First would be my Mom who introduced us to Catholicism, it really was better late than never. She was and in many ways still is stuck knowing much of the Faith without understanding it, and therefore unable to live it or explain it to any of us kids. She did the best she could, and for that I am grateful.
My grandmother who prayed for the conversion of all her family daily, and taught us a few simple prayers when my siblings and I were little.
Steve, my high school teacher who challenged me on matters of faith. His pro-abortion stance made me own my pro-life stance as well as the tenents of Catholicism - though I was not practicing them at that point.
Fr. Amsberry for encouraging my fledgling Faith along when Jeff and I moved to a new state away from family and were living in sin. I worked my way into the Church, learned so much and have never looked back.
Above all though, Jonathan, my brother. If it weren't for him I would not be Catholic today. Finding the Church for him was like getting his first breath of air after struggling underwater for most of his life. He challenged me in different ways and like a good big brother took my hand and led me through the door my mom had shown us. We had so many conversations and plans of how we would fix the world by spreading the logic behind the Faith. While still living at home after I had come back from the brink of destruction, yet still stood near the edge of a terrible fall, he would take me and the kids to Mass. There was no arguing with him. He said it was time to go, so we did. A routine I continued even after moving out of state and away from all family. Even being 3,000 miles from each other, I went to him if I had questions and we grew together in our understanding of Christ and the Church.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
A Little...or Big...Detour
Every time I sit to write about one topic, I find myself wandering off onto other topics. It feels wrong to start writing about a book I recently read and loved (A Little Way of Homeschooling: Thirteen Families Discover Catholic Unschooling by Suzie Andres), and how it was just what I needed as I have been struggling with unschooling and then go off onto how I have struggled just to survive day to day since July 20, 2010. Then go into how hard it has been to completely change our diet to try and accommodate little Corbin who cannot eat wheat, citrus, dairy and a variety of vegetables (and probably more that I cannot think of), which brings up how I have been trying to alter my own diet to try and shrink the growth in my thyroid. There is just so much going on, I can't keep all of it straight myself. It makes choosing one topic to write about that much harder.
I keep feeling called to write about my brother and my own grief, but to do that I have to face so much that I don't want to. It is much easier to continue faking day to day that everything is ok. For those first few weeks being able to write was the only thing that got me out of bed and able to face each day. I have been trying to write privately since then, but it just doesn't work. Maybe posting my rambling thoughts will keep me accountable and help me feel like I am getting things 'out there' to deal with rather than privately trying to deal with this.
I pray for courage because I am such a private person as was my brother. People who know me generally know very little about my past. That is, in part, because I do not want to be defined by my past. Also, it is hard to share my story (in which I have to be the protagonist) without saying things about others in my life that are less than complimentary. The idea of tarnishing the reputation of those I love bothers me greatly, but again I feel called to share - at least part of it.
At a baby shower 2 months after my brother died there was a gift swap and I got the book 10 Prayers God Always Says Yes To by Anthony DeStefano. In so many ways that book was just what I needed. I had not been able to pray since my brother died, I had gone to Mass and said grace before meals, but I was just going through the motions. I didn't feel it, and the book helped me get that back. One of the first chapters is "God Show Me You Exist" and while I had never doubted God's existence the book pointed out something I had never thought of. I was not really raised Catholic, my mom was a fallen away Catholic and my dad has always been more into the New Age scene. My parents were a bit ahead of the game in relation to how people are parenting today. My mom was big into home births (when they were illegal), attachment parenting, breastfeeding, eating whole foods, limiting television and avoiding commercials all long before it became popular. Religion was not a part of my life in any way before I was 11. My mom remembers talking to us about God and angels and the Devil, but I have little recollection of it - other than one instance. When I was about 4 my sister and I were taking a bath and playing when I looked up and saw a small figure made of light float past the open doorway. It was a very simple figure and did nothing threatening, but it startled me. I asked my sister if she saw it (she didn't) and we called to my mom to ask her about it. I still remember very clearly what the figure looked like, and whether it was my mom's explanation that I don't remember beyond "it was an angel" or something about that encounter, I have never doubted the existence of God. Even when my life was at its darkest and I was almost consumed with hatred and evil, I never doubted. I had not thought of that in years until reading "God Show me You Exist." In it Anthony says to be careful asking for definitive proof of God's existence because when he does, that person is expected to endure great things (he gives some examples like Moses, the apostles and St Paul). How true that has been in my life. I didn't ask for all this, yet here it is. If I had not encountered God's messenger would I be more like my sister who is still so lost and so hurt? I certainly don't feel like my life is completely together or even that I could be considered successful. What I can say is that despite everything I am here and I love God and the Church for helping me get here. I have a wonderful dedicated husband, 7 beautiful healthy children and we love each other and enjoy being together. Everything else isn't quite as I would like it, but that is ok because all those other things are not anywhere near as important.
