Homeschooling launched me into unplanned study of how children learn (as I watched our son sometimes struggle, sometimes soar and wanting to understand why) and thereby a study of how brains work.

The most fascinating find for all of us was the concept of right brain/left brain learners. They each see the world differently, process information differently and therefore, learn much differently.  To put it most simply,  left-brained thinkers/learners are extremely linear and logical, seeing part-to-whole, while right-brained learners are more abstract, jump around and absolutely see whole-to-part.

I feel very privileged to witness these processes in action, to witness firsthand the proof of theories. To be part of the magic when connections  are made and eyes light up and joy is felt in learning because we have found the way he sees the world.

Today it was witnessed in a music/art class we are doing with a friend. They listen to a piece of music based on a planet. Today it was “Venus: Bringer of Peace”.  Then they create a piece of art inspired by the music.  Our friend is clearly left-brained, very precise, having planned out his entire solar system prior to hearing all the music, each planet cut from stencils and carefully glued in place. Color representations change as do small details added onto the planet to represent the music.  On the other hand, our right-brained boy, as he listened suddenly said, “I’m seeing that creature from the movie ‘The Abyss’ — the one with all the colored lights in it.” And so he drew — abstract shape full of multi-colored wavy lines, another smaller one in the distance, angel-shaped, and the general shape of the city-ship, again full of wavy, amorphous lines.  No planet. No space. No solar system. A concept. A whole thought. 

It was beautiful.

They are each so totally different.  They really could not be more different, in fact. Vastly different ways of hearing the music, processing their vision and putting it on paper. Is either one wrong? Absolutely not! 

So it is with all other learning: reading can be learned by phonics and drills and sounding out (part-to-whole), or it can be learned by being read to, asking what words are, getting a visual and retaining it, with phonic understanding  and sounding out maybe coming later if at all (right-brained). Math can be learned by drilling facts with worksheets, or by experiencing concepts and later discovering the facts used in those concepts.  Either way, the destination is reached. Just as all roads lead to Rome, each approach leads to learning. But understanding how your child learns certainly makes the journey less stressful and more fun.

Reading to him, telling him the words, telling him how to spell, leads to reading.  Playing with Legos, blocks, building a fort, measuring his room all lead to addition, multiplication, fractions and more.  And “Venus: The Bringer of Peace” is the illuminated creature from “The Abyss”. 

Works for me. It sure as heck works for him.

And it shows us all a different way to see the world.

But when the challenge is less obvious, or even invisible — if a child has sensory processing/integration issues, motor planning challenges, visual processing disorders, anxiety (yes,  that’s a real thing in kids), or (hold on to your hats) a combination thereof, suddenly, all the those things that might also be difficult for them, are met with disbelief, shock, scorn or ridicule.  Particularly when that child is otherwise like any other child. When that child is not withdrawn, but gregarious, does  not shun contact, but welcomes it; when that child runs and laughs, has friends, engages in the world, is curious, questioning, bright and involved, these things he/she cannot yet do are met with questions.

It is understandable to a degree, as the challenges and obstacles in the way are not obvious to others. It makes sense that one child might look at another incredulously and say, “Why do you still have training wheels?” or, “You still have a swim vest? You’re still learning how to swim?”  (Although it would be lovely to live in a world where everyone is allowed to be who they are with tolerance — but that’s another issue).

Unfortunately, because a child with these challenges is also like other children in that they are aware, cognizant,  have a sense of self,  pride, and their place in the world, these comments are painful. When the child is also highly sensitive, it is particularly painful. The child who struggles with an invisible challenge faces the unintended (or, in some cases unfortunately, intended) cruelty of other kids who question their seeming lack of accomplishment in comparison to others their age. For these kids a strong sense of self and self-esteem is especially crucial.  It can also be particularly difficult as they often are already aware of how they are “different” from others.

As we strive to instill in our son a sense of pride and strength in himself and who he is, whether he is exactly like everyone else or not, to be strong about himself inside no matter what others may say and think, it remains a struggle as he is constantly reminded by OT, or vision therapy, or his own intense feelings, that he is not just like everyone else. To hear him cry, “Why wasn’t I just born normal” challenges all that I am as a person and a parent. To tell him he is normal, that everyone has something at some point in their lives that will challenge them but isn’t a problem for others isn’t terribly helpful when a kid has recently looked at him and scoffed, “How old are you? Really? And you are still learning how to swim?”  We can tell him repeatedly and forever how to just confidently look them in the eye and say, “Yup!” and feel good about it, but it doesn’t take away the hurt. It doesn’t help build his already  unsteady confidence.

