been excused to go to bed). In the course of it, both Bertolanis told us some of the history of the area, from the ancient Ligurians and the numerous towns in the area named for the Roman general Sulla (whom they call Silla), through the wars with Lucca, and on to the bombing during WWII, when Sr. Bertolani's father took his two oldest siblings (the only ones born by the time of the war) to a nearby town to stay with relatives, walked back, and as he reached the top of the mountain, saw his hometown devastated below.

One of the casualties was the home where we stayed, which explains why only half of it has brick stripes mixed in with the stone. That was the surviving half. The whole building has been renovated since.

Houses in the Garfagnana region (and to some degree in all of Italy) have some interesting and special features.

I noticed right away that the outside walls often have large pins anchored into them, and when we toured the former barn, I noticed some interesting cables as well. Sr. Bertolani explained that they were added to most of the buildings after an earthquake in the 1920s, and he left them there because he liked how they looked.

A page from my trip journal, showing the different kinds of structural reinforcements in the houses.

Also, if you've ever seen photos of barns in Italy, you will notice that they almost always have a brickwork grille, often in a triangular pattern like a house of cards. This was for ventilation, and while many barns have now been converted to vacation homes (the new family business of Italy!), the grilles remain a nice way to get some air and retain shade and privacy.

Shutters are also an interesting feature of Italian homes. The old homes have wooden shutters, often on the outside, that people partially close at midday to keep in the cool. Our shutters had very clever clamps to hold them open. Flipped up to hold the shutters, they were shaped like the bust of a man. But if you flipped them down, they looked like a woman! The back and shoulders of each formed the head of the other.

Inside the shutters was another set of glass windows that pushed inward. They were also side-hung. We only closed the glass windows when CZ practiced. There was also an iron grille over the windows on the ground floor, so you could leave them open even when you were gone. The walls were so thick that with some ventilation the house would stay relatively cool even during the heat of the day.

As a whole, the house was extremely energy efficient. We had a small washer, but dried our clothes on a rack outside. This did require some special timing, however. You had to start the load early, as it took over an hour, and then hang it out as the sun came over the fence in the late morning. Then the trick was to make sure you caught every last ray of the sun during the three hours after lunch, which was perfectly fine if you were home, but tricky for us, since most of CZ's lessons were scheduled for those hours. There was a strong tendency for showers to develop by mid-afternoon, and if the clothes got caught in the rain, we'd have to start over! It was a nice bit of rhythm to our day, though.

Another nice rhythm was that of meals. Our house came with three Bialetti Moka pots, in different sizes, so we'd start with a cup of espresso with milk. (There was a little pot for heating milk, too. I loved it so much that I bought one.) This was usually with some bread I'd bought the day before, along with butter and jam.

One of the many kinds of bread we bought from a panificio.

I'd shop in the morning and we'd have either prosciutto or mortadella for lunch, along with mozzarella so fresh that it squeaked between your teeth, and fruit. Now this is the mozzarella I remember from my first trip to Italy! Nothing I've had in the U.S. even comes close. Afterwards we'd often have another cup of espresso. Not that it really forestalled sleep...

Everything in a small Italian town, and even most of the bigger ones, closes after noon. If you walk through a town at this time, you can hear the clink of silverware on plates, and lunchtime conversation. So unless it was chamber music day (CZ's rehearsals were at 2 p.m.), we either napped or used the time to catch up on cleaning, writing, or planning the rest of the trip. I'd hand wash the dishes and put them in the cabinet above the sink. The cabinet shelves were open at the bottom, like a drainboard rack, and the counter below was metal and grooved to direct the dripping water into the sink.

Drip-dry cabinet shelves, and the kitchen of our house. There were more cabinets under the stairs.

At about four, you could feel a breeze start to stir (or something stronger, if it was a thunderstorm day), and things would start to come back to life. Shops would reopen, and people would start walking around and socializing again.

Dinner was often at about 8:00, and no one showed up at restaurants until at least that time. I had pre-shipped a new copy of The Art of Simple Food to the house (along with Bob's work papers) to give to a friend here as a hostess gift later in the trip. It turned out to be a real help. Since it used so many ingredients available in Italy, I very carefully used it a couple of times to cook dinner.

Dinner with produce from the ortifrutticolo (farmers' market), and Bob eating dinner under the gazebo (you can see the rack for drying clothes, too). We always ate our meals outside under the gazebo, because of the view.

We also had a couple of restaurants that we enjoyed in town. One, Ciule', had particularly good gelato. Another, Triti, had food as good as that at my favorite New York Italian restaurant, Spiga, for half the price. We enjoyed talking with the wait staff at both restaurants, though once I messed up with my Italian and ordered three plates of bruschetta appetizers instead of one. No ice cream that night!