I keep feeling called to write about my brother and my own grief, but to do that I have to face so much that I don't want to. It is much easier to continue faking day to day that everything is ok. For those first few weeks being able to write was the only thing that got me out of bed and able to face each day. I have been trying to write privately since then, but it just doesn't work. Maybe posting my rambling thoughts will keep me accountable and help me feel like I am getting things 'out there' to deal with rather than privately trying to deal with this.
I pray for courage because I am such a private person as was my brother. People who know me generally know very little about my past. That is, in part, because I do not want to be defined by my past. Also, it is hard to share my story (in which I have to be the protagonist) without saying things about others in my life that are less than complimentary. The idea of tarnishing the reputation of those I love bothers me greatly, but again I feel called to share - at least part of it.
At a baby shower 2 months after my brother died there was a gift swap and I got the book 10 Prayers God Always Says Yes To by Anthony DeStefano. In so many ways that book was just what I needed. I had not been able to pray since my brother died, I had gone to Mass and said grace before meals, but I was just going through the motions. I didn't feel it, and the book helped me get that back. One of the first chapters is "God Show Me You Exist" and while I had never doubted God's existence the book pointed out something I had never thought of. I was not really raised Catholic, my mom was a fallen away Catholic and my dad has always been more into the New Age scene. My parents were a bit ahead of the game in relation to how people are parenting today. My mom was big into home births (when they were illegal), attachment parenting, breastfeeding, eating whole foods, limiting television and avoiding commercials all long before it became popular. Religion was not a part of my life in any way before I was 11. My mom remembers talking to us about God and angels and the Devil, but I have little recollection of it - other than one instance. When I was about 4 my sister and I were taking a bath and playing when I looked up and saw a small figure made of light float past the open doorway. It was a very simple figure and did nothing threatening, but it startled me. I asked my sister if she saw it (she didn't) and we called to my mom to ask her about it. I still remember very clearly what the figure looked like, and whether it was my mom's explanation that I don't remember beyond "it was an angel" or something about that encounter, I have never doubted the existence of God. Even when my life was at its darkest and I was almost consumed with hatred and evil, I never doubted. I had not thought of that in years until reading "God Show me You Exist." In it Anthony says to be careful asking for definitive proof of God's existence because when he does, that person is expected to endure great things (he gives some examples like Moses, the apostles and St Paul). How true that has been in my life. I didn't ask for all this, yet here it is. If I had not encountered God's messenger would I be more like my sister who is still so lost and so hurt? I certainly don't feel like my life is completely together or even that I could be considered successful. What I can say is that despite everything I am here and I love God and the Church for helping me get here. I have a wonderful dedicated husband, 7 beautiful healthy children and we love each other and enjoy being together. Everything else isn't quite as I would like it, but that is ok because all those other things are not anywhere near as important.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
I Can't Do It All
I can't do it all. There, I said it. I really wish I could have a healthy strong prayer life, keep up with house and yard work, do house repairs, finish the garage and basement, work on the cars, keep up with the kids' various interests and classes (and feel confident in where they are), cook healthy food from scratch every day, plant and grow a good sized veggie garden, keep up on my emails, update my blog and the family blog, find sales to get the items we need at the best price possible, fulfill my duties in one homeschool group, participate in other homeschool groups, start a new Catholic homeschool group out near me, deal with my health issues, implement any number of ideas to try and bring in a little money and spend time with my kids and husband together as well as individually. Oh and of course, some time for myself and following the news stories, blogs and various topics that interest me.
