Cottage Blessings

An Old Woman of the Roads

Exactly two years ago, "An Old Woman of the Roads" by Padraic Column appeared as the first Cottage Blessings post. This is a poem I've always loved that touches upon the theme intended for this blog--gratitude for the simple blessings of home and family. It has become a custom of mine to repeat the poem every year--I hope you will love it as much as I do.

An Old Woman of the Roads
by Padraic Colum (1881-1972)

O, to have a little house!
To own the hearth and stool and all!
The heaped up sods upon the fire,
The pile of turf against the wall!

To have a clock with weights and chains
And pendulum swinging up and down!
A dresser filled with shining delph,
Speckled and white and blue and brown!

I could be busy all the day
Clearing and sweeping the hearth and floor,
And fixing on their shelf again
My white and blue and speckled store!

I could be quiet there at night
Beside the fire and by myself,
Sure of a bed and loath to leave
The ticking clock and the shining delph!

Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark
And roads where there's never a house nor bush,
And tired I am of bog and road,
And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!

And I am praying to God on high,
And I am praying Him night and day,
For a little house, a house of my own,
Out of the wind's and the rain's way

A Step Back in Time

The Roman city of Pompeii, suddenly decimated by the wrath of Mount Vesuvius, is, as you know, a perfectly preserved example of an Ancient Roman town. There to this day you will find uncracked eggs gathered in a bowl, a leashed dog curled in endless sleep, pots and pans left set to boil upon the fire--the precise and permanent picture of life as it was at a distinct moment in time.

This was exactly the way we found things here at home upon our return from San Francisco.

The truth is that I had done no preparation for our three month trip, hurling some clothes in a box to be shipped to our destination one or two days before leaving New York and that's about it. Upon our return, I was amazed to find the house exactly as we had left it, the perfect time capsule of our life back in May. A script from A Midsummer Night's Dream sat splayed on its spine; a Scrabble game in progress awaited a next move on the coffee table; a pitcher of pink peonies drooped forlornly on the mantle, the centerpiece from our almost forgotten Rhododendron Tea.

The Mary Garden outside, long neglected and left to nature, reminded me of Sleeping Beauty's Castle, the green things embracing Our Lady so that we could hardly find her. Full grown melons we had never planted huddled beneath the hostas, their vines and yellow blooms crocheted in a chain stitch throughout the unruly bed. Tomatoes sprang up mysteriously, the evidence of a child's afternoon snack all those months ago.

It was only yesterday--believe it or not--that I entered the learning room in the cottage for the first time, surprised to find scrap paper, books, blocks--all left in their places since May. I reached for a garbage bag, tossing the useless papers indiscriminately, when my eye fell upon a bright yellow sheet covered in numbers. It was Agnes' scrap paper from last year's foray into Algebra. Words were written on one side that made me laugh out loud--the "doodling" of a student whose mind was evidently more on Shakespeare and A Midsummer Night's Dream (not to mention escape!) than anything else.

Here is her simple [she's only changed a few words from the original], yet amusing, parody of Nick Bottom's speech to the "Wall" from Pyramus and Thisbe, the play within a play:

O grim-look'd math! O math with print so black!
O math, which ever art when play is not!
O math, O math! alack, alack, alack,
I fear my mother's promise is forgot!
And thou, O door, O sweet, O lovely door,
That stand'st between the smaller house and mine!
Thou door, O door, O sweet and lovely door,
Show me thy pane, to blink through with mine eyne!

Thanks, courteous door:
Jove shield thee well for this!
But what see I?
No recess do I see.
O wicked door, through whom I see no bliss!
Cursed be thy wood for thus deceiving me!

*******

I must admit to enjoying this visit to our lives as they were in May.

Still, I think it may be time for a bit of spring cleaning to bring us back into the present!

[This is the 500th Cottage Blessings post.]

For mothers, a poem worth considering

Any Woman

I am the pillars of the house;
The keystone of the arch am I.
Take me away, and roof and wall
Would fall to ruin me utterly.

I am the fire upon the hearth,
I am the light of the good sun,
I am the heat that warms the earth,
Which else were colder than a stone.

At me the children warm their hands;
I am their light of love alive.
Without me cold the hearthstone stands,
Nor could the precious children thrive.

I am the twist that holds together
The children in its sacred ring,
Their knot of love, from whose close tether
No lost child goes a-wandering.

I am the house from floor to roof,
I deck the walls, the board I spread;
I spin the curtains, warp and woof,
And shake the down to be their bed.

I am their wall against all danger,
Their door against the wind and snow,
Thou Whom a woman laid in a manger,
Take me not till the children grow!

--Katharine Tynan (1861-1931)

[My father's favorite poet, William Butler Yeats, advised Katharine Tynan to specialize in Irish Catholic poetry. I think he made the right call.]

From Cottage to Castle

After two Cottage Garden performances of A Midsummer Night's Dream, the children had the honor of presenting the show at a local Museum and formal Garden. As you will see from the photographs below, the setting was perfect for our frolicking fairies, with lush lawns, a glassy pool, and even a Greek Theatre.

Titania and her attendants were a page out of an Arthur Rackham fairy book:

Oberon, Titania, and Puck:

Sprinting Sprites:

Misunderstanding rages:

Hermia restrained:

Mischievous Puck and Hapless Bottom:

The cast at the Greek Theatre:

A Woodland Fairy:
[HT for this last lovely photo: MacBeth]
*******

My friend, Almamater, of the lovely blog, Soul of the Home, was kind enough to write:

Absolutely gorgeous! I hope you will offer more commentary on how all of this was organized...how often were rehearsals, how were roles assigned (auditions?), etc. A hearty congratulations to ALL involved with the production!