Triti was across from the theater where some of our concerts were held, so we'd occasionally run into other people from the festival (they usually ate at the hotel). The night of the final concert, knowing by now that the program was sure to start much later than the published time, we watched the World Cup game between Spain and Germany with the wait staff and one of the cellists (who was also counting on a late start).

And once, when a couple of girls from the program came in late with a Russian/Italian dictionary (they were Russian), tried to order things that weren't on the menu, gave up trying to order them in Italian, and then tried English instead, Bob played translator:

"I'd like some fruit," stated one of the girls.

The waiter gave her a blank look.

"Frutta," suggested Bob. The waiter's face lit up. Bob started laughing. "Fruit. Fruit-ah. Now I'm a translator!"

The waiters bantered with us, even given the little Italian that we knew, and they'd usually bring us a little something extra during the meal. I'm pretty sure Sr. Bertolani had something to do with that.

By the time we left, in addition to the people in the program, we knew the woman at the phone store, the woman who ran the pasticceria near La Rocca, the woman who ran the formaggeria (where we'd get the squeaky cheese), the women who ran the bread stores, the man behind the deli counter at the supermarket, the men at the Saturday produce market, the wait staff at two restaurants, the Bertolanis, their children, and several of their friends. Knowing some Italian helped, no doubt, but we think the people were also extremely hospitable.

Even though we knew we had the superficial outlook of people who were on vacation, we'd occasionally remark that Castelnuovo seemed a bit like The Busy World of Richard Scarry. By saying that, we weren't meaning to discount the complexity of life in the town. (We knew, in fact, that one tragedy had occurred while we were there.) But in all honestly, the town really did hum with a vibrant sort of community life that was a little bit reminiscent of the Richard Scarry word book we used to read with CZ when she was learning to talk. Maybe it was because of all the greeting going on in the streets, or the tiny cars, or all the individual shops for different kinds of food.

Or maybe it's that just we were always pointing to things and asking what they were.

It finally got dark around ten p.m. Life in Italy encourages lingering over dinner.

The downside of multitasking

The New York Times has published yet another article on how bad multitasking is for you.  It includes some tests for attention during multitasking, which I took.  Here's what the article says about the test results:

The multitaskers then did a significantly worse job than the non-multitaskers at recognizing whether read rectangles had changed position.  In other words, they had trouble filtering out the blue ones--the irrelevant information.

So, too, the multitaskers took longer than non-multitaskers to switch among talkss, like differetiating vowels from consonants and then odd from even numbers.  The multitaskers were shown to be less efficient at juggling problems.

I am a little confused about my results, however.  I did extremely well in the focusing task, but very poorly in the juggling task (though I got them all right and required no additional time for switching).  I have always, in some sense, known this about myself, and it's a big part of why I try to avoid getting too busy or socializing in a crowd.  I react slowly when pressured, like a deer in the headlights.

So, does this mean I'm a multitasker or a non-multitasker?  I'm not sure. I think I'm an easily-distracted person who much prefers to be alone and quiet so I can focus on one thing.  I'd be curious as to your results, too, and what you think it means, if anything.  As for me, I'm getting off the computer!

***

Update:  I wanted to add another couple of interesting quotes from the article:

Multitaskers tend to search for new information rather than accept a reward for putting older, more valuable information to work.

This reminds me of our obsession with the newest kinds of knowledge, and our relegation of the classics to obscurity through our preference for political correctness.  I'm glad for the new perspectives, but don't want to forget the old, either.  There's so much that's universal in them, if we'd only just see it.

Researchers say these findings point to an interesting dynamic: multitaskers seem more sensitive than non-multitaskers to incoming information.

Is this a circular argument?  Do the multitaskers multitask because they are more sensitive to begin with, or do they become that way because they multitask?  It seems like it could be both. In our family, at least with CZ and me, I suspect that we were born with a propensity for distraction that we work to keep at bay.  Compared to many people we know, we are practically Luddites.  But I discourage new technology for a good reason--I know that it will only make it harder to focus, and the ability to focus is so worth the effort!


Another update:  I think there's something poorly designed about these tests, because everyone who commented on them got the same skewed results that I did.


Also, feel free to point out my typos.  This time they were so egregious that they changed the meaning of my post!

Some ways in which food is a metaphor for learning

Lately I've been reading a lot of about food and farming. I started an omnibus post about some of my thoughts yesterday, but it was just all too much at once. So I decided to start over with a more limited aspect of the organic/local metaphor for now by comparing it to homeschooling. That was a big part of my original post.