It isn't reasonable to think I can do even half of these things, and yet I can't help but think that if I just planned my days right I could squeeze in a little more...
I have to prioritize and that is where I get frustrated and want to give up. At this point we are barely getting by with housework, the kids' interests and classes, cooking a lot from scratch (since Corbin has food sensitivities that severely limit what we can have) and dealing with my health issues. Everything else is done nominally or not at all. I have been trying to pray more regularly, and I suppose I should be asking for some peace with not being able to 'do it all' and guidance in prioritizing. That is a good place to start anyway.
Now off to put little ones and my barely recovering from a cold self into bed.
It isn't reasonable to think I can do even half of these things, and yet I can't help but think that if I just planned my days right I could squeeze in a little more...
I have to prioritize and that is where I get frustrated and want to give up. At this point we are barely getting by with housework, the kids' interests and classes, cooking a lot from scratch (since Corbin has food sensitivities that severely limit what we can have) and dealing with my health issues. Everything else is done nominally or not at all. I have been trying to pray more regularly, and I suppose I should be asking for some peace with not being able to 'do it all' and guidance in prioritizing. That is a good place to start anyway.
Now off to put little ones and my barely recovering from a cold self into bed.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Finally Done, but Never Over
Due to a bit of miscommunication with the cemetery we almost missed the placing of my brother's grave marker. Fortunately I was able to get work it out with them, so on St Patrick's day we went out there. For the week prior it had been raining heavily, this is not particularly unusual in the Pacific Northwest, but it meant we were prepared to be very wet. All day there wasn't a whole lot of rain which I was happy about, then about an hour before we were going to leave the rain started.
We timed things so that my husband would get home from work and then we would leave immediately with my parents following us to get to the cemetery for our appt. Instead the baby didn't take his nap and was cranky, the kids didn't want to go (which was fine) and my parents arrived late. We rushed through getting the baby ready to go with us and driving through pouring rain and traffic to get to the cemetery almost 15 minutes late. Fortunately I called ahead and they were ok with us being late.
My mom has taken my brother's death the hardest. Sometimes she talks about it as if it were a personal attack from God against her because she was just coming back to her faith, other times she seems to recognize that it had little to do with her, but more often she cannot even think about my brother or anything related to the outside world. She spends her days playing games on the computer and listening to audio books.
When we arrived at the cemetery the rain had slowed to a sprinkle and as I got out of the car I saw this:
The picture doesn't quite do the rainbows justice. The bottom rainbow was actually a double rainbow, making it a triple rainbow (though Jeff said the bottom two were only one because they were attached). My brother was 33 when he died which just adds to the whole 3 thing.
Corbin fell asleep on the drive over and miraculously stayed asleep. I went into the office to let them know we had arrived, and met the guy by the grave. Within a few minutes of our arrival the rainbows disappeared and the rain slowed and then stopped. The ground was saturated, but at least we weren't getting rained on.
Once the marker was placed and had the mud washed off we were left alone. Almost as soon as the caretaker drove the little cart off I noticed birds chirping loudly in a nearby tree and I looked up and saw blue sky. Not just a little blue either. It was blue and clear with just a few clouds and the sun was shining (something that doesn't happen often in Spring let alone the end of Winter). Every where I looked it was blue and clear.
My brother's favorite color was blue. My mom would work with him on his colors when he was a toddler (he was always precocious), and when he didn't want to play that game he acknowledged only two colors: blue and not-blue. He had his first car (and old beat up toyota corolla) painted blue. It was always his color.
When I looked over to my mom and saw that she got it, we both smiled. Then the church bells started ringing for the chapel across the street. I told my mom there was her sign. It couldn't have been clearer. The four of us talked a bit about my brother and how much we missed him, how we hoped he liked what we did for the marker and in choosing where to bury him. Then as we very slowly moved away we moved on to upcoming things and plans for the rest of the week. Finally, I gave my mom and dad a hug and then Jeff and I and sleeping Corbin headed home to our daily craziness.
