No time for tea and sympathy
heading straight for the brink of sixteen
it’s been over a year, suddenly realizing,
since playing at some imagining.
How long it’s been since sticks and arrows
how long since paper planes
how long since flags and carboard houses
how long since spying games.
No time for books arranged in series, for
each year in between, growing up more
suddenly standing at the library door
finding the characters two years younger or more.
When I was your age we used video tapes
TVs were square and fat
We had to rewind after every viewing
You should see how long it took to do THAT
You'd say the video games were primitive
DVDs were strange and new
Cell phones didn't have all those neat gadgets
Kids your age who owned them were few
iPods hadn't shown up yet
But Furbies were all the rage
The cool kids played with Polly Pocket
Gameboy was a fave
Dear Homeschooling Friends,
The word "innocence" and the phrase "respect for innocence" have been in my thoughts during the last two weeks. In fact, they have been with me ever since I wrote innocence in as one of the inspirations for apricotpie on the about page. At first my thoughts turned toward what innocence does not mean to me. But later I began to hear it in a different way. This is how it is coming to me now:
Walking across the dust covered floor, uncovering old laughter in my mind, of the times we'd tried to keep things quiet. Do you remember the failure of our fluffy pillow covers, when we hoped not to make a sound? Trying not to wake our sleeping little brother in the next room? Those times, of happy hearts, joy, and ease? Light minds and new starts. We were truly free. Almost running everywhere we dared, without fear or any cares.
*I don't know what made me think of this today, but here's what came of it...*
It was green, I remember,
fields stretching long,
and bushes hunched together
It was stone, I remember,
statues, steps, path
grass growing through the cracks
and the pool full of our reflections
It was damp, I remember
on a cloudy day under sweeping trees
reaching high with rustling leaves,
and the little house in the shadows with cobwebby sills
I've always wanted to have a lot of kids. My mom courageously bore six of us, eight if you count the two that miscarried. I always try to remember them, too. Growing up with so many of us was like having my own little group of friends. That's not to say we didn't have real friends over. Hardly. But we grew up so emotionally close to each other that the need for outside friends was dampened.
because I was a child and didn't know any better.
My mother once let me take a sip of coffee in the sewing room.
The drapes were drawn, and I sat on her lap by the window.
She said it was what big people drank, and so I tried it,
The night, this cool and breezy night,
While in the vast unclouded sky
Stars stand lonely vigils, bright
The sea, the sea which rushes gently to the shore,
Reflects the starry light
Into the coral’s distant roar
The wind, this wind that softly stirs the trees,
Blows soundless ’cross the sand
On its journey o’re the seas
The sand, the sand which softly sinks beneath my feet,
Where do daydreams
go when they retire?
Do they nap upon my feet
waiting until I stumble over them
disguised as a russian spy,
a princess bride,
a heroine of yesterday?
Ageless and timeless
the dreams do not wither
but as of yet remain
chubby-cheeked and cheerful.
Whereas I – jaded and thin and tired –
upon the eve of the end of a dream
find that the accomplishment
It is amazing how our memories are so vivid when triggered by the sight of a forgotten treasure from our past. A long time has passed since I thought of my old bin of blocks. The sight of them jolts my mind; I am overwhelmed. As I pick up the toys strewn across my nephew’s bedroom, I find myself looking back……
For so long my life sang quietly, steadfast and sure
Seasons came and went, suns rose and set
Monday became Sunday and memories all blur
Only delight of the mind proceeded untoward
Now it seems my mind is still
Too full of things to learn yet more
And when I look outside myself I find
The world has changed and changed some more
Where are those blessed childhood days
Spent walking over sunny hills?
I loved it then and I love them still
But I no longer know where to find
The quiet path winding though the fields
I’m sitting outside in our driveway on an old beach chair while my four-year-old brother plays in his turtle sandbox. The sun is warm, but the air is decidedly March-like—crisp and cold; the chilly kind, that gets inside you—and I’m sitting here with a hood over my head wondering what on earth I’m doing out here and how Joseph can bear having nothing on his feet.