Many thanks for asking, Almamater! Here is the long version, told I fear, in about as many words as the unabridged play itself:

In late September of 2005, we collaborated with four or five families to put on a skit called "Comus." My friend Kari had read that this play is presented every year at Ludlow Castle on the Feast of St. Michael the Archangel and thought it would be a wonderful tradition to begin with our children. Kari wrote our version based on a fabulous picture book adapted from John Milton's original work by Margaret Hodges and illustrated by Trina Schart Hyman. Kari directed, MacBeth created the scenery, and I hosted the practices and performance. We called ourselves "The Front Lawn Players," with a humorous tip of the hat to my front lawn. Our oldest cast member was then about twelve. The skit, which took six weeks to prepare and perform, was so enjoyable and successful, that we planned to repeat it as a yearly event.

Then in the Summer of 2006, Kari suggested we try instead an adaptation of A Midsummer Night's Dream from the out of print book, Shakespeare for Young Players: from Tens to Teens by Gertrude Lerner Kerman. She assigned parts to the original Front Lawn Players without audition, expecting to prepare and perform in the same six week time frame as Comus. From start to finish, the play would have taken about twenty minutes to a half hour to complete. Puck was the central character in the abridged version, and my daughter Margaret, the perfect eight-year-old imp for the role, learned her lines in a day. This made Kari wonder if we might not be able to do a longer version, particularly when we realized that the play had not only been cut down in the abridgement, but also altered significantly in form and language. Who wants to perform Shakespeare that isn't really Shakespeare?

The other mothers and I were all for performing the full length version, but this changed matters significantly. We would not be able to work in the planned six week time frame, but would need the entire school year to practice and learn the parts. One or two cast members could not make the commitment and dropped out, but we managed to fill all the roles with children from our local homeschooling group. We met weekly at our house from October 2006 to the time of our performances in May, with all the mothers helping to bring the production together. Mary Smith and a group of the children designed and created the wonderful costumes. MacBeth and another contingent worked on the sets and program. Caroline, Mary Ellen, Tracey, Julie, Tricia, Patrice and Patty helped behind the scenes with everything from sewing and snacks to props and baby-holding. The talented Libby Derham, Ryan Barrett, and Sean Tuffy provided the music. It was an amazing collaboration and group effort with each person offering something unique and necessary.

In the end, we performed twice in the Cottage Garden and once in the gracious setting pictured above. Each and every time, the cast was applauded by a large and appreciative crowd. It was amazing to see these young children put heart, soul and effort into their performances. The cast lived and breathed Shakespeare for a year, and what an experience it was! [Does anyone remember six-year-old Marie's Spoons from last year?] From October to May, the children grew into their parts and soared, putting on a memorable and heartfelt performance defying their young ages (averaging about ten, with the roles of Puck and Nick Bottom pulled off by two nine-year-olds). The Museum was only too happy to host the final production, welcoming us with open arms and even sending a PR person to photograph.

I cannot stress enough what a delightful, edifying, and worthwhile project this was for all of us, and the children--already close friends--are as affectionate toward one another as cousins after this shared experience. Best of all, everyone in my house from thirteen to three is able to quote Shakespeare and quote it well. Maureen, our three year old, makes a plucky miniature Puck if ever there was one!

From now on, my prayer is that Springtime will always mean Shakespeare in the Garden!

Wise Men's Gifts, Plan C, or a Bit of Unexpected Poetry

It was getting late in the day when I asked Agnes to write the three letters to Jesus on behalf of our family for our Christmas and Epiphany Tea. I told her my vision for the project, rattling off the top of my head something akin to the sample I posted here yesterday. She said, "Sure, Mom," and returned 45 minutes later with these, each separate letter written in careful script with a line drawing of the individual Wise Man kneeling before the Infant to offer his gift.

Letter Number One:

Dear Jesus,

Melchior brought
His gift of gold
For he had legions
Of wealth untold.
But You were poor
And had nought but rags
And a stable to shut out the cold.

So do we give
The gold that we make
Away to the Church
For Your people's sake.
And with Your help,
May we not withhold
From those that You love
The least scrap of our Gold.

Letter Number Two:

Dear Jesus,

Caspar was wise
And he knew not to bring
A gift that was meant
For an earthly king.
He neither gave livestock,
Nor clothing, nor wine--
He gave you a gift
That was for the Divine.
May all that we offer--
Our thoughts and our prayers--
Rise to heaven like incense
For all of our years.
To Thee do we cry, Lord,
For You we are yearning--
May the incense we offer You
Never stop burning.

Letter Number Three:

Dear Jesus,

As Balthazar watched
A tear came to his eye--
How could he tell Mary
Her Son would soon die?
He knew of the sorrow
It would give to her.
He spoke not a word
Yet he offered You myrrh.

As, surrounding the manger,
We witness Your birth,
Let us offer our sorrow
As well as our mirth.
When You leave the world
It will be a great loss--
Perhaps, by our pains,
We can lighten Your cross.

Baby Jesus was not the only one to receive three gifts today.

An Old Woman of the Roads

If you visit the January 2006 Cottage Blessings archives and scroll down to January 1, 2006, you will find three faltering posts written on the blank slate of this brave new blogging world, so unfamiliar to me at the time. Padraic Colum assisted with the first one, lending his stirring poem, "An Old Woman of the Roads," to help me dip a toe into unchartered blogging waters. The other two entries featured photos of my husband's traditional New Year's Day Breakfast and our tower of cupcakes honoring Mary, Mother of God.