Within minutes of getting on the road it started raining again.
We timed things so that my husband would get home from work and then we would leave immediately with my parents following us to get to the cemetery for our appt. Instead the baby didn't take his nap and was cranky, the kids didn't want to go (which was fine) and my parents arrived late. We rushed through getting the baby ready to go with us and driving through pouring rain and traffic to get to the cemetery almost 15 minutes late. Fortunately I called ahead and they were ok with us being late.
My mom has taken my brother's death the hardest. Sometimes she talks about it as if it were a personal attack from God against her because she was just coming back to her faith, other times she seems to recognize that it had little to do with her, but more often she cannot even think about my brother or anything related to the outside world. She spends her days playing games on the computer and listening to audio books.
When we arrived at the cemetery the rain had slowed to a sprinkle and as I got out of the car I saw this:
The picture doesn't quite do the rainbows justice. The bottom rainbow was actually a double rainbow, making it a triple rainbow (though Jeff said the bottom two were only one because they were attached). My brother was 33 when he died which just adds to the whole 3 thing.Corbin fell asleep on the drive over and miraculously stayed asleep. I went into the office to let them know we had arrived, and met the guy by the grave. Within a few minutes of our arrival the rainbows disappeared and the rain slowed and then stopped. The ground was saturated, but at least we weren't getting rained on.
Once the marker was placed and had the mud washed off we were left alone. Almost as soon as the caretaker drove the little cart off I noticed birds chirping loudly in a nearby tree and I looked up and saw blue sky. Not just a little blue either. It was blue and clear with just a few clouds and the sun was shining (something that doesn't happen often in Spring let alone the end of Winter). Every where I looked it was blue and clear.
My brother's favorite color was blue. My mom would work with him on his colors when he was a toddler (he was always precocious), and when he didn't want to play that game he acknowledged only two colors: blue and not-blue. He had his first car (and old beat up toyota corolla) painted blue. It was always his color.When I looked over to my mom and saw that she got it, we both smiled. Then the church bells started ringing for the chapel across the street. I told my mom there was her sign. It couldn't have been clearer. The four of us talked a bit about my brother and how much we missed him, how we hoped he liked what we did for the marker and in choosing where to bury him. Then as we very slowly moved away we moved on to upcoming things and plans for the rest of the week. Finally, I gave my mom and dad a hug and then Jeff and I and sleeping Corbin headed home to our daily craziness.
Within minutes of getting on the road it started raining again.
Monday, February 28, 2011
A Lot to Learn
This week I forgot, for a little while, to be first a good wife to my husband before worrying about trivial things like the condition of the house. I foolishly scheduled dentist and optometry appointments for almost all the children over the last 2 weeks, so the routine we are working to establish at home just didn't happen. When we don't stick to a routine, the house becomes a disaster and when the house is a disaster I get cranky. My brilliant plan to fix everything was to make the kids work on their chores over this last weekend between various activities. I figured it would help us start another busy week off right to have a clean house and I would feel a lot better. However I didn't consider my husband in all this, other than to assume he would, of course, help me keep the kids on task by sacrificing his tv time and helping me supervise.
