I was in town the other day and caught a piece of an Oprah Winfrey show, one in which Oprah and a currently popular financial consultant were helping couples look at their income, expenses, savings, debt load, etc. to determine whether they should, or should not, spend such and such amount on whatever it was they were wanting to do (remodel the kitchen, send a daughter to an expensive school, etc.). Watching their process was a useful educational tool for people in similar circumstances, so I was, in general, applauding Oprah for her knack of hitting the mark.

But then came the question from a young couple who were to be married in June. The bride wanted a fairly large wedding (200 or so guests) and was willing to spend the $20,000 that such an event can run. The groom was looking at something simpler – under a hundred guests, about $5,000. Looking at their finances, the experts concluded that this couple could afford the $5K, not the $20K, event, but that since there’s no such thing as a $5K wedding (even a simple, under a hundred, affair, they said, runs at least $20K), “you’d better elope.” Even when an audience member pointed out that the important thing was that these two people wanted to marry, not how fancy the wedding was, the pros stuck to their position. No wedding.

I was startled. I know that I am often out of touch with the price of things these days, but this one got to me. Has our culture really come so far down the cash intensive road that we have forgotten how to do weddings that don’t cost a fortune?

I was reminded of one of the most beautiful weddings I ever attended. I was 17, traveling with a bunch of other Quaker/Unitarian type kids thru Eastern Europe and what was then (1963) the Soviet Union. We were driving thru Rumania, under strict orders not to stop, but one of our two VW buses broke down, and we were stuck for several days in a small village. As it happened, we landed there on the day before a wedding, to which we were immediately invited. My memories of that event are by now somewhat romanticized, but the images are of an entire village full of happy, celebratory, people, wearing beautiful, ornate, hand embroidered, clothes. Music, dancing, food, and a lot of small rituals that were obviously meaningful to the people, and to the new bride and groom. I can guarantee that that wedding did not cost much money.

It did, however, cost. Who sewed and embroidered all those amazing clothes? Who prepared all that food? Who were the musicians and why did they play at that wedding?

Several years ago I had a chance to try it on myself. Our daughter, Lauren, who was by then living a mainstream life out in the real world, decided that she wanted to get married at Light Morning, on the same knoll, in fact, where several decades earlier, friends and neighbors had gathered to christen her. These were her people, the “village” that had raised her. And it was, indeed, the village that sprang into action.

Months before the wedding itself, these neighbors and friends joined us for a workday to get the main living room finished enough to be ready for such an event- ceiling, insulation, interior walls. Lilly ( Lauren’s beloved Grammiddy) started working with the bride to create the dress she was wanting. Folks volunteered to prepare favorite foods, bring bouquets of flowers. There was even a team to whom I would be turning over all the co-ordination and wedding planner responsibilities, so that I could become just the mother of the bride, and enjoy myself to the max.

The last few days before the wedding reminded me of the Arden Fair, an annual event in the intentional community where Robert and I grew up. The fair officially started at 10am, but the best hours were from dawn to 10, when everyone was out there banging nails, helping each other set up their booths, pulling together to prep for the event. The energy of the fair was born in those early hours.

And so it was with Lauren’s wedding. By the time the “just under a hundred” guests arrived and the ceremony itself began, the place was already awash in magic. People had been up early, hanging signs, setting up chairs, placing flowers, and, of course, preparing, cooking, and arranging platters of beautiful, tasty food – all in a collective effort to produce a special event for Lauren and her family. It was very clear that the wedding itself, while stunning in its beauty, was only part of the specialness of the day. It was this magic that was in Lauren’s teary, ecstatic hug, as she took me aside and excitedly exclaimed, “You know, Mom, something always goes wrong at weddings, but I think this one is perfect!”

And what was the bill? After reimbursing folks for their ingredients and other costs, paying for the pieces that did need actual cash (rental chairs, wedding cakes, minister, candles, more flowers, decorations, wine glasses, etc.), the bill came to just under $2,000.

Yes, the couple on Oprah can have a wedding! They can have a wedding that confirms the whole reason for weddings in the first place, to bring otherwise separate people together to become a collective, mutually supportive team. Let families come together, and neighborhoods, to stir up a particular sort of energy that we rarely get to experience anymore. How did we let this get lost? Can we get it back?

Given that our culture has gotten so accustomed to bought-not-made weddings, it might seem too daunting a challenge to try to engage the social vortex that creates the Arden Fair, or created Lauren’s wedding. But there are other ways to produce inexpensive weddings. I think that my favorite is still the wedding of two of our friends from Delaware, who invited their unsuspecting friends and family to what looked like a regular party and then, at about 11pm, whipped out a minister and said their vows. Voila!

There are ways, plenty of ways, to gather ones family and friends together to share in an important and meaningful ceremony. Be creative, let go of the pressures that make it expensive. Remember what’s important. Break whatever rules don’t make sense. Go for the magic. Have a great time. It’s your wedding.