He knows he has friends who don’t care. Who like him for who he is, not for what he has or hasn’t done. He knows we love him, support him and believe in his ability to accomplish whatever he decides he wants to do. He knows we have learned he gets there in his own time and in his own way and we respect that.  And we remind of the things he has accomplished that way.

It still doesn’t keep it from hurting.

As his mom, I hug, I reassure, I tell him how to be strong in his response. I help him find ways to deal with the sadness and frustration. I pray that the message of our love and his friends’ acceptance will ring stronger than the negativity in the world, and that in the end, he will find the strength of his uniqueness and discover the gifts that may still lie hidden within his challenges.

But it still doesn’t keep it from hurting. For him, or me.

  Peggy Lee

           It’s been here a while now, this existential crisis I’m experiencing.  It began as angst when my father died.  It was typical, in the face of death, with all the “what does it all mean?”, “What’s the point if in the end we all just die and the world goes on without you?”, that sort of stuff.

            But that angst hung around, finding a little foothold and growing roots. It sat there, tap-tap-tapping on my brain until it grew into a fairly large and annoying gremlin — a worry monster, is what call them for our son.

            Because, really — what is the point, exactly?  Not just the whole born-live-die and what we do with while we are here, but even bigger. What on earth (literally) are we doing on this planet?  Why are we here? And why does it matter?

            Are we any different than the ants who scurry through their assigned tasks be it soldier, forager, nurse, only to have an errant child’s foot, or car tire, or old age, bring it to an abrupt end? Are we any different from any other creature who has appeared on this planet, goes about its business, and when done, dies? 

            Yes, we are different in that we are gifted (burdened?) with the ability to ask “why?”  Aye, there’s the rub.

            Yeah, I know, I’m not the first one to go down this road — far better minds than I have already been there/done that. But to what end?

            Oddly enough just this week there was an interview with Stephen Hawking that essentially addresses the question, to a degree. I’m not certain it helps.

            Faith gives many all the answers they need. I’m not that fortunate.  While I have a sense of spirituality in my own way, it doesn’t answer the very real question, WHY ARE WE HERE?  Because you see, the answer would have a very direct affect on I put my time and energy into.  It would even have a direct affect on what we decided, therefore, is important for our son to learn, know, care about.  WHY ARE WE HERE?  If we are just an accident of evolution, like all species, what is our purpose here?

            When I lost my father and reached a day when I suddenly realized my thoughts had not been consumed by him, that I had begun to fall back into life’s routine — it terrified me.  What does that mean?  If life just goes on, almost as though he’d never been, then what is the point? (I know, it’s not exactly as though he’d never been, otherwise I wouldn’t be. My brother wouldn’t be).  But is that it, then? Because what of all his work? What all he created — novels, plays, poems, his directing — all he spend his life on? What does it matter now. What is the “why”?

            So beyond that, what of us all?  We are really just another species of mammal on the planet?  So what of  it?  WHY ARE WE HERE?  The  planet and all its life will continue on after each of us is gone in turn, so what is our purpose here –if it just goes on without us?  What difference does it (we) make? WHY ARE WE HERE?

            One day I will die and that will be it. Not being morose, just — real. That will be it…So?

            Elephants are here to…elephant.  Fish swim. Birds fly.

            None ask why.

            Maybe I shouldn’t either?

            Except I already have. I’ve screamed it in my head and gotten back only echoes.

            And I’m not looking for comfort.  I’m looking for reason.  Purpose.

            So?

            Is that all there is?

(okay, maybe a little comfort would hurt either.)

What never ceases to amaze me is how, when play is “allowed” as part of the process, the learning blossoms on its own, the discovery happens with — dare I say it — glee, and before I knew it, our work table was transformed (“Don’t come in yet, Mom, I’m not done!! I want to surprise you!” ) into a Captain’s Quarters complete with compass, map, magnifying glass, bell, log book and quill pen.

While I usually have a general goal, or destination, I’m not always sure precisely where our journey will take us, or what we will discover, but neither did the New World Explorers. However, with Captain William at the helm, I know it will be an adventure!

We don’t have a perfect pine in our woods, but we do have plenty of saplings, and bare branches and animals who call the woods their home. So we spent an afternoon rolling popcorn in peanut butter and honey, and cutting apples in half. And on a truly frigid afternoon, we tromped out to the woods to leave our offerings.

Within two days they were all gone. Squirrels, I suspect. But I also suspect we’ll do it again. When snow is on the ground and the deer and the raccoon and the birds…and the squirrels…are even more needful. And if we’re lucky, we’ll witness the dinner gathering. If not, that’s okay too. Because this is really about nature, caring, giving — and not just at this time of year, but all year long.