Michael Pollan says:

"...food is a powerful metaphor for a great many of the values to which people feel globalization poses a threat." (p. 255 of The Omnivore's Dilemma*)

I see lots of connections between the writings of small farmers and those of the most thoughtful homeschoolers. The more I read, the more I realize that this isn't just a coincidence. Underneath is a paradigm shift. Especially during the past one hundred years, our society has been rapturous about the benefits of technology, but now we are seeing its limits, and what has been lost in the trade. And some people are looking for ways to get back some of what was lost.

So wise people are asking: To what extent should we employ technology? Can we find a proper balance by way of organizations, or through consumer purchases of goods produced and marketed by others, or does it go deeper than that?

Wendell Berry thinks it goes deeper:

"...the responsible consumer must also be in some way a producer." (p. 24)

One way we can think about homeschooling is that we produce our own learning. You don't have to read the likes of Wendell Berry, Joel Salatin, or Gene Lodgson for long to realize that production in the old sense was a cooperative process with nature. And so is homeschooling. And that's the underlying theme beneath all the comparisons that follow. But remember, these metaphors are meant in a spirit of inspiration, not legalism! Take them for what they're worth.

***

Real learning isn't so far removed from the concept of real food. A fast food meal now and then won't kill you, nor will cramming for a test, but they are short-term solutions.

KINDLY USE

Teaching a child is a matter of "kindly use," as Wendell Berry puts it.

"Kindly use depends on intimate knowledge, the most sensitive responsiveness and responsibility. As knowledge (hence, use) is generalized, essential values are destroyed. As the householder evolves into a consumer, the farm evolves into a factory--with results that are potentially calamitous for both." (p. 31 of Berry)

Or as Pollan put it:

"The point isn't to get ever more interventionist and efficient about farming, but to become more attuned to its nature. By being sensitive to nature you can take a more subtle and harmonious approach." (p.188 of Pollan)

And:

"Ranching is a very simple business. The really hard part is keeping it simple." (Brad Adams, Florida rancher, also from p. 188 of Pollan.)

"The efficiencies of natural systems flow from complexity and interdependence." (about p. 214 of Pollan)

These are all also true of homeschooling. In our family, our best learning happens when we allow time for ideas and projects to "ferment," when we make connections between subjects, or allow one project to serve in several areas. But most especially, the best learning is a collaboration between the curiosity of the child and the wisdom and experience of the parent. It's best when not overcomplicated by trying to shoehorn a preset curriculum or available class into your present area of readiness. (Sometimes the curriculum or class is a good fit, and that's fine.) These principles hold true, at different levels, during the entire time a child lives at home, and hopefully beyond.

Note that small farming is not without its own sort of efficiency. But it's an efficiency of interdependence, not an efficiency of quantity.

Pollan notes that animals in CAFOs (feedlots) exhibit learned helplessness. Just like some children in poor schools!

CONSUMER SOLUTIONS

The following point could be controversial, but I at least want to put it out there: The homeschooling movement and the organic food movement have been co-opted in similar ways. As homeschooling becomes more popular, we tend to be happy enough with better consumer solutions instead of producing our own. I do shop at Whole Foods sometimes, and I do buy curriculum and participate in outside classes, but I try to ask myself first, "Do we really need this?" and if so,"Is it really a good fit?"

I promise, I do understand why people are so quick to opt for ready-made solutions. Not only is it convenient when we get busy, but we question the wisdom of going off on our own to the point where our children are left alone, even if we don't mind being left alone ourselves. I know; I've done it myself! We crave community, even when it feels more like networking at times. And modern life has so many pressures already. So I'm not advocating a legalistic approach to education or family life. We each have to be convinced in our own mind. (Romans 14) I just happen to be one of those people who finds lots of joy in doing many things myself. And I'm having fun with this metaphor, because I do think it's useful.

Sometimes what we don't do is even more important than what we do. Sometimes we don't buy anything at all. We make it ourselves. One easy thing to make yourself is your own entertainment. Just about anyone can do that, with a little practice. You just have to be willing to stare down your own boredom.

CERTIFICATION

Big organic farming (with certification) reminds me of homeschooling under the auspices of the NYCDoE. The paperwork I turn in to the city each quarter bears little relation to what I do everyday, which is much harder. Half the time a regulation is beside the point. Sometimes it's counter productive. At best, the purpose of regulation is to protect people from worst case scenarios. But aren't there better ways to do that? What regulation really does is to obscure via abstraction.

"The law enacted may be a good one, and the enforcers all honest and effective; even so, the consumer will understand that one result of his effort has been to increase the number of people of whom he must beware." (Berry, p. 23)

I like the fact that there's an article called, "Can an Organic Twinkie Be Certified?" (It's by Joan Dye Gussow, 1996.) That encapsulates the paradigm difference quite well!

Organizations work at cross purposes to their stated missions. Wendell Berry says this. John Taylor Gatto says this. John Holt says this. If this many people who regularly challenge my thinking all say the same thing, I should listen.

