Two sides of a coin. Yin and Yang. Juxtaposition. Oxymoron. Paradox. Jumbo Shrimp.

Just call me an illustrative thesaurus of harsh contrast.

I went to the beach today. Amidst the flying flakes. The frigid temperatures. The howling wind.

Photo Jennifer Butler Basile

As I looked at the caked snow curved across the sand, looking like the negative of the waves that rushed up and left the graceful arc of its crust, I thought how perfect it was that I was there on this stormy morning when my children were elsewhere. When I already felt suspended in some surreal alternative reality. It is truly bizarre when the nonstop duties of mothering fall away. Like going to that place of sun and refreshing surf when it’s overcast and chilling to the bone. There is a void not unlike the cupped depressions in the sand where the winter waves eat away at the coast. It’s gorgeous, but it feels so foreign it’s unnerving. I’m reminded of the needed buffer that comes with vacations – the time it takes to unwind before you can truly enjoy the relaxation of vacation. But there is no time here. I must embrace this as swiftly as the sand that sweeps across the snow drifts leaving a fine layer of brown sugar. That is what I must remember. That there is always a bit of sweet and beauty atop even the harshest landscapes. You just have to train your eyes and heart and mind to work in concert – and do so allegro.

A Study in Contrast

Children, Education

Education and Learning: A Mutual Understanding or Mutually Exclusive?

Believe it or not, I came home from a presentation on common-core requirements for kindergarten with a positive outlook on my child’s education.

“Surely, you jest,” you say.

No. I don’t.

The woman who facilitated the workshop, an early childhood educator with a masters in education, reminded me of the education professors I had in college, who were so excited about the learning process. Every moment was the teachable moment; every question or observation the origin of a journey they were willing to follow to its completion. It wasn’t about quantifiable results, but the complex ways in which our brains learned to work.

And this was the same thinking this presenter offered us. While children are expected to be able to name and recognize twenty letters of the alphabet upon entering kindergarten, that does not mean we should be drilling them with flashcards if they do not. Letter sounds and shapes are all around us; we can identify them on signs as we take a drive we needed to anyway. A lesson in classifying objects is as close and natural as mixing two boxes of puzzle pieces together on the floor. See the different ways your child separates them and make note of it. Basic math skills can happen at the dining table. If there are four people, but only three napkins on the table, ask your child how many more you need.

While all of these examples are seemingly ‘no-brainers’, it’s easy to lose sight of them during the course of a busy day. If we as parents are on our game, though, these are things we do innately every day. Likewise, all the insanely scripted tasks and goals of common-core are things good teachers do innately. People in charge of children with a true love of learning embed meaningful experiences into every activity.

This was what got me excited as I left that workshop. That there are still people, in the face of such crushing paper chases, who still marvel at making connections, flipping on the light bulb of learning, making that ‘a-ha’ moment happen. That is why people become teachers. That is what makes learning absolutely magical and powerful.

Unfortunately, that is not the direction in which education is moving. The hopeful feeling I had was tempered by the reality of the high stakes environment my daughter will experience upon entering school. She may not feel the pressure in kindergarten, but her teachers will and it will eventually filter down to her as she moves up in grades

I get it. We need to ensure that the millions of children across our country have an equal chance at quality education. We therefore need standardized language to articulate what that quality education will look like across the board. To assess adherence to and progress toward, we need quantifiable goals as part of this standardized language. All great ideas – in theory.

Essentially, the pie-in-the-sky learning process I described from my education classes in college was theory, too.

The future of education in America depends upon which theory will win.

Weekend Write-Off, Writing

Polka Dot Penguin Pottery

It’s usually a good sign when the cover of a book on creativity is oriented so that it opens bottom to top rather than right to left. Once I opened the cover of Polka Dot Penguin Pottery by Lenore Look/illustrated by Yumi Heo, I kept waiting for the page where the text would shift to traditional format, but the entire book continues in this way. And what a testament to the creative process it is. And how refreshing that is addressed in a picture book for children.

Though it’s been floating around our house for awhile, I read it for the first time to my six year-old last week – a day or so after reigniting my love affair with writing my young adult novel. How fitting that I should find this story at that moment in time. The “author”, an eight-ten year old girl, introduces herself by her nom de plume, Aspen Colorado Kim Chee Lee, stating that she writes stories “about monkeys and elephants, aliens and robots, and sometimes, about me.” She goes on to elucidate the writer’s process in the way only a child can. I sniggered to myself that I could’ve used this book a few days previous; if only I’d had the secret to finishing a story!