Just for fun, I would like to share three similar pieces here tonight, proving that, although these years are fleeting, there is comfort in their very constancy. Maybe that is the key to why we all love simplicity and tradition so much.

You will note that the "Old Woman" looks a bit better this year. Perhaps it is because she is relieved to have settled in our Cottage and is humming an ancient tune to herself by the fireside.

Or maybe it is just that a year later, I know how to work Typepad fonts:

An Old Woman of the Roads

by Padraic Colum (1881-1972)

O, to have a little house!
To own the hearth and stool and all!
The heaped up sods upon the fire,
The pile of turf against the wall!

To have a clock with weights and chains
And pendulum swinging up and down!
A dresser filled with shining delph,
Speckled and white and blue and brown!

I could be busy all the day
Clearing and sweeping the hearth and floor,
And fixing on their shelf again
My white and blue and speckled store!

I could be quiet there at night
Beside the fire and by myself,
Sure of a bed and loath to leave
The ticking clock and the shining delph!

Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark
And roads where there's never a house nor bush,
And tired I am of bog and road,
And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!

And I am praying to God on high,
And I am praying Him night and day,
For a little house, a house of my own,
Out of the wind's and the rain's way

Not to be missed

My dear friend Amy's poetry goes beyond the Haiku of a Homeschooler in this witty look at Advent Preparation: 'Twas the Night Before Advent.

And Amy, I can't thank you enough for including Cottage Blessings in your poem!

When the frost is on the punkin'

Please head out to the Cottage Garden to read Theresa's thoughts on the wonders of Autumn.

"Where I'm From" by Agnes, age 12

I am from the Linden House, from Hershey bars and Egg-Land's Best.
I am from the sprawling fields and the cottage I call home...
The steadfast lamp-post and the sound of whistling wind within the pines,
The smell of night that sets the stars in an endless sapphire dome.

I am from the Rhododendron and the rough-edged dandelion,
I am from barbecues and babies every year
From Neil and Alice (all of them) and Gunthers with O'Briens,
I am from "Living Books" and Little Flowers here.

From: "Someday, pick a man like Dad" and parents who would never fight.
I am from the Catholic church, the Easter Vigil masses.
(The "Exsulset" and "Lauda Sion" stun me with their glory,
I've heard them many times, and yet their beauty never passes.)

I'm from the Empire State, from Ireland and Germany's Black Forest,
Dad's eggs and tacos that it isn't Saturday without;
The murderous maneater lurking in the depths of Matawan Creek
(My grand-uncle nearly became his prey, but my great-grandfather heard his cry
and rescued him--his shirt became a compress for his wound.)

My grandfather whose marble grave is weighted down with stones
and photographs in Ziplock bags; the warm smile of my mother.
I am from the photo albums and from all our online "Blogs"
And all the places where we've been together with each other.

The pond where the blackbird's crimson wings flash in the evening light
And the goblin-like catfish come to eat from our hands
The candlelit procession through the streets on Mary's night
The turf near the 'Thunderpath' and the docks by the Crystal Beach

The bungalow in Barryville, the pageants at St. Paul's,
But mostly there's the Linden House, the place that I call home,
For I feel we've been there always, just my family and me,
And I'll return there when I have a family of my own.

HT: Lissa

The Feast of St. Joseph the Worker

A year or so ago, Agnes wrote a poem for my husband appropriate for today's feast. May God bless and keep all our husbands and fathers!

Protector of the Family

by Agnes (about age 11)

In different times and places do they stand,
Saint Joseph and the sturdy father who,
Works hard and long each day to feed his band,
Of merry little ones, their mother, too.
Yet none can name a difference between
Saint Joseph, and the man who at the door,
Is greeted by his wife and tiny son,
Such is the payment he has waited for!
Saint Joseph, please protect and bless this man,
Who shields us from the wicked things below,
Who, in his turn, protects his family,
Just as you did, so many years ago.

Alfred Hitchcock's Muse

returns to The Cottage Garden.

Living with Lewis Carroll

One of the things we love about Lewis Carroll is his knack for poetic parody. Agnes surprised me today with this Carroll-esque spoof of one of her favorite works by John Keats. Included first is the original Keats poem to highlight the humor in Agnes' tongue-in-cheek version.

Minnows
(an excerpt from "I stood tip-toe upon a little hill" by John Keats)

Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,
Staying their wavy bodies ’gainst the streams,
To taste the luxury of sunny beams
Temper’d with coolness. How they ever wrestle
With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle
Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand.
If you but scantily hold out the hand,
That very instant not one will remain;
But turn your eye, and they are there again.
The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,
And cool themselves among the em’rald tresses;
The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,
And moisture, that the bowery green may live . . . .

Workbooks
(by Agnes, age 12)

Where swarms of workbooks rear their ugly heads,
Shoving their papery thickness 'gainst our brains,
To feel the drudgery of printed plains
Temper'd with graphite. How they ever wrestle
With all our sanity, and ever nestle
Their bulk upon our desks (they weigh a ton).
If you but scantily think, "Oh, I'm done!"
You'll notice that more questions will remain;
Yet turn the page, and there they are again.
The workbooks seem right glad to bore and burden,
All for the sake--they say--to foster learnin';
The while they make us toil, they headaches give,
And suffering, that no free time may live . . . .

Our favorite Lewis Carroll parodies include How Doth the Little Crocodile, the madcap companion to How Doth the Little Busy Bee by Isaac Watts; Father William, a reinvention of Robert Southey's straitlaced The Old Man's Comforts and how he gained them; and Hiawatha's Photography, the side-splitting sequel to Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha. (In spite of the order of these links, it is actually far more amusing to visit the original works before the Lewis Carroll renditions.)