Berry:

"[Institutions'] solutions necessarily fail to solve the problems to which they are addressed because, by definition, they cannot consider the real causes. The only real, practical, hope-giving way to remedy the fragmentation that is the disease of the modern spirit is a small and humble way..." (p.23)

WISDOM AND CHARACTER

Farming, and homeschooling, are really going to require several generations to regain the wisdom that's been lost.

So homeschooling, as with local food, is a form of individual responsibility that ultimately has the potential to rebuild community. Where to start? As always, with character.

"...these public absurdities are, and can be, no more than the aggregate result of private absurdities; the corruption of community has its source in the corruption of character." (Berry, p. 19)

And character starts with a deeper faith that is tested in action. And mercy.

*All quotes, unless noted otherwise, are from The Omnivore's Dilemma (in the case of Pollan) orThe Unsettling of America (in the case of Berry).

Thanksgiving

Having started and abandoned several thoughtful posts because of interruptions, I am going for the newsy.

It was a lovely Thanksgiving. I took not one photo of turkey, wild rice salad, pumpkin pie, or any of the rest of it, but if a turkey doesn't get blogged, it's still a turkey. We had another family over for dessert, which was a nice compromise between preserving some tradition for just the three of us, and sharing hospitality. When she wasn't involved in preparing the dinner, CZ was strolling through the house with her violin, alternating between 19th century violin concertos and "Old French" or the hoedown. I thought the fiddle pieces fit the feel of the day nicely.

In between dinner and dessert, I called my sister, who entertained me with a story about how she and my parents had agreed not to cook a Thanksgiving dinner this year and only have dessert, yet each had privately started cooking, and they wound up with more than enough dinner for two families after all.

My heart was at least partially in Georgia already, since between cooking tasks, I sat down and read most of the journal I kept for CZ between the time she was born and our move to NYC when she was three. I thought to do this because of a conversation I'd had with a friend about CZ's funny habit of memorizing states when she was two. So I went back to make sure I had the timing right, and then read the rest of the journal as well. The two-year-old CZ was, of course, endearing, and I even came to the conclusion that I was a better parent then than I am now. (Maybe the job was simpler.) I also came to the conclusion that CZ's personality was well established before her third birthday. Simply by writing what I observed, I had made an uncannily prescient sketch of who she is today.

But what struck me most was the simplicity of our lives. When we lived in Georgia, our lives had a definite and given structure due to our status as a student family, our roles as the parents of a toddler, and the small size of the town where we lived (Athens). I had never heard of the MacLaren stroller that is the staple of Manhattanites, much less the Bugaboo. I was happy to have something decent to wear and didn't worry about being hip. CZ wore hand-me-downs. About the only extra-curricular offering for toddlers was a gymnastics class, and our other outings included watching the UGA marching band practice and going to the library. I spent CZ's naps painting portraits, for grocery money. (CZ carried on conversations with these two-dimensional children, as though they were dolls, and tried to share her sippy cup with them.) I cleaned a lot, left the windows open and turned the heat down, and cooked really inexpensive food. And when exam time came, I went to Grandma's for a few days.

I was reminded of all this yesterday, not only because I read the journal, but because I spilled some water from the drip pan into the oven and smoked up the whole apartment. We opened all the windows as wide as they would go, and somehow with the cool breeze and the smoky smell, I felt was in Georgia in fall. Smells can evoke very specific memories, and these were just what I needed to get some perspective on our busy fall.

The Journals of Father Alexander Schmemann

The Journals of Father Alexander Schmemann is a book I pull out now and then to remind myself of certain things I perceive to be true, but don't often hear stated openly. Father Schmemman was a Russian Orthodox priest who loved his church, country (Russia), and adopted countries (France and the U.S.) greatly, but was also honest to himself about their problems. Father Schmemann's journals are also full of intimate and loving comments about his family, close friends, and the weather. These latter are all ordinary sorts of observations, but they made the journals very personal, and after you've read a number of them, you feel glad to have known Father Schmemann through his writing.

Some of my favorite passages are brief notes about clouds, or a one sentence mention of a friend. Here's a typical example from the beginning of the book:

"I spent the whole morning at home. After a week in California, after the feast in Wilkes-Barre (consecration of Bishop Herman), after a trip to Philadelphia (funeral of Ivan Czap). What pure joy! Working in the dining room is Tom Hopko [later his son-in-law], with whom I always feel the presence of light and goodness. Snow outside my window."

See what I mean? All it takes to make him (and me, which is why I like this book) happy is a bit of rest at home, a friend or two in whose presence one can feel comfortable, and the ability to notice his natural surroundings.