It wasn't until Saturday evening that I realized my mistake. Jeff is a wonderful man, I could learn a lot from him. He truly is my knight in shining armor. He faces all the criticism of secular America from some members of his family, from people at work, pretty much anyone he talks to out in what he calls the "real world" for all the choices I have made for our family, yet he doesn't complain. He doesn't consider himself Catholic, doesn't have strong political opinions, and is content pretty much wherever he is and whatever he is doing. Yet he is a devoted father to 7 children, realizing there may well be more children in our future; he went along with my desire to buy a starter house that our family didn't really fit into with the hope that we could move in about 5 years into something bigger (in 2006 right before everything fell apart in the housing market); he is the sole breadwinner of our family working in a field he doesn't particularly like because that was the best job he could find to support us; he goes along with and listens while I complain/talk about my various passions (ie homeschooling/unschooling, alternative medicine, eating whole foods based on Nourishing Traditions, having strong Independent political opinions, being passionately Catholic and pro-life, etc); he became a Boy Scout Assistant Scoutmaster so that the troop could be started for our oldest son and parish and homeschool group; he went to school and struggled with working full-time, taking 2 classes at a time and still helping out around the house and taking kids to various events to get his AA degree just this last Spring because I wanted him to - and he never lets me feel the stress he is under. I have to really push him before I even get a glimmer of what he endures daily for our family. One of the very few outlets he has, one of his only passions is movies and video games which he wants to share with us as a family. Since I have strong opinions about everything, I really dislike the tv, but I try to let go on it for him (though I complain a lot). So when I plan for a weekend without tv, I am taking away the one place my husband can decompress from all the stress of the previous week. Yet he doesn't complain.
On Saturday he listened to the kids argue and fight over the chores they didn't want to do, tried to keep them on task, and took turns with me on running our weekend errands. Finally he went back to the bedroom for some peace and quiet and to be alone and I realized my mistake. On Sunday after Mass, but before I had to take Ariana to dance he got to squeeze in a movie at the theater, but then by the time we got home from dance it was time for bed. The weekend was over.
Here I sit on Monday with the house marginally better than it was on Friday, feeling like a fool for forgetting how lucky I am. Having the house clean is not worth the cost of our weekend. It is not worth the stress it puts on Jeff. I need to learn to relax a bit and let go if the reason the house is a mess is because I wasn't home to keep the remaining kids on task. I am thankful that I can stay home with the kids and homeschool, even if it is stressful from time to time. I am thankful that I get to choose my environment to be surrounded by like-minded families and read news from sources I agree with. Mostly I am thankful for a wonderful man who sacrifices so much for me and the kids without complaining about all he does. I have a lot to learn. I need to complain less and be thankful more. I need to plan better so that I am not overwhelmed, and I need to make sure we are home enough to stay on top of the chores so that when the weekend comes, we can relax and enjoy being together as a family.
It wasn't until Saturday evening that I realized my mistake. Jeff is a wonderful man, I could learn a lot from him. He truly is my knight in shining armor. He faces all the criticism of secular America from some members of his family, from people at work, pretty much anyone he talks to out in what he calls the "real world" for all the choices I have made for our family, yet he doesn't complain. He doesn't consider himself Catholic, doesn't have strong political opinions, and is content pretty much wherever he is and whatever he is doing. Yet he is a devoted father to 7 children, realizing there may well be more children in our future; he went along with my desire to buy a starter house that our family didn't really fit into with the hope that we could move in about 5 years into something bigger (in 2006 right before everything fell apart in the housing market); he is the sole breadwinner of our family working in a field he doesn't particularly like because that was the best job he could find to support us; he goes along with and listens while I complain/talk about my various passions (ie homeschooling/unschooling, alternative medicine, eating whole foods based on Nourishing Traditions, having strong Independent political opinions, being passionately Catholic and pro-life, etc); he became a Boy Scout Assistant Scoutmaster so that the troop could be started for our oldest son and parish and homeschool group; he went to school and struggled with working full-time, taking 2 classes at a time and still helping out around the house and taking kids to various events to get his AA degree just this last Spring because I wanted him to - and he never lets me feel the stress he is under. I have to really push him before I even get a glimmer of what he endures daily for our family. One of the very few outlets he has, one of his only passions is movies and video games which he wants to share with us as a family. Since I have strong opinions about everything, I really dislike the tv, but I try to let go on it for him (though I complain a lot). So when I plan for a weekend without tv, I am taking away the one place my husband can decompress from all the stress of the previous week. Yet he doesn't complain.
On Saturday he listened to the kids argue and fight over the chores they didn't want to do, tried to keep them on task, and took turns with me on running our weekend errands. Finally he went back to the bedroom for some peace and quiet and to be alone and I realized my mistake. On Sunday after Mass, but before I had to take Ariana to dance he got to squeeze in a movie at the theater, but then by the time we got home from dance it was time for bed. The weekend was over.