Internet Irritant

We have been having quite a bit of trouble with our internet connection, although the problem appears straightened out now. Sharing my recent frustration, Agnes wrote a poem gibing our "Buffalo" wireless access system:

Oh, what is with the internet?
The fiendish Buffalo,
Is playing tricks upon me now,
I know, I know, I know!
Now listen here, you vile felon,
I've got a blog to type,
I think the time to reconnect
Your tail is very ripe!

Oh, what is with the internet?
The Buffalo's at fault, I bet!

My little mouse must think it queer
To not be clicking links.
He questioningly squeaks at me,
The Buffalo just winks!
I calmly hit "refresh the page,"
But there is no refreshing,
The internet is knocked out cold,
The Buffalo's work, I'm guessing!

Oh, what is with the internet?
I'll get that little beastie yet!

Prayers from the Ark

Sunday's readings on Noah's Ark were a timely reminder to me that the Holy Spirit is always with us, even during trips to the library. Just the afternoon before, I had discovered two tattered and unassuming volumes of poetry tucked timidly beside works written by the likes of Robert Frost and John Keats. My first unexpected find was "The Creatures' Choir," translated by Rumer Godden from the original French of the obscure poet, Carmen Bernos de Gasztold. Originally published in booklet form by the Benedictine Abbey at Limon-par-Igny, France, this cluster of poems, presented from the point of view of the animals on Noah's Ark, was rediscovered by Godden, who determined to introduce the work to the English-speaking world.

Far from being sappy or sentimental, The Creatures' Choir" presents the animals' point of view in an authentic and often heart-rending way. Although I have never paused to consider how an animal might "feel," the poetry rings true at every turn. Each individual animal cries to our heavenly Creator with simple faith, confiding in Him its every affliction and aspiration--and oftentimes, the humblest of creatures have the most to say. Here are some examples:

The Toad

Lonely and ugly--
who hasn't a horror
of me, Lord?
Yet my song trills
of an unmalicious heart.
In the night that hides me,
I dedicate
the melancholy chant
of my unwholesomeness
to You, Lord.
Of Your mercy
graciously accept it,
and at last I shall learn
to bear my odium
with love.

Amen.

The Mole

I dig and dig,
looking
for life itself.
You have chosen darkness
for me, Lord,
and my tunnel
lengthens
in cavernous night.
Here and there,
a tiny hillock
shows above ground;
the rest
is buried in deep dark.
A hidden life,
Lord,
but not a poor one--
my velvet coat shows that.
In shadowy gloom
one can walk without presumption
and be perfectly safe--
but the sun
can turn one's head;
Lord, keep me from the vanities of the world,
and guide the strivings
of my little paws
so that they reach
some secret Paradise.

Amen.

The Ladybird

Dear God,
I belong to Our Lady, Your Mother.
That isn't hard to believe;
It's written in my name.
Oh! May my midget
thanksgiving,
the small circles of my flight
across the meadow,
gladden Her heart.
How I love each blade of Your grass!
I love to land there,
resting the happy whirr of my wings--
dotted with small black eyes.
Thank you for having made me
so that no one is afraid of me:
a little toy,
a penny toy,
a mite of comfort and laughter.

Amen.

Rumer Godden notes in the introduction that some of the poetry defied a proper translation. For example, the word "gnat" in French means both "gnat" and "color," so the double meaning intended by the poet is lost to an English speaking audience. Perusing these poems in French would make an excellent addition to our study of the French language.

"The Creatures' Choir," is a companion work to another separate volume, "Prayers from the Ark." My library carried a picture book version, translated by Rumer Godden and beautifully illustrated by Barry Moser. Once again, the poetry is tender and moving, although this time, a human voice cries out to Our Lord as well:

Noah's Prayer

Lord,
what a managerie!
Between Your downpour and these animal cries
one cannot hear oneself think!
The days are long,
Lord.
All this water makes my heart sink.
When will the ground cease to rock under my feet?
The days are long.
Master Raven has not come back.
Here is Your dove.
Will she find us a twig of hope?
The days are long,
Lord.
Guide Your Ark to safety,
some zenith of rest,
where we can escape at last
from this brute slavery.
The days are long,
Lord.
Lead me until I reach the shore of Your covenant.

While we have enjoyed this edition of "Prayers from the Ark" enormously, it only contains selected poems from the original, and I would love to get my hands on an unabridged version.

For more on Noah's Ark, take a look at Jan Brett's site for patterns to make a mural with your children. Needless to say, Jan Brett's lavishly illustrated version of the story is not to be missed. I also found a site with a fun online matching game, not to mention a wildly expensive, but well worth a glance page of heirloom Noah's Ark toys. These remind me of the handcarved Noah's Arks early American children were allowed to play with once a year on Christmas!

Several years ago, by the way, my husband surprised me for Mother's Day with Rien Poortvliet's gorgeous and glossy masterpiece, Noah's Ark. Each animal is presented in fine detail, making it a perfect book to pore over with young ones. Normally, because it is quite expensive, I would not recommend it for purchase, but it is currently marked down significantly.

Living Poetry--The Northwest Passage

We have always enjoyed Robert Lewis Stevenson's A Child's Garden of Verses, but years ago, I realized my young ones were listening to "The Northwest Passage" without half grasping its meaning. With evenings illuminated by electric lamps and a house warmed by central heat, my modern girls could not begin to imagine the eerie experience a simple trip up the stairs might have been for children of another age.