Yet here are two observations about Americans in churches that I came across this morning:

Nowadays, especially in the U.S., the Church is perceived as an enterprise, an activity. The priest constantly harasses people to do something for the Church. And their activism is measured in quantitative criteria: how many meetings, how much money, how much "doing." I'm not sure it is all necessary. What is dangerous is not the activity itself, but the reduction of the Church, the identification of this activity with life in the Church."

and these fragmented notes after a meeting with a seminarian:

Pathological fear of not being popular, of falling out of the social micro-organism to which one belongs. How much in America depends on pseudo-friendship, pseudo-interest in each other, on a sort of ritual, symbolical unity. All of it comes from a pathological fear of being alone, even for a short time. There is so little inner life in people in these times. It is stifled by this necessity to be "with it." And when an inner life manages to break through, man is seized by total panic and rushes to some analyst....The reason is the pursuit from childhood of an adjusted life. People are taught about it in their family, in kindergarten, in school and in college, so that any falling out of the established "socium" is perceived as a threatening symptom of maladjustment, demanding an immediate cure. I often ask myself--even wrote about it: Why is there so much tension at the seminary? The answer is simple, I think. Because everyone lives depending on the other. They think it's Christian love. But it's neither Christian, nor love. It is a selfish concern and fear about one's self; a fear of not having a witness in the other, a confirmation of one's own existence.

Now it's not quite fair of me to quote these two criticisms in the midst of a book that has so much to say that's positive and loving. It may give an impression that is disproportionate. And so might my commentary. But I do think that these criticisms, made in 1982, still hold for many churches. I think they apply to modern education, too. And they are especially telling next to his positive comments about secure relationships and home life.

Since we got back from our trip to Georgia, I've been mostly by myself--that is to say, I've not sought out any social events--and I've really enjoyed the quiet. Now that it's finally calm at home, C.Z. has been entertaining herself quite well with various interests, and sometimes we go out to a museum or a park together for a change of scenery. She's also been biking with Bob (I don't have a bike yet).

I've been surrounded by people the whole time, of course. One always is in Manhattan. I interact with grocery clerks and people at the farmers' market, Audubon volunteers, our summer violin teacher, neighbors I see in the hallway, and our doormen, and we shake hands with the people around us at church. I had one phone call from a local friend about some plans, and left a message for another just to catch up. I've gotten some group e-mails and corresponded a bit privately, and Bob and I have spoken to our parents on a regular basis. My point is that, if I didn't seek people out actively by joining things, my life might easily continue on like this indefinitely. Would that be so bad? Is it Christian enough?

It's not that I mind doing things for others, or being with others, including new acquaintances. Sometimes I enjoy it very much. But if the atmosphere around me seems to place a primary emphasis on activity, and my ordinary life doesn't bring me into close contact with others, it's really no wonder that I enjoy being alone. I'm not going to go out and seek company just to measure up to someone else's idea of a well-adjusted life. No, I think I'll stay home and pray instead, and see what God has for me. It could eventually be an activity, just not right now.

Thanks Susan for recommending this book. You're welcome to sit at my dining room table (such as it is) anytime!

Natural learning through writing

First, let's start with some inspiring quotes...

Julie Bogart's Bravewriter blog is one of many sources that has helped me keep homeschooling in perspective. Jody recently redirected to me to a set of posts from 2007 on Julie's "One thing" concept. They've been such a help that I'd like to elaborate a little on how some quotes from the series apply to our family's learning. I'd come to these conclusions independently before I read the series, but it always gives me a nice feeling of confirmation when someone so articulately states something I was working out by experience.

The first quote is about how deep interests led to well-rounded learning in Julie's home:

"By allowing my kids to wallow in Greek mythology for two years, they discovered a way into history that helped them imagine other times and places...'One thing' implies trusting that the immersion in one topic that really interests will lead to all the learning necessary."

The second is a set of three short pointers about writing:

"We start with the writer, not writing forms or skills...

Fluency comes before competence...

Direct experience adds depth and insight to writing..."

And the third quote is about the academic stress that creeps up on homeschooling parents in junior high. I've been thinking a lot about that this year, as the rubber meets the road: 

"Cozy learning...is that wonderful intersection of real studies combined with natural lifstyle...

By junior high, the coziness starts to disappear...This odd notion called, 'now it really counts' moves in and takes the learner hostage...panic and doubt ensue.

[The moms of junior high students] take a look at the college admissions list, remember their own high school days and immediately lost all the love of learning they've cultivated for the last eight years."

After this third quote, Julie described how she dealt with anxiety creep in her own family.  I thought Julie's story was particularly interesting because she jettisoned a program that would probably have been the envy of many academically-oriented homeschooling parents.  Why? Because her teens were unhappy while carrying it out. 