Here I sit on Monday with the house marginally better than it was on Friday, feeling like a fool for forgetting how lucky I am. Having the house clean is not worth the cost of our weekend. It is not worth the stress it puts on Jeff. I need to learn to relax a bit and let go if the reason the house is a mess is because I wasn't home to keep the remaining kids on task. I am thankful that I can stay home with the kids and homeschool, even if it is stressful from time to time. I am thankful that I get to choose my environment to be surrounded by like-minded families and read news from sources I agree with. Mostly I am thankful for a wonderful man who sacrifices so much for me and the kids without complaining about all he does. I have a lot to learn. I need to complain less and be thankful more. I need to plan better so that I am not overwhelmed, and I need to make sure we are home enough to stay on top of the chores so that when the weekend comes, we can relax and enjoy being together as a family.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Educational Discipline...friend or foe?
At a recent homeschool support group meeting we talked about discipline in education. Something about the discussion felt off to me, but I couldn't verbalize what it was at the time. The discussion started with one mom who said she used to think that if a child wanted to know something they would learn it due to their passion, but now thinks you have to push kids to learn or they won't really excel when they should.
She came to this conclusion after watching her daughter coast through math in a public school, never getting more than a B despite how easily she grasped the concepts. The daughter even tutored other kids and the teachers commented on how mathematically inclined she was. However the daughter never really loved math and today feels just ok about it - apparently she commented to her mom that she wished she had been pushed harder to excel by her parents (the implication being she would love math today if she had been pushed).
Another mom talked about how she told her son that he had to take piano for 5 years and how she pushed him through those times when he wanted to quit and hated practicing. Then when the 5 years were up, he realized that he actually liked how accomplished he was on the piano and decided to stick with playing it rather than moving on to something else.
These stories were told with passion, and while they sounded good on the surface there was something about them that just didn't sit right with me.
While arguably there is nothing wrong with training a child in what they will need to know, where I take issue is with the idea that by forcing kids to become disciplined in a subject they are then finally able to enjoy it. It sounds pretty on paper, but something tells me the girl never would have loved math the way it was taught and the boy doesn't and may never love piano (and may have loved another instrument if he had been given the chance). Just because someone is accomplished doesn't mean they will enjoy it nor that they will be prepared for life in that subject. It means they can parrot what they have been taught and pass a test with a good grade. I suppose they will be prepared for college and that is the goal our society emphasizes.
The second and more important thing that bothered me about this idea is you cannot discipline a child in creative thought and imagination. A child is born with the ability to reason and find creative solutions. We have to allow children time to explore and develop this part of themselves. By 'starting young' with timed tests and drill you are destroying this natural gift. So many kids go through the 'discipline' of education too soon and end up unable to think creatively. They are only good as worker bees, they no longer think of anything beyond what they have had drilled into their minds - as long as the soma (ie tv, sports, computers, the internet, etc) is available anyway. Once the soma of today loses its potency, you end up with depressed, anxious individuals who know something is wrong but cannot figure out what. Though we now have prescription drugs to boost the soma-effect for a few more years!
Universities were created for older people, not young children. A child can learn the basics they need - even for society today - in just a few short hours during their childhood. If they missed anything then they can pick it up as they get older. Yes, kids may pick things up faster when they are young, but I would rather that young children use their incredible abilities to learn and memorize on solving problems they face day-to-day (which include reading and math skills) and then train their minds for a discipline later, once they understand how to think creatively.
Sadly since I didn't figure out my problem with their form of discipline right a way, I wasn't able to express my concerns. I'm sure I will have other chances in the future which will give me time to work on developing my concerns more fully.
I get to do a presentation on Unschooling in May for this same group, so I may get a chance to voice my concerns after all.
She came to this conclusion after watching her daughter coast through math in a public school, never getting more than a B despite how easily she grasped the concepts. The daughter even tutored other kids and the teachers commented on how mathematically inclined she was. However the daughter never really loved math and today feels just ok about it - apparently she commented to her mom that she wished she had been pushed harder to excel by her parents (the implication being she would love math today if she had been pushed).