One twilight, we read the poem and waited expectantly--not switching on a single light--as darkness descended upon the house. Suddenly, "the sunless hours," barely noticed in the past, took on a measure of significance for them. The girls huddled close to me as the last rays of dusk died down and tittered with excitement as I lit one small candle. Shadows danced and glinted on the walls, and the windows mirrored back the lonesome light. We all stood up to look around, and for the first time noticed "our pictures painted as we pass, like pictures, on the window glass."

Moments later, I announced that it was time to walk upstairs to their room. Knowing it would enhance the experience for the others, seven-year-old Agnes pointedly objected to the notion of ascending the gloomy staircase with only the feeble candle to light our way. Her younger sisters cried out excitedly, "That's just how the child in the poem felt!" Holding hands and following the flickering candle, it was easy to see what Stevenson meant when he wrote that the jet-black night, "crawls in the corners, hiding from the light" and "moves with the moving flame." With each new step, we could plainly see, "the shadow of the balusters, the shadow of the lamp, the shadow of the child that goes to bed--all the wicked shadows coming, tramp, tramp, tramp, with the black night overhead."

Reaching the top landing, the girls could just make out the door to their room at the far end of the hall. Light escaped through the crack near the floor, and the intrepid older two could not resist running ahead to fling it open. To their surprise, I had left all the lights in that one room burning, so they would "come from out the cold and gloom into [their] warm and cheerful room" where they found a tray of milk and cookies waiting on the craft table.

Simple as it was, "The Northwest Passage" instantly rose in the ranks to one of their all-time favorite poems. Twelve year old Agnes passed by earlier as I typed the text of the poem for this post and beamed, "Remember the time we climbed the stairs with the candle?"

Indeed I do--and I am delighted that she does too!

*******
The Northwest Passage

I. Good Night

WHEN the bright lamp is carried in,
The sunless hours again begin;
O’er all without, in field and lane,
The haunted night returns again.

Now we behold the embers flee
About the firelit hearth; and see
Our pictures painted as we pass,
Like pictures, on the window-glass.

Must we to bed indeed? Well, then,
Let us arise and go like men,
And face with an undaunted tread
The long black passage up to bed.

Farewell, O brother, sister, sire!
O pleasant party round the fire!
The songs you sing, the tales you tell,
Till far to-morrow, fare ye well!

II. Shadow March

ALL round the house is the jet-black night;
It stares through the window-pane;
It crawls in the corners, hiding from the light,
And it moves with the moving flame.

Now my little heart goes a-beating like a drum,
With the breath of Bogie in my hair,
And all round the candle the crooked shadows come,
And go marching along up the stair.

The shadow of the balusters, the shadow of the lamp,
The shadow of the child that goes to bed—
All the wicked shadows coming, tramp, tramp, tramp,
With the black night overhead.

II. In Port

LAST, to the chamber where I lie
My fearful footsteps patter nigh,
And come from out the cold and gloom
Into my warm and cheerful room.

There, safe arrived, we turn about
To keep the coming shadows out,
And close the happy door at last
On all the perils that we past.

Then, when mamma goes by to bed,
She shall come in with tip-toe tread,
And see me lying warm and fast
And in the Land of Nod at last.

(From "A Child's Garden of Verses" by Robert Louis Stevenson)

"Yes, we have snow days . . . ."

I will be the gladdest thing
Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
and not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds
with quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
and the grass rise.

And when the lights begin to show
up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,
and then start down!

"Afternoon on a Hill" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Every now and then, a new acquaintance will discover that we home educate and make the natural observation, "Well, I guess the children don't get snow days then." I usually nod and assent, adding something expected like, "No, you're right, there really is no need for them." Yet, as often as this exchange has taken place, I have always felt a pang of guilt--the internal recognition that I am not being honest. To be truly candid, I would need to say, "Actually, the children have never missed a snow day in their lives. As a matter of fact, not only do they have snow days, but they also have crisp autumn sunrises, rainy afternoons, and glorious spring mornings. Sometimes a ray of sunshine peeking through a well-placed window pane is enough to set me packing a picnic and our journals to head for places known and unknown with my little troupe of companions. In fact, once the spring thaw hits, you would be hard pressed to find us home at all."

This surprising speech would, I am sure, raise eyebrows, but it would probably be met with sincere interest as well. My new friend would want to know how the children are to become educated with so many days spent outdoors, particularly unplanned days.

In our home, when things go well, education is a seamless part of everyday life. Books are read and discussed because they are on everyone's mind, poems are memorized because poetry is delightful, nature is studied because nature is intriguing, history is learned because history is engrossing, writing is practiced because writing is indispensable, and religion is embraced because Religion is everything. Learning cannot be contained in the four walls of our little learning room. If anything, it is nurtured and enhanced by the bracing effect of fresh air, the stimulation of a change of scenery, and the endless fascination afforded by God's natural world.

Sometimes, when one of my children returns rosy and breathless to tell me about something she's discovered during our visit to the seashore or a formal garden, my fancy turns to the beloved storybook character, Heidi, lingering in the brisk Alpine air, glorying in sunsets, and gathering blossoms in her skirt, always breathless to tell the Grandfather everything and seek his explanations. Was she learning more with the benevolent tutor in the rich house in Frankfurt? Some, I suppose, might think so.

I remember our beloved Pope, John Paul the Great. No one doubts that he was one of the greatest intellectuals of all time, yet, until illness imposed the indoors upon him, he remained an avid hiker, swimmer, skier, and sportsman. Some of the most moving pictures ever captured on film show our Pope, absorbed in his Rosary and hiking outdoors, his spang new white sneakers a perfect compliment to his spotless Papal robes. As a young priest determined to reach the hearts and minds of college students, Father Wojtyla's classroom was the rivers and fields and slopes of Poland, and he fashioned his ministry around kayaking, skiing, and woodland walks. This was a man who understood the human spirit, and his students never forgot him or his teaching.