Since I started writing this post (I've actually tried and ditched several attempts over that past two weeks), I've discovered that Julie has added a new "One Thing" post entitled, "How do you fit it all in, one thing at a time?"  This new one is well worth reading, too, because it explains that "One thing" at a time is how adults learn naturally.  She describes the exhaustion that can result from years of school.  

"The freedom to think and do and be what you want are intoxicating and produce the best conditions for learning. You find yourself motivated by your own hunger, not by someone controlling what you do.  And in fact, there is brain research that supports your adult style of learning.  Apparently our brains do best when we have the opportunity to focus intently, allowing the greatest interconnection of ideas to occur simultaneously...and sequentially."

And now, let's move to the application...

C.Z. has been writing a short story lately.  I really hope she keeps at it, because it's one of the longest and most ambitious pieces of writing she's ever attempted.  It's a sort of dystopian comedy about an enormous school, set in the latter part of this century. The descriptive details seem natural even though the subject is conjectural, and the story is quirky in a particularly C.Z sort of way.  

Yesterday she got to a point where she realized that in order to describe the school accurately, she had to work out plausible details about its size, shape, and design.  She started sketching, quickly ran into some design problems she had to work out, and started doing some research.  

Before the hour was out, she was making calculations based on the number of students currently enrolled in U.S. high schools, recommended square footage per student, typical library sizes and number of volumes (because she doesn't like Kindle and thinks it won't succeed), cafeteria sizes, plausible numbers of floors, typical high-rise building infrastructure, and logistical problems that might be presented by such a large building.  She even found an architectural model for the type of building she was trying to design (partly Hartsfield Airport, but also a hotel that I remembered from childhood because it fit her description so well). The result of all this research was a set of ridiculously large numbers, but they were consciously ridiculous in a way that bolstered the point of the story. When you read the result, the casual way she mentions the large numbers involved in the building makes the story funnier.  

In the process of figuring out this building, C.Z. started doing square footage calculations based on typical room sizes, subtracting out the outer classrooms from the inner ones the way one subtracts a frame from the area of a picture.  There were conversions from miles (!) to feet, sometimes in three dimensions. At one point, she made a calculation error, but didn't realize it for quite some time, by which point it had affected several other calculations. In the end, she fixed the problem by changing the building's trolley system to a moving sidewalk.

This one example illustrates many things that Julie was talking about in her "One thing" series:

C.Z. focused intently, allowing for interconnections to form between new information and things she'd previously learned, powered by her own hunger.  One topic, pursued intently, led to any number of other topics.

Also, this kind of writing is very much about starting with the writer. Though it might not seem like C.Z. is writing about something she knows (school), she actually is, because this has been a whole year of learning about school, from involvement in her music program to watching most of her homeschooled friends apply to high school (you apply to public school here). And as with many things C.Z. does, there is a lighthearted undercurrent of social protest throughout the story.

In fact, and lastly, this year has at times seemed like one huge assault on what Julie calls the "coziness factor." Not only does school touch our lives increasingly through our social networks, but I realized yesterday that I was evaluating no fewer than fourteen outside classes for next year's homeschool. At that rate, there wouldn't be any home left!  Obviously, we'll say no to many of these, but it illustrates the insidiousness of high school anxiety and academic creep. In light of all these temptations, I admire C.Z.'s consistent adherence to the spirit of independent learning.

Natural learning for older students doesn't really have to be different in kind from natural learning for younger students. The learning is more in depth, of course, because older students have more mature minds, and more experience. They're making connections and they can come up with insights that will sometimes surprise you. But it doesn't necessarily have to involve slavish adherence to textbooks, externally imposed "rigor" to make sure the student does high school level work, or sophisticated organizational tools that keep all your teen's classes straight.  

If the atmosphere in your home all along has made love of learning a priority, I'm convinced that there's no need to panic in the eighth grade. Each family looks different, of course. But I am convinced that deep and natural interest has a way of creating learning that is as "rigorous" as any high school.*  And often it comes about because you have the luxury of doing one thing for a while.

***

*End note: Another way I've seen the advantages of deep learning illustrated lately is via the NYCHEA ROV team.  They're a local homeschooled robotics team who won an international competition last year.  They beat out institutional high school teams who had much higher budgets and professional mentors.  

After listening to one of the team members talk about the competition last week, I asked whether perhaps the team's low budget may have made them rely more on ingenuity, and whether the judges may have liked that.  He said that it definitely had been a factor.  Some of the other teams had more expensive and sophisticated robots, but since the NYCHEA team didn't have these advantages, they had to do more to build their own understanding, and this led to a better robot.  

I might add, of course, that I framed the question that way on a hunch that it might be the case. The young man was very gracious, and even pointed out that every competition is a close one!