Another mom talked about how she told her son that he had to take piano for 5 years and how she pushed him through those times when he wanted to quit and hated practicing. Then when the 5 years were up, he realized that he actually liked how accomplished he was on the piano and decided to stick with playing it rather than moving on to something else.
These stories were told with passion, and while they sounded good on the surface there was something about them that just didn't sit right with me.
While arguably there is nothing wrong with training a child in what they will need to know, where I take issue is with the idea that by forcing kids to become disciplined in a subject they are then finally able to enjoy it. It sounds pretty on paper, but something tells me the girl never would have loved math the way it was taught and the boy doesn't and may never love piano (and may have loved another instrument if he had been given the chance). Just because someone is accomplished doesn't mean they will enjoy it nor that they will be prepared for life in that subject. It means they can parrot what they have been taught and pass a test with a good grade. I suppose they will be prepared for college and that is the goal our society emphasizes.
The second and more important thing that bothered me about this idea is you cannot discipline a child in creative thought and imagination. A child is born with the ability to reason and find creative solutions. We have to allow children time to explore and develop this part of themselves. By 'starting young' with timed tests and drill you are destroying this natural gift. So many kids go through the 'discipline' of education too soon and end up unable to think creatively. They are only good as worker bees, they no longer think of anything beyond what they have had drilled into their minds - as long as the soma (ie tv, sports, computers, the internet, etc) is available anyway. Once the soma of today loses its potency, you end up with depressed, anxious individuals who know something is wrong but cannot figure out what. Though we now have prescription drugs to boost the soma-effect for a few more years!
Universities were created for older people, not young children. A child can learn the basics they need - even for society today - in just a few short hours during their childhood. If they missed anything then they can pick it up as they get older. Yes, kids may pick things up faster when they are young, but I would rather that young children use their incredible abilities to learn and memorize on solving problems they face day-to-day (which include reading and math skills) and then train their minds for a discipline later, once they understand how to think creatively.
Sadly since I didn't figure out my problem with their form of discipline right a way, I wasn't able to express my concerns. I'm sure I will have other chances in the future which will give me time to work on developing my concerns more fully.
I get to do a presentation on Unschooling in May for this same group, so I may get a chance to voice my concerns after all.
Carlo Carretto, a leading spiritual writer of the past half-century, was a hermit in the Sahara desert for more than a dozen years. Alone, with only the Blessed Sacrament for company, milking a goat for food, and translating the Bible into the local Bedouin language, he prayed for long hours by himself. Returning to Italy to visit his mother, he came to a startling realization: His mother, who for more than 30 years had been so busy raising a family that she scarcely ever had a private minute, was more contemplative than he was.
Carretto drew the right lesson. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with what he’d been doing as a hermit. Rather, there was something wonderfully right about what his mother had been doing as she lived the interrupted life amidst the noise and incessant demands of small children. He had been in a monastery, but so had she.
A monastery is not so much a place set apart for monks and nuns as it is a place set apart (period). It is a place to learn the value of powerlessness and to learn that time is not ours, but God’s.
Our home and duties can, like a monastery, teach us that. John of the Cross once described the inner essence of monasticism this way: “But they, O my God and my life, will see and experience your mild touch, who withdraw from the world and become mild, bringing the mild into harmony with the mild, thus enabling themselves to experience and enjoy you.” John suggests that two elements make for a monastery: withdrawal from the world and bringing oneself into harmony with the mild.
Certain vocations offer the same opportunity for contemplation. For example, the mother who stays home with small children experiences a real withdrawal form the world. Her existence is monastic. Her tasks and preoccupations remove her from the centers of power and social importance. And she feels it. Moreover her sustained contact with young children (the mildest of the mild) gives her a privileged opportunity to be in harmony with the mild, to attune herself to the powerlessness rather than to the powerful.