Our learning room is a cozy place and many productive hours are spent there. Letters are learned and times tables mastered; projects are produced and folders are filled. Still, children need sunshine and showers and snow and slippery sidewalks. Providing this for them is one of the privileges and pleasures of home education.

The Lapping Water

"The undulating wood slopes down
to the rhythm of mountain streams.
To me this rhythm is revealing You,
the Primordial Word."

--Pope John Paul II (excerpt from "The Stream," found in "The Roman Triptych: Meditations")

Every once in a while, I need to remind myself that I should not be working on my children like a builder with a sanding tool, gruffly grinding back and forth with a will and an intensity, demanding an immediate and unvarying result. The alteration may come, but at what price? The original finish is stripped away leaving behind a surface rough and gritty with a dusting of unsightly powder. A buffing and a coat of varnish are needed just to restore some lustre and strength, and even that is contrived.

I would rather be like the gentle stream, trickling over the stones, forever following the path God set in place for it. With serenity and constancy and barely perceptible polishing, the stream leaves behind smooth pebbles where once were pitted rocks. Instead of lopping away the imperfections, the stream kisses them and makes them beautiful, tossing them about in the current until every edge is softened. The little stones in its care rub against each other, yet even this serves the stream in soothing and smoothing each and every one. After days and weeks and months and years, sleek pebbles may be found, silky to the touch, yet undeniably sturdy, and with a natural shine that reflects back the stream itself.

The builder unplugs his sanding tool and closes the door on his work at the end of a day, but the stream cannot stop for a moment . . . and neither can a Mother.

Missing Christmas

Agnes wrote this poem today:

The Christmas tree was taken down
At ten o'clock last night,
I'll miss its glowing ornaments,
I'll miss its radiant light.
The Wise Man that I bought for mom,
The little stable, too,
The pleasant little manger scene
I've grown accustomed to.
Gone are the days of my piano
Playing "We Three Kings,"
The pageants and the evergreen,
I'll miss these little things.
But God has given us a Son
To help us here on earth,
Our joy should not be any less
The month after His birth.
And though the ornaments are packed
We shall not shed a tear--
For Christ is still beside us now
To guide us through the year.

If I Had a Photograph of You

Well, they are leaving today after a month-long visit. The time has come, I suppose, but I will miss them terribly. I've gotten used to having them around, and the place will seem empty without their smiling faces. It was a big crowd to be sure, but far from wishing there weren't so many of them, I looked forward to each new arrival with enthusiasm. Besides, they haven't been a bit of trouble, and their presence among us only enhanced our family's Advent and Christmas season.

I am speaking, of course, about our stunning array of 2005 Christmas photos--sent from around the country by loving friends and family.

Even now I am smiling as I carefully remove each image from our two bulletin boards. We received close to one hundred family photos from friends and relatives this year, and I am amazed to consider the love and care needed to stage, snap, develop, write, address, stamp, and mail them all. For every single one of these cheerful images, there is a parent, usually Mom, working, often frantically, behind the scenes. Like me, she is in love with her children, and the best way she can possibly imagine of sending good cheer to others is by sharing those faces, the most beautiful faces in the world.

There are so many different families represented in our collection. Large families with infants teetering on the laps of siblings, small families with one beaming "pride and joy," new families with red-velvet-and-lace garbed "first" babies, happy families with smiling fathers and mothers, homeschooling families with miles of books warping the shelves, dog-loving families with Fido front and center, prosperous families with professional portraits in foil-lined envelopes, religious families with children surrounding the Nativity. Each one has a tale to tell.

As I gaze at one image after another, these stories flood my mind and lift my heart. (Try to imagine the pictures as I point out each one.) Here is the newborn infant of a friend who was told a back injury would make it impossible to carry a child to term. There is the gorgeous ten-year-old who survived Leukemia diagnosed before the age of two. This is the family who loves exotic vacations--I see Hawaii was this year's destination. Here is the nine-year-old girl whose married elder sister made her a very young aunt this year. Oh, and this lovely family of five has a humorous mother. Printed on the back of their photo is a frank confession: "It took 217 shots to get one halfway decent picture. Merry Christmas!" I cannot help chuckling to think of it.

There are sad stories too, hidden in some photos. I hope these pre-school boys do not know how very sick their mother is. Oh, and here are the children whose parents, college sweethearts, ended their marriage this year. The girls are smiling, but look at the younger one. She can't hide the sorrow in her eyes--I see it, I'm a mother. This blue-eyed baby in a cowboy costume lost his only brother this year, a precious ten year old who finally succumbed to a lifelong illness. Will the little guy even remember him, I wonder. And what about the families who should have had newborn infants gracing their photos this year? I cannot help but grieve thinking of the bitter loss of miscarriage. These families have felt the sting of tragedy, yet someone, again probably Mom, found within her the strength to send out not just Christmas cards, but photos. Someone rose above grief and disappointment to share with us her greatest treasures. These images are worth that much more because they are a testament to hope winning over despair.

Many of our pictures have another striking aspect as well. Look, here are the son and daughter of my childhood playmate. With over a thousand miles between us, I have never met these young ones in person, yet, I distinctly recall that very same little girl ringing my doorbell to invite me to play not so long ago. This pile of photos show my children's many beautiful cousins. Here and there, in those faces, I see glimpses of my husband's own large and happy family, the last of whom left the nest this year. What an astounding thing it is to see those faces and forms return to adorn a new generation.