Illustration by Yumi Heo; image from George Shannon

Alas, even with this fail-proof plan, Aspen Colorado Kim Chee Lee falls prey to the dreaded writer’s block. Her grandparents suggest some ‘chill-out’ time and take her and her baby sister on an outing. On the way to Polka Dot Penguin Pottery, Aspen continues to make lyrical observations despite her writer’s block. “The wind lick[s her] nose and whistle[s] in [her] ears.” Once she enters the shop, [her] words are swirling around . . . and [she] cannot catch them.” A potent reminder of the fact that we are always writing – even when we walk, stare, converse, dead-head blooms in the garden – not just when we sit at the keyboard.

Unfortunately, the crippling malaise of writer’s block transfers to Aspen’s pottery painting project. Luther and Ivy, who sit nearby, tell her “you have to stay super-still and wait for something to happen.” The shop owner suggests she relax and have fun. When she makes a blotch on her ceramic egg by accident and thinks the project is ruined, her creativity soon blossoms because she realizes she has nothing to lose. “You can only make a masterpiece if you’re willing to make a mess,” says Ivy.

Taking risks and keeping at it are the true key to the creative process. Following your monkey mind even if – perhaps especially if – you don’t know where it’s leading.

“And this is the story that began with just hanging out,” Aspen finishes her narrative with.

All too often, I think writers, at least me, are crippled by the blank page or screen. I may have ideas zipping around my head like crazy, but once the word processor loads that blank screen, I feel a constricting band around my throat. Unless I can ‘not think’ like Aspen in this story. When she wasn’t looking for it, the story found her.

Some additional notes about this book:

While the format is landscape, find the spreads that have different views depending on which way you turn the book. For instance, the page where Aspen and her family walk the street; her family in relation to the words and the shops and other people on the street.
Search for whimsical details like the squirrel 🙂
Consider sharing this with other writers in your life – especially those who have trouble living the simple truth it conveys!
Expect to enjoy it perhaps more than your children. I don’t know if I love its value to children or the fact that it’s a kids’ book that introduces the concept of the creative process. I sometimes wonder if authors create some picture books with the adult who will be reading it aloud in mind. (Thank you!)
Another picture book I’ve come across addressing the creative process is Begin at the Beginning: A Little Artist Learns about Life by Amy Schwartz
It is not a coincidence if you find parallels between the creative process and life. We could all adapt such useful lessons to our benefit.

Living, Spirituality

Peggy

I almost didn’t take that road home this morning. Its twists and curves in and out, down and around the hills and forest might not bode well for a commute through the fresh covering of snow left last night.

I didn’t want to stop when I saw the woman chipping away at the chunks of ice barricading her house from the rest of civilization. It was cold, my house was warm, my writing beckoned.

I knew I would think of her all morning if I didn’t.

I slipped and slid my way through a sloppy three point turn and peered into the unfamiliar driveways until I found the beacon of her yellow jacket.

“Would you like some help?” I called.

In the time it had taken me to circle back, she’d started back up her driveway. She had paused when she saw me pull over and now made her way back to my car.

“I was just headed inside for a break,” she said. “I go in for about 45 minutes to warm up, then come back out. It’s a lot easier today than it was yesterday, I’ll tell you.”

I noticed now that three-quarters of the driveway had already been cleared, presumably by the metal shovel and approximation of a turf spade she held in her hands.

“Are you a neighbor?”

I explained where I lived in relation to her house. Not exactly neighbors, but I passed by her house quite frequently en route to mine.

“Let me ask you, have you had any problems with your mailbox?”

She pointed out the naked post next to her driveway and explained that in the five and a half years since her husband died, she’d had three mailboxes knocked over by plows. Her granddaughter and husband reinstalled one one spring; her son shored up another. She’d called town hall. A plowman who came out to her house told her in brusque tones it was the snow, not him, that was responsible. When she objected to his tone of voice, saying that town hall never would have spoken to its residents that way in her old town, he said she’d paid more taxes in that town.

“But I worked in that town hall,” she said. “I was the voice of town hall.”