Paying attention

I was much amused by an article I read yesterday in the NY Times called Ear Plugs to Lasers: The Science of Paying Attention.  The ostensible reason for the article was a bit of new research on the role of gamma waves in the brain. But I liked the practical hints the article included about attention and modern life. 

I've always considered myself a bit attention-challenged. Maybe I think that because I tend to be a bit absent-minded and forgetful (this was true even when I was young), or perhaps because I just plain hate being interrupted, which I suppose isn't much of a virtue when you're a mom. Once interrupted, I can't pick up the train of thought where I got off.  It's long departed. Others seem to be able to field multiple requests and switch topics on a dime. I'm a deer in the headlights.  I hope there's some corresponding virtue on the other side of this coin (which is apparently not a dime).

So, what I like about this article is that it frankly admits some things I've been thinking for a long time, along two lines:

Limit distractions

First of all, that Twitter, Facebook, blogs, and yes, those annoying TV screens in cabs (I suspect that ours isn't the only family that makes a game of seeing how fast we can turn them off), are fracturing our attention.  Use if you like, but in moderation.

Secondly, that it takes the brain about twenty minutes to reboot after an interruption.  I think most homeschoolers must know this instinctively, but that's why our family tries to be really careful about taking on activities that require that we drop what we're doing and leave home.  We also find that we can only do a few things really well on any given day.  

And here's a useful quote from the article: "Multitasking is a myth," Ms. Gallagher said. "You cannot do two things at once."  Thank you, Ms. Gallagher!  Now I can admit my limits and stop trying to do the impossible.

The article also recommends that you spend the first ninety minutes of each day concentrating on your most important task.  That must be why I get up, look out the window, read my Bible, and write in my journal.  It's my favorite time of day.

Don't worry

But there was another major point to this article:  You can waste your life worrying.  Ms. Gallagher of the article has had ample motivation to gain control of her attention to worry.  She's had cancer.  The article states that she remained relatively cheerful during her treatment by (among other things) keeping in mind this line from Milton: "The mind is its own place, and in itself/ Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n." I think that's a very useful thing to learn, and though the article made no mention of Ms. Gallagher's faith, how much more should Christians learn it!

Ms. Gallagher also noted that the typical person's brain can process 173 billion bits of information over the course of a lifetime, so we should prioritize what we spend them on.  One thing that I resolve not to worry about is how many of my bits I've already used up.  And what is a bit, in terms of the human brain, anyway?

Sometimes it doesn't take much to encourage us, just a tiny acknowledgment that we can live peacefully within our limitations.  I know that isn't always the most popular message on the block, but the older I get, the more I like it.

There is a balm...

Bob handed me Marilynne Robinson's Gilead this morning and wanted me to read the first two paragraphs to refresh my memory about the prose.  I kept reading, and came upon this passage. The narrator is an old pastor writing a letter to his son:

My mother's father was a preacher, and my father's father was, too, and his father before him, and before that, nobody knows, but I wouldn't hesitate to guess...They were fine people, but if there was one thing I should have learned form them and did not learn, it was to control my temper. This is wisdom I should have attained a long time ago.  Even now, when  flutter of my pulse makes me think of final things, I find myself losing my temper, because a drawer sticks or because I've misplaced my glasses...

A little too much anger, too often or at the wrong time, can destroy more than you would ever imagine.  Above all, mind what you say.  "Behold how much wood is kindled by how small a fire, and the tongue is a fire"--that's the truth.  When my father was old he told me that very thing in a letter he sent me. Which, as it happens, I burned.  I dropped it right in the stove. This surprised me a good deal more at the time than it does in retrospect...  

Well, we see but do not perceive, hear and hear but do not understand, as the Lord says.  I can't claim to understand that saying, as many times as I've heard it, and even preached on it.  It simply states a deeply mysterious fact.  You can know a thing to death and be for all purposes completely ignorant of it. A man can know his father, or his son, and there might still be nothing between the but loyalty and love and mutual incomprehension.

My point in mentioning this is only to say that people who feel any sort of regret where you are concerned will suppose you are angry, and they will see anger in what you do, even if you're just quietly going about a life of your own choosing.  They make you doubt yourself, which, depending on cases, can be a severe distraction and a waste of time.  This is a thing I wish I had understood much earlier than I did.  Just to reflect on it make me a little irritated.  Irritation is a form of anger, I suppose.

One great benefit of a religious vocation is that it helps you concentrate.  It gives you a good basic sense of what is being asked of you and also what you might as well ignore.  And if I have any wisdom to offer, this is a fair part of it.

Why did I quote this?  Because it calmed me.  I think it was as much the sheer beauty of it as it was the message.  I like the way Robinson has Ames mention that he burns the letter on anger, and even as an old man he gets irritated that it took him so long to become wise. That's realistic. When we're feeling ornery, sometimes there's not much we can tell ourselves about it, rationally. Better to laugh it out, or cry it out, or look at something beautiful.  Read a Psalm.  I know that when I am stressed, I get way too analytical.  No one who is feeling hyper-analytical about themselves should blog.  Thus my silence lately.