We marched along the trail to keep legs warm and blood flowing. I suggested we walk just a short way, then take a wooded pathway that looped back to our neighborhood. Not far in was a break in the thicket to our right. “Here’s our path” I said, heading down. But then we realized it wasn’t our usual path back, as that one had a big beaver stick pile to the right, and a log to step over that crosses a small bog. But this path would lead to that one, so we decided to go ahead and take it, connecting with the usual path on the left.

Suddenly, Chris (AB’s dad) exclaimed, “Holy cow, look at this!” Catching up we looked where he pointed on the ground to see a hug pile of fresh feathers. Long feathers, wing-edge feathers, fluffy, downy under belly feathers, all grey and white in a neat, circular pile. Clearly someone had been plucked clean for lunch.

We scanned overhead, but there was nothing. But clearly a hawk had been there recently, cleaned its lunch and flew off. AB examined the pile, picking out clean, smooth specimens to keep, contemplating how recently the kill happened, wondering if he might find any bones.

In the end, we connected with our original path with a handful of pigeon feathers for AB to show Grammy when we got home, and story to tell about a hawk, a pigeon, and the path in the woods.

Had we given in to the wind, we never would have found it. Had we turned back off the “accidental” path to find our usual one, we never would have found it. But pressing onward, continuing forward, embracing the wayward path — we discovered, we learned, we came home with a story to tell (and things to put under the microscope).

Life can tap you on the shoulder and whisper in your ear. We just have to pay attention.

The Labyrinth. What is it?

“A labyrinth is a series of concentric circles sharing a common centre. A path leads circuitously to the centre and back. This ancient imprint is found in religious traditions in various spiralling forms around the world. By walking the labyrinth, we are rediscovering a long-forgotten mystical tradition for tending the soul that transcends race, culture, language and time. It is based on sacred geometric principles.”

So says, Labyrinth Keys.  I’ve always wanted to create a walking labyrinth. In my yard, or on a huge canvas to put down on the ground. I love the idea of it. It’s winding pathways speak to me spiritually and really do seem to exude peace.  It is a path leading forward and back again, a winding, circular path in, and out — back to where you began.

As we move forward on our own path (and sometimes back) I look to open myself to the moments. What is needed now, at this moment. Because there is no other moment. I hope to see a new spirit in our learning. A new peace. Weaving breath into our lives, our home, ourselves as the New Year steps forward, and we to meet it.

Round and round and round. The old is new. Forward and back. In and out. I breathe.

Lately Action Boy has been waking feeling unwell. There are recurrent stomach issues that sometimes interfere with our day, delaying our beginning, sometimes waylaying altogether.  Recently this has been the case.  Today, there were only a few things I was hoping to accomplish, one of which was assembling his human body notebook and thereby wrapping up that unit study.  But our neighbor called. An extremely large hawk was hanging around the yard, boldly flying within arm’s reach from tree to tree. Unable to ignore that, we grabbed coats and shoes and located the bird on branch just near the wires in front of the tree across the street. Binoculars in hand we took a look. He was a beautiful red-tailed hawk, very large, perched on the branch of an oak tree.  I hesitated getting my camera, but finally ran in, happy my telephoto lens was attached (though still not powerful enough to capture what I wanted). 

We spent easily 15 minutes watching the bird scan the neighborhood for lunch. I mentioned several times that it was almost our lunch time and we hadn’t done anything yet, and the notebook was waiting on the living room floor. But the bird was hard to leave, and our boy wanted to watch.  I snapped a few more photos and then, sadly, the camera battery went dead. We were in a perfect position to capture a beautiful flight if he took off, but the camera was uncooperative.  At that moment, the hawk did take off – up behind the house across the street, to a branch just around the corner.

Again I mentioned our work. “This is science!” my son exclaimed. “I want to watch him.”  I returned my dead camera and argued with myself, my self-imposed schedule.  I sat on the fence. Though not really, because I led Action Boy across our street and up to a neighbor’s driveway where we could sit and look straight up at a red-tailed hawk close enough to see him looking down at us. Another  ten minutes passed. We slipped toward a half hour. I was cold (never did grab a coat), it was lunchtime…

But listen:

We stayed. We watched that hawk get dive-bombed by blue jays giving it fair warning. We watched it fluff feathers and shift on the branch. He turned around so as not to have his back toward the direction the blue jays had come from.  When he did so, we lost our good view, so we got up and headed down the street a bit so we could see his face. We were maybe twenty feet from the corner. Suddenly, the hawk stood and leaped from the branch – swooping down the middle of the street not much farther than an arms-length away and at shoulder height!  He sped past us and flew right into the bushes in front of our neighbor’s bush!  Shuffle! Rustle! Crunch!  But he emerged unsuccessful.