I discovered her motivation to clear the driveway: so she could haul her mangled mailbox to town hall.

She asked my name and introduced herself, telling me to beep and wave the next time I went by and then she’d know who it was. When I turned around a few houses down from her house in the other direction and passed back by on my way home, I saw her yellow jacket at the top of the driveway, heading into the open bay of her garage.

I’d still think of Peggy all morning, but not with guilt for not helping her; in gratitude for having met her.

Whatsoever you do for the least of my people, you do for me.

Living, Spirituality

A Will Isn’t Always A Way

Yesterday, I labored to remove the soaked shove-off from the city plow. I missed out on completing the errands I’d planned. This morning, I slid sideways down my driveway.

Once I righted the car and went on my way, the sun slanted through the trees, illuminating the white lines traced along the branches of the forest. Intersecting angles everywhere there weren’t mounds of snow hulking in the foreground. Pine boughs bent in supplication. As I traveled this snowy tunnel, I wondered whether I hadn’t been transported to Vermont while I slept. It was truly a winter wonderland.

Overcome by the beauty, I realized that a snowstorm, the resultant ice, and the resulting snafus in our daily schedule wouldn’t be such an issue if we weren’t trying to sublimate nature to our will. If I accept the fact that I need all-wheel drive and a fair amount of ice melt to enter or exit my driveway, I won’t be as frustrated the next time it snows. If I expect to drive slowly and downshift through the gears to slow rather than jamming on the brakes, I will be able to marvel at the sublime scene all around me.

And just like that, God sneaked up on me again.

Much the same way I’d be able to see the beauty in a winter snowstorm if I laced up my hiking boots and moved through the forest unencumbered by wheels and sheet metal, if I didn’t spin my wheels trying to navigate a path God never intended for me to take, life would flow more smoothly. Be more meaningful. More fulfilling. Though it may not be in ways I ever anticipated. That caution and care, that easy-going spirit would allow me to bend, but not break, just like the tree branches bowing to the ground. Accepting my circumstances as they are would allow me to see the value in what is rather than languishing about what might have been.

Photo: Jennifer Butler Basile

Writing

I’m in Love – Again

You fall in love and you can’t get enough of your heart’s desire. Every waking moment is spent thinking of, studying, obsessing over, and drinking in all that he or she is. He or she loves every bit of you in return and all is right with the world where birds chirp and the sun shines everyday.

And then the shine wears off.

Suddenly, endearing quirks become irritating. Spending so much time together becomes smothering. Familiarity may eventually breed contempt, but at the very least it keeps you from recognizing what it was that made him or her special in the first place. You can’t really even see the person at all.

Now before you think I’ve lost sight of our relationship, this is not about my husband and me.

This is about the cast of characters, particularly a young man named Dmitri, in my young adult novel.

I had sensed the growing frustration between us. I tried doing things differently to liven up the doldrums into which we’d wandered. I gave him space. None of this worked. In fact, the extra space felt surprisingly refreshing. Too freeing. I didn’t know if I’d ever want to return to the constraints of our relationship. Though I didn’t know how to fix it, I always felt guilty when he came to mind because of our unresolved issues.

Then one day, I opened a book. The voice on the page, the way the girl told her story reminded me of my Dmitri. I thought, if only Dmitri could be freed like that to tell his story. I opened my laptop and Dmitri spoke to me in ways he never had.

Photo: Carlos Porto (Flickr)

I’ve spent the last four days cavorting with him. In a blissful sort of oblivion, we’ve reunited, he reaffirming all I ever loved about him. I can’t catch my breath. I’m positively vibrating with excitement. When I’m forced to perform one of my daily obligations, I can’t wait until I can return to him.

So sorry I haven’t posted lately – I’ve been falling head over heels in love – again.

Children, Humor, parenting

Cabin Fever

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Can you hear it? The sound of parents everywhere in cold climes screaming in agony. The agony put upon them by their darling dears who turn into a pack of wild screaming mimis when the mercury dips below a certain point and there is no chance of booting them outside.

It’s all in my head, right? I’m looking at the calendar and thinking enough time has elapsed for the end of winter to be here. It’s a whole time warp thing. I’m not literally trapped in the house. They’re not any more annoying than usual. But like Guns n’ Roses screeching toward Noriega at the sound of speed, I am cracking under the pressure. The sonic wave is too much to bear.