Musing about family resemblance calls to mind these lines by Thomas Hardy:

I am the family face;
Flesh perishes, I live on,
Projecting trait and trace
Through time to times anon,
And leaping from place to place
Over oblivion.

The years-heired feature that can
In curve and voice and eye
Despise the human span
Of durance--that is I;
The eternal thing in man,
That heeds no call to die.

(Heredity)

These are thought provoking words, and yet Hardy misses the mark. The "family face," though beautiful and heart warming to behold in these young ones, is certainly not "[t]he eternal thing in man." The legacy we must leave our children is not blue eyes and straight teeth, for these things are passing away with all speed, no matter how many descendants we have. The mark of the "family face" must be left on the only thing that truly "heeds no call to die," their eternal souls.

According to the Catechism:

"In our own time, in a world often alien and even hostile to faith, believing families are of primary importance as centers of living, radiant faith. For this reason, the Second Vatican Council, using an ancient expression, calls the family the Ecclesia domestica [the Domestic Church]. It is in the bosom of the family that parents are 'by word and example . . . the first heralds of the faith with regard to their children.'" (CCC, Section 1656.)

I am deeply grateful that so many friends and family took the time to send a postcard from their Domestic Churches to us this Christmas. Our scrapbook will be as full as our hearts, and we will not forget to pray for these loved ones throughout the year.

An Epiphany

What can I give Him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;
Yet what I can give Him: give my heart.

From "In the Bleak Mid-Winter" by Christina Rossetti, 1872

***

Eleven-year-old Agnes was disappointed. Her absolutely perfect, couldn't-be-better, just-what-Mommy-needed, Christmas gift turned out to be something a bit different from what she had thought. Different, yet better, in my opinion, although it took me twelve days to understand why. I suppose I'd better backtrack a little.

Each year our family begins Advent by choosing secret Kris Kindles--individual family members for whom we pray throughout the month, shower with good deeds, and eventually surprise with a $5 token present on Christmas Eve. Secrecy in this is so vital that, this year, through a mutual agreement, we banned the use of affectionate notes. Too many perfectly good covert operations were blown last year by our instant recognition of one another's handwriting.

A few days before Christmas, I took the children for our long-anticipated yearly shopping trip. Armed with five dollars a piece, my little consumers did surprisingly well. It was not until Christmas Eve that I discovered exactly how well--a plastic bowling set for Patrick, a squishy frog and stickers for Theresa, a miniature snow scene for Marie, a porcelain angel for Agnes, and so much more--trinkets for each and every member of the family. These simple gifts were met with enthusiasm and delight with everyone talking at once about whether they had suspected all along, good deeds done in secret, near misses or slips of the tongue caught in time, and reasons for the selection of certain gifts.

After a while, only one gift remained to be opened. It was slightly larger than the rest and wrapped a bit more elegantly. Agnes lifted it gingerly from under the tree and presented it to me as if she would burst if I waited even another moment to open it. I told her honestly that I had not suspected a thing about her identity and tore open the wrapping to discover the beautiful figure of a single Wise Man. "It's the best one," Agnes explained before I could say a word, "the one who brings baby Jesus Gold. I knew you needed Wise Men for the Nativity Scene, and I hope you like this one!"

Indeed, my girl knew well what I would like and need. Our Nativity Scene is lovely, a small Hummel set begun for us by my parents a dozen or so Christmases ago. It contains a German looking Holy Family, with a beautiful Madonna and an Infant Jesus who reminds me strikingly of any one of my own little ones. A small trumpeting angel heralds the arrival of the Christ Child, while a serene lamb, obedient donkey, docile cow, and richly bedecked camel look on. Each figure is a work of art, and my parents spent over a decade generously adding to our lovely collection.

Alas, however, this particular collection was discontinued a while back, and we have had no new additions in some time. As it is, our set is lovely with the Holy Family surrounded by animals, but Agnes has always been bothered by that camel. Resplendent in rich cloth and finery, this is no ordinary stable brute settling down for its evening meal, but a noble animal meant to be ridden by kings. With a saddle and packs obscuring his single hump, he appears as if he only just arrived, and one cannot help but look about for his owner. Every year, at some point, Agnes would get around to observing this, vowing to save up for the Wise Men to complete the scene and explain the presence of that well-groomed camel. True to her word, this was the year for our camel to meet his master.

I was speechless and lifted the figure out of its box with care. Bits of shredded newspaper fell out, only to be taken up by the baby and tossed with about with glee. Our Wise Man, though not a Hummel, was certainly not out of place either. With his steel grey beard, royal blue fabric mache cloak, and sparkling golden crown, he looked indeed like the rider of our fine camel, and when placed next to the lonesome animal, he seemed made for just that.

Agnes could plainly see my delight and hurried to explain. It seems the Wise Man was on sale at our local Christmas store. Originally $15.95, this last piece to a sold out set was 50% off on the day of our shopping trip. He cost a bit more than our predetermined price limit of $5, but Agnes thought, for a gift so perfect, no one would mind her spending her own money to make up the difference. Best of all, she announced, he was the first Wise Man, bringing the gift of Gold to the newborn King. If we only could have one of the trio for now, this would be the best.

As eager as we were to introduce our gold laden visitor to the Holy Family, we placed the figure far away from our creche on the other side of the room. Baby Jesus, after all, had only just taken his place in the manger for Christmas Eve, and we knew our representative of the Magi would need to follow the Star to Bethlehem until the glorious Feast of the Epiphany. Agnes happily planned to move him a little each day, gradually helping him to reach this important goal. With his determined gaze and jeweled box, he reminded me a bit of Agnes herself, happy to have found just the right gift and very eager to see it opened.