Midlife meets adolescence.  C.Z.'s physical therapy twice a week meets with my need for a small surgery, and a longer than expected recovery. February meets April; it's called March, and it suits my mood.  The world doesn't stop.  It lurches.

I've read lots of good blog posts about margin lately.  Susan's entire blog is about margin, more or less.  Yet for me, it seems that margin means that I don't blog.  It means I sit quietly and read what others have to say, try to learn wisdom, and hold my tongue.  For now.

The simple life, as applied to scrapbooking

1 Unless the LORD builds the house, 

       its builders labor in vain. 
       Unless the LORD watches over the city, 
       the watchmen stand guard in vain.

 2 In vain you rise early 
       and stay up late, 
       toiling for food to eat— 
       for he grants sleep to ^[a] those he loves.

--Psalm 127

There's a reason that I say in my profile that I desire to live a simple life in a complicated city.  It's a reminder to myself that I haven't always even known that was a thing that one could do.  It takes conscious effort.  And reminders.   

My scrapbooking hobby is an example of this principle in microcosm. I've kept photo albums since I married in 1987.  The first ones were nothing more than taped down photos with some journaling in black pen.  But I have accumulated a whole shelf full of these albums now, chronicling three cities, a whole parade of local friends who have come and gone, out-of-town visitors to our home, the cycle of seasons from the vantage point of the city's parks, trips to concerts and museums, visits to Georgia that occur like clockwork in summer and at Christmas, vacations, some homeschooling projects, violin recitals (which really don't work with the format, but still, they happen) and of course, a growing child.  No one looks at them but us.  But I keep doing them, because they remind me that time passes and that I should savor each year.

My process is very simple.  It has to be, because I only do this about twice a year for a few days per session.  It is:  Cull photos and group into spreads.  Choose paper that picks up the colors in the photos.  Do the basic layout and get everything taped down (because having photos fall out every time you pick up an album is a deterrent to looking), journal before I forget what happened, and then, if there's time, add some embellishments.  There's rarely time to really finish things, and most of my albums are very simple.  Since I use tan pages, many times I just arrange the photos and label them.  Period.  And put all those little tickets, notes, and programs in pocket pages. 

 

This is about as complicated as my scrapbook pages get

Well, while I took a break to paint a portrait for two years, the entire scrapbooking industry changed on me.  I don't mean that my album color was discontinued; that always happens.  I mean that the whole industry proliferated, became professionalized, and got much glossier than my ability to keep up with it (much like the homeschooling community).  When I finally got back to my safe, limited Creative Memories website, none of the handy little sleeves that I'd always put drawings and tickets in existed anymore.  They had added digital products.  The other sites I went to were about downloading and printing out fonts, inserting brads, sewing, buttons, ribbons, journaling right on top of the photos, tags with vague but empowering sentiments on them, and the pages were usually organized around one glossy black and white photo per page.  Help!  Where did my humble little hobby go?

My pastor, Dr. Keller, says that New Yorkers have to realize our need for grace more than any people, because back in Peoria, we used to think we were the best vocalist in town, but then we came to New York and realized with chagrin that the musicians in the subway were better than we were.  Well, Dr. Keller, it's even worse than that:  The musicians in Peoria are pretty good, too!  (With my apologies to Peoria, which is no doubt a fine place.)  

Every woman these days is a professional level photographer, an ace scrapbooker, a Martha Stewart in the kitchen, sews her own adorable kids' clothes, encourages the downtrodden, and is somewhere in the midst of running a co-op and teaching her six children the classical canon. Oh, and on the side she is also a political pundit who keeps up with current events and comments with style and wit.  Did I mention that she hosts dinner parties?  Is always a proactive parent?  Has a profitable side business on Etsy?  And of course, if she lives in Manhattan, the kids are headed for the Ivy League.  

Do you see how quickly my mind can take a simple thing like wanting to document a vacation and blow it all out of proportion?  This is why I say on my profile that I desire to live a simple life in a complicated city.  It's not an accomplishment; it's very much a reminder that the simple life is a work in progress.  No one, and I mean no one, can have everything.  

My real-life and online friend Susan once mentioned to me that there was a such thing as an HSP, or high sensitive person. (I'll let her tell you how that applies to her if she likes, or not.) Intrigued, I looked it up.  It's a book by Elaine Aronson, and there's a website, with a test.  I scored just about 100 on that test.  At last, I'm an overachiever!--at getting all worked up and needing to take a deep breath. 

So this is your reminder, in case you needed one.  It's not a contest.