The demands of young children also provide her with what St. Bernard, one of the great architects of monasticism, called the “monastic bell.” Bernard told his monks that whenever the monastic bell rang, they were to drop whatever they were doing and go immediately to the activity (prayer, meals, work, study, sleep) to which the bell was summoning them. He was adamant that they respond immediately: If they were writing a letter they were to stop in mid-sentence when the bell rang. When the bell called you to the next task, you were to respond immediately, not because you want to, but because it’s time for that task and time isn’t your time, it’s God’s time. For him, the monastic bell was a discipline to stretch the heart by taking you beyond your own agenda to God’s agenda.
Hence, a mother raising children, perhaps in a more privileged way even than a professional contemplative, is forced, almost against her will, to constantly stretch her heart. For years, while raising children, her time is never her own, her own needs have to be kept in second place, and every time she turns around a hand is reaching out and demanding something. She hears the monastic bell many times a day and she has to drop things in mid-sentence and respond, not because she wants to, but because it’s time for that activity and time isn’t her time, but God’s time. The rest of us experience the monastic bell when our alarm clock rings and we get out of bed and ready ourselves for the day, not because we want to, but because it’s time.
The principles of monasticism are time-tested, saint-sanctioned, and altogether – trustworthy. But there are different kinds of monasteries, different ways of putting ourselves into harmony with the mild, and different kinds of monastic bells. Response to duty can be monastic prayer, a needy hand can be a monastic bell, and working without status and power can constitute a withdrawal into a monastery where God can meet us. The domestic can be the monastic.
Father Ron Rolheiser
Carretto drew the right lesson. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with what he’d been doing as a hermit. Rather, there was something wonderfully right about what his mother had been doing as she lived the interrupted life amidst the noise and incessant demands of small children. He had been in a monastery, but so had she.
A monastery is not so much a place set apart for monks and nuns as it is a place set apart (period). It is a place to learn the value of powerlessness and to learn that time is not ours, but God’s.
Our home and duties can, like a monastery, teach us that. John of the Cross once described the inner essence of monasticism this way: “But they, O my God and my life, will see and experience your mild touch, who withdraw from the world and become mild, bringing the mild into harmony with the mild, thus enabling themselves to experience and enjoy you.” John suggests that two elements make for a monastery: withdrawal from the world and bringing oneself into harmony with the mild.
Certain vocations offer the same opportunity for contemplation. For example, the mother who stays home with small children experiences a real withdrawal form the world. Her existence is monastic. Her tasks and preoccupations remove her from the centers of power and social importance. And she feels it. Moreover her sustained contact with young children (the mildest of the mild) gives her a privileged opportunity to be in harmony with the mild, to attune herself to the powerlessness rather than to the powerful.
The demands of young children also provide her with what St. Bernard, one of the great architects of monasticism, called the “monastic bell.” Bernard told his monks that whenever the monastic bell rang, they were to drop whatever they were doing and go immediately to the activity (prayer, meals, work, study, sleep) to which the bell was summoning them. He was adamant that they respond immediately: If they were writing a letter they were to stop in mid-sentence when the bell rang. When the bell called you to the next task, you were to respond immediately, not because you want to, but because it’s time for that task and time isn’t your time, it’s God’s time. For him, the monastic bell was a discipline to stretch the heart by taking you beyond your own agenda to God’s agenda.
Hence, a mother raising children, perhaps in a more privileged way even than a professional contemplative, is forced, almost against her will, to constantly stretch her heart. For years, while raising children, her time is never her own, her own needs have to be kept in second place, and every time she turns around a hand is reaching out and demanding something. She hears the monastic bell many times a day and she has to drop things in mid-sentence and respond, not because she wants to, but because it’s time for that activity and time isn’t her time, but God’s time. The rest of us experience the monastic bell when our alarm clock rings and we get out of bed and ready ourselves for the day, not because we want to, but because it’s time.
The principles of monasticism are time-tested, saint-sanctioned, and altogether – trustworthy. But there are different kinds of monasteries, different ways of putting ourselves into harmony with the mild, and different kinds of monastic bells. Response to duty can be monastic prayer, a needy hand can be a monastic bell, and working without status and power can constitute a withdrawal into a monastery where God can meet us. The domestic can be the monastic.
Father Ron Rolheiser
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