That night, before bed, we tidied up the living room. Wrapping paper and boxes were everywhere in spite of the simplicity of the gifts. The cardboard box I had opened earlier laid sideways on the floor, more shredded newspaper protruding from its open lid. In spite of my mad dash to clear the room, I decided not to discard the box, hoping to use it to pack my treasure away safely during the long months before Christmas of 2006. Agnes was glad when I told her my intent to save it, and stopped for a moment to glance at it with me. In the store, with Mommy seeming to pop up around every corner, she had not had time to examine the box and had rushed her purchase directly to the register, begging the sales clerk to secret it in a bag right away. This was really the first chance she had had to read it and examine the pictures. The box showed an image of our now familiar royal blue and red figure, along with the other statues available in the set. "MELCHIOR," it said, as if quoting the Wise Man himself, "I CONSIDERED MANY THINGS: ROBES, FINE CLOTHING, EVEN LANDS FROM MY OWN KINGDOM, BUT NO GIFT SURPASSES GOLD, THE MOST PRECIOUS OF ALL METALS FITTING FOR THE KING OF KINGS." Oddly enough, however, this bold statement did not seem to go with the picture of our Wise Man. As we looked carefully, it became clear that our figure was matched with the statement, "CASPAR--I WILL BRING FRANKINCENSE, A RARE AND PRECIOUS INCENSE MADE FROM RESIN OF THE BOSWELLIA TREE. IT IS THE FINEST BURNING INCENSE IN THE WORLD, ONLY A FINE INCENSE FOR ONE WHO IS SENT BY GOD."

Reading over my shoulder, Agnes instantly had the same realization I had. Our Wise Man was not bringing Gold at all, but Frankincense. Right there in black and white Melchior had gloated that "NO GIFT SURPASSES GOLD," leaving our poor Caspar holding the consolation prize, Frankincense, destined to be consumed by fire. A cloud of disappointment drifted across Agnes' face, and I could read in her features a thought that the perfect gift was somehow diminished, along with the realization that nothing could be done about it now--our Caspar had been the sole survivor of an apparently successful clearance sale and could not be exchanged.

At that moment, I said what I could to make her understand how much I loved my particular Wise Man and would not have preferred his gold-giving companion. Besides, I reasoned, the figure of Caspar is better looking than Melchior, and he is standing in a way that is far better for leading our camel. She seemed comforted, if not entirely convinced, and, not being one to brood too long, she went upstairs to bed, looking almost as content as she had been before.

***

Caspar completed his trek today, and his quietly determined face seems satisfied to have reached the creche. Though not out of proportion, he towers a bit over gentle Joseph, looking every inch the worldly king, a bit out of place in a humble stable, yet more than willing to leave his usual splendid surroundings to greet the King of Kings. Having had Twelve Days of Christmas to reflect upon Agnes' thoughtfulness, I feel more certain than ever that our Wise Man, with his gift of Frankincense, was truly the *one* to have.

There are many symbols associated with the gifts of the Wise Men to our Blessed Lord. Gold, among other things, represents His everlasting kingship, and is always a symbol of Joy and Happiness. Frankincense symbolizes prayer rising up to God, constantly leaving the hearts of mankind to be placed before His holy throne. Myrrh represents sorrow, the death Our Savior willingly took upon Himself to redeem us and free us from the despair sin had introduced into the world. Each of these gifts is fitting and necessary in its own way. As Catholic Families, and particularly as Catholic Home Educating Families, we unite with the Wise Men in offering our gifts to the newborn King. At the foot of the manger we place our Golden moments of Joy, and at the foot of the cross we offer the bitter Myrrh of our struggles and sorrow. All the while, as we guide our children, our prayers of Thanksgiving, Petition, and Praise rise like Frankincense to Heaven, reminding ourselves and telling the Child Jesus that all we do, we do for Him.

Not long ago, my daughter Marie asked me to explain the meaning of her name. Most baby name books give the definition, "bitter," and this is indeed true, but I found one definition for my daughter's name that struck me in its beauty: "Mary: Incense rising up to God." Our Blessed Mother's life, like her name, was often bitter, yet it was an unceasing prayer as well. She was indeed a living incense rising up to God, constantly offering her joys and pain and never failing to unite herself with her beloved Son. So pleasing was this to Him, that her life of prayer and contemplation has become the perfect model for us.

This Epiphany, I am happy to have a figure of Caspar and his gift of Frankincense to remind me that our lives, like our Blessed Lady's, should be a constant prayer rising up to God, drawing ourselves and our families ever closer to that blessed Babe in the Manger.

My budding optimist

Today's best quote came from eleven-year-old Agnes. Moving closer to me on the couch as I played with baby Maureen, she sighed, "This is one of those days when you can't help feeling that 'All's right with the world.'"

Pippa's Song
by Robert Browning

The year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearl'd;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His heaven--
All's right with the world!

An Old Woman of the Roads

An Old Woman of the Roads
by Padraic Colum (1881-1972)

O, to have a little house!
To own the hearth and stool and all!
The heaped up sods upon the fire,
The pile of turf against the wall!

To have a clock with weights and chains
And pendulum swinging up and down!
A dresser filled with shining delph,
Speckled and white and blue and brown!

I could be busy all the day
Clearing and sweeping the hearth and floor,
And fixing on their shelf again
My white and blue and speckled store!

I could be quiet there at night
Beside the fire and by myself,
Sure of a bed and loath to leave
The ticking clock and the shining delph!

Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark
And roads where there's never a house nor bush,
And tired I am of bog and road,
And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!

And I am praying to God on high,
And I am praying Him night and day,
For a little house, a house of my own,
Out of the wind's and the rain's way