By now, we were at the corner, directly across the street from an immense red-tailed hawk that was standing in the middle or our neighbor’s front yard. He shook his head. He looked at us. He spread his wings and took to the air – directly toward us!   I held my breath. Action Boy had the binoculars on him so it looked 5 times as big to him. Had it kept going it would have hit me square in the chest. The bird came within — eight feet? – of us before banking sharply left and up to the branch we had first seen him on.

I exhaled. My son was laughing and whooping. I thought of my camera – the perfect in-flight shot missed – but in a split second it came clear. It didn’t’ matter. None of it did. The notebook would get done. If not today, tomorrow.  But the bird would not be here tomorrow. These moments would not be here tomorrow. And so, even the camera was irrelevant. I did not capture for eternity, but I was present for the moment. I was there for the happening. As was a now exuberant 8 year old.  And afterward, when he could breathe, he ran into the house, “Grammy! Grammy! Oh my god, you should have seen!”

Be here. Now. So say Buddha. Things are impermanent, transient.

Except the notebook. It will still be there. And it was. And it got done.

But we spent an hour with a red-tailed hawk. And each other.

It’s all good.

Many parents have experienced it in varying degrees, from the serious to the – well, I guess benign, but as a parent, it never really feels benign. Because any kind of different creates obstacles of some kind. What is more is that if it’s a difference not obvious to the outside world, or hard to understand,  it is often judged unfairly and/or misunderstood.  For me, I knew there was something different with our son from a very early age. Nothing dramatic. Nothing medically threatening.  Just – different. He didn’t completely behave like other babies.  He didn’t lie in a bassinet and coo at a mobile. He didn’t just lie down and drift to sleep.  As a toddler, he’d cower from other children running on the playground, yelling, “KID!” as though it was not his own kind. As if it were some alien force, an unknown/unknowable creature of nightmares.

For years I endured what I have now read countless others have endured – being told I was overprotective when he cried at sounds, strangers, movement. That I coddled.  Let him cry. Let him struggle.  Yet, in my gut, I knew they weren’t right.

It was years before instincts were validated. Only after stresses, crying, a 5 year old with symptoms of serious depression (“I wish I was never born. I wish I’d just disappear.”); only after reading and reading and reading and researching and googling behaviors and symptoms did Sensory Processing Disorder, Highly Sensitive Child and Anxiety finally put a name to it all.

Then what?

Then finding someone to confirm, to diagnose, to be sure. Then knowing, finally – yes, Sensory Processing Disorder. And a physiologically over-reactive nervous system.  No, he’s not like other kids.

Yup. It’s hard. And all kinds of things flood in: relief at finally having confirmation, years of instincts validated. Sadness that your child is anything other than the average kid. Guilt over feeling that because, the kid is so wonderfully awesome and bright and aware and lovely that nothing else ought to matter. But what now? Well – help. Help comes next. And there is help. There are therapies and work to be done. Some of it helps rewire the brain signals, some of it aids in compensation and learning how to be okay being different.

It’s a roller coaster for sure.  It feels lonely – for parent and child alike, though for different reasons. But, okay, we know how he’s different. We have a plan to help him with the obstacles it presents and even (hopefully) eliminate some of them.

And so I watch him as he intently creates something totally new and original out of Legos. I marvel as he rushes to change the channel when an ASPCA commercial comes on because it is too upsetting.  I smile as he runs to a neighbor washing his car on a hot day to offer him some lemonade.  And I think, “Okay, so he’s different. He needs (and we need) a little extra help, understanding, patience.” But, also, with that help, with nurturing, direction, cultivation and understanding, that ‘different’ can be outstanding.

It is always, always loved.

It can also be okay.

We didn’t go that route, realizing it wasn’t a good fit for our child, choosing homeschooling instead. Now, as I look back, I remember I never saw that girl at play. She was always controlled and well-behaved. But the phrase “little adult” suddenly jumped out at me. And I asked myself, is that even our goal?  A Little Adult? 

And my answer was a resounding, “No, it isn’t.”

I don’t want an 8 year old who is a little adult, super poised and controlled and speaks several languages fluently (well, languages would be cool).  I am much happier with what we have: a bright, curious, articulate, verbal child who asks perplexing questions, investigates everything but who also runs wild, is sometimes too loud and behaves (even when it is maddening) like a child.

He has plenty of time to be an adult.