The fact that it’s all in my head really is the point, too. But not in an imaginary sort of way. Cabin fever most definitely is a psychological phenomenon. I am going out of my head. I have reminded, cajoled, spoken sternly, screamed, and threatened to throttle. I have asked my husband if all the rules I’ve taught them oozed out of their ears. “Do I have to retrain them?” actually passed my lips. I gesticulated wildly that the area surrounding the back of the couch/occasional table/armchair is not a “trick zone”. I started singing the Coke commercial song, as in “I’d like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony”, perhaps deliriously hoping for just such a scenario in my house.

I may just have to buy a case of something with a bit more punch than Coke and sip and bear it – until hibernation is over.

Awards, Writing

Go Sister, Soul Sister

You know that book they turned into a movie with the amazing America Ferrera? The one with the group of girls who shared the magical pair of pants? That would be really cool if that happened in real life, right? A bond of friendship so strong it magically transforms your life and the size of those jeans.

Well, the magic of the interweb has gifted me with the blogging bond of Sherri Matthew‘s friendship and support. And as if that were not enough, she’s nominated me for the Sisterhood of the World Bloggers Award. Sadly, it does not come with a pair of magical blue jeans, but there are other perks.

Will these take me to Greece?

~ ~The Rules ~ ~

Provide a link to and thank the blogger who nominated you for this award.
Answer ten questions.
Nominate 10-12 blogs that you find a joy to read.
Provide links to these nominated blogs and kindly let the recipients know they have been nominated.
Include the award logo within your blog post.

~ ~Ten questions to be answered ~ ~

Your favorite color …. Purple (though I tend to wear a lot of blue)
Your favorite animal … Black lab (though I’ve never owned one)
Your favorite non-alcoholic drink … Cafe Mocha (I’m attempting to perfect it in house)
Facebook or Twitter … Facebook (lots of kakking, but no tweeting)
Your favorite pattern … Chevron, baby (for now)
Do you prefer getting or giving presents? Giving (though I wouldn’t mind a Frye boot donation 😉 )
Your favorite number … Three (grew up in a family of three – Mom, Dad, me – and now have three. How did that happen!?)
Your favorite day of the week …One that I can stay in my pjs and read/write and no one rings the bell
Your favorite flower … Hydrangea
What is your passion? … Writing – and ice cream

~ ~ The Nominees ~ ~

There are quite a few blogs I love reading. The ladies behind the ones I’ve listed below write pieces that make me feel as if they knew what I needed at that moment; that make me feel like I’m not the only one who’s having this, that, or another horrible feeling; that bring hope from isolation. And quite frequently make me laugh my pants off. Through their reading and comments, they make me feel that my own words are not in vain. So for those sisters I never knew I had and may have never even met, this one’s for you.

Kathy at Chasing Clever

Marlyn at Kintal

Charlotte at momaste

Miss Fanny P at The Adventures of Fanny P

Ruby Tuesday at I Was Just Thinking

Rachel at The Red Tent

Casi at Mama Cravings

Off Duty Mom

Natalie at Happy Cat 13

Megan at The War in My Brain

I invoke the song in the title because it’s got a funky beat you can dance to, but in no way am endorsing Lady Marmalade’s career choices 😉

Living

Keep on Keeping on

Keep crushing quinoa crisps hoping for that potato chip high.

Wake up at the last minute thinking those fifteen minutes will crush your exhaustion.

Stay up late waiting for relaxation to come.

Start all over again with the rush, the craziness of get-dressed-out-the-door-down-the-street.

Don’t go to bed early to wipe the slate clean.

Perpetuate the agony, the treadmill.

Keep waiting, wishing, hoping that things will change – but don’t do a damned thing to make it so.

Living, Poetry

Release

A rivulet of water running off the splash block
cutting an eddy through the sand and shell shards
pebbles and pickings from the beach
that landed on my driveway
months after the pluck
only after ice storms,
freeze and thaw,
cracked the plastic pail they called home.
The terrarium my kids toted home,
a miniature tidal pool,
silica and shale, pebbled granite,
remnants of the ice age released yet again,
eons later
by the elements
only to dribble down my driveway
into the gutter.

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Author Archives: Jennifer Butler Basile