*   *   *

You can view more photos from Lauren and Jeremy’s
Light Morning wedding here and here.

The Rivendell deck

We were just blessed with a lovely 12″ snowfall over the weekend. After 2-3 winters with occasional ice storms but almost no snow, it was delightful to awaken to a white landscape. Richard took off for Roanoke right after pancakes on Sunday and got stranded there until the back roads were plowed two days later. Ron tried to make it home Sunday night after delivering pizzas. But even with tire chains on, he only made it part way in before getting stuck in a snow drift and spending the night in his car. With a book to read, tapes to listen to, and the right attitude, he was fine. The next day a snow plow came in from the Roanoke County side. Ron, however, ended up driving back to Roanoke in order to replace a damaged tire chain. After waiting another night in town until the back roads were finally plowed, he made it home on Tuesday

Joyce and I had plans to travel to Richmond on Wednesday to see Lauren and Jeremy. It took me several hours on Monday to get the car free of ice and snow, get the chains on, and bull through the deep (but fortunately light) snow out to the mailboxes to await the snow plow.  While plying the snow shovel, and hoping that Ron and/or Richard would make it home before we left, the phrase came to mind, “Keep the home fires burning.” We were keeping the home fires burning for them, while they were away, and then they’d keep the fires burning while we were in Richmond.

Suddenly, while shoveling, I realized just how figuratively I’d always taken that phrase. Keep the home fires burning. Keep things nice; keep it feeling homey. But in our self-chosen lifestyle the words have a fiercely literal relevance. Keep the home fires burning, so the canned goods don’t freeze and break. Keep the home fires burning, so the house plants won’t die. Keep the home fires burning, so the expensive battery bank that holds our solar electric won’t be ruined. If you have central heating, you just set the thermostat and that keeps the home fires burning. But as you transition toward a more subsistence lifestyle, your heat comes from the woodshed rather than an oil tank. And so you depend on friends and fellow community members to “keep the home fires burning.”

Richard got home on Wednesday shortly after we left for Richmond. He emailed us that afternoon, saying, “I made it home no problem. I’ll keep an eye on the cold frames and make sure the Rowe room stays warm. Have a good visit with Lauren.  Be well, Richard.”  The subject line of his email was, “I’ll keep the homefires burning…”

The Fifth Letter (June 1989)

The outward growing edges that I shared in the last letter, while important, are not truly radical. To be “radical” one would have to explore the “roots” of a problem. And my concerns about food, transportation, and waste are more like twigs and branches. There is an obvious and intimate relationship between the roots and the branches of a tree. Yet the entire tree may be cut down, and if the roots are left intact they will send up a surge of new sprouts to take its place.

In trying to feel my way into the roots of the predicament that we, as a species, seem to have created for ourselves, I find myself in the presence of an unsettling mystery. The mystery has to do with fundamental questions about my ability (or rather inability) to trust. Some of these questions were unexpectedly presented to me during my first exposure to bioregionalism.

In August of 1986, I traveled to Lake Michigan to attend the second North American Bioregional Congress. This was unusual, as I hadn’t attended any kind of conference or workshop for over l0 years. A practical, rational, familiar voice thought that going to NABC II was a crazy idea. “There’s no money to pay for it,” said the voice,”no way of getting there, and no real interest in any of the specifics that are going to be presented.”

But something kept nudging me, gently insisting that I go. So I went.

Arriving at dusk, I pitch my tent in the woods near the shore of the lake, where I can hear the waves. I go to sleep still not knowing why I have come, but feeling good about being here.

Just before dawn, however, I am seized by a oddly terrifying dream.

In the dream, I am in a small room. It is dimly lit by some sort of candelabra or tin candle that is hanging from the ceiling. I am extremely apprehensive. Suddenly I realize that all the shifting shapes, the patterns of light and darkness, are my own shadow. This realization so terrifies me that I throw up, and then awaken myself from the dream.

The dream is so disturbing that I go down to the lake to meditate on it for a few minutes before the Congress gets under way. Immediately, from somewhere deep inside, comes the words, “You are trying to control your life because you don’t trust it.” Then comes the awareness that I likewise try to control the Earth because I don’t trust it. And those who are close to the Earth, to life, I also mistrust and attempt to control: indigenous peoples, women, children. Here lies the roots of racism, sexism, and other forms of repression.

Taking out a piece of paper, I quickly scribble down the words that had come. But instead of writing, “You are trying to control your life because you don’t trust it,” I inadvertently write, “You are trying to control your life because you don’t trust ‘in’.” The Freudian slip shows me that when I don’t trust life, and therefore seek to control it, then I will also mistrust and attempt to control my own “innerness,” even while seeming to honor it through such practices as dream-work and meditation.

What this challenging insight suggests is that the hidden fear and control of the inner by one who meditates is comparable to the subliminal racism or sexism of one who overtly supports, for example, the struggles of women and minorities while unconsciously clinging to the very set of core beliefs and attitudes that perpetuate this repression. Or like someone whose admirable bioregional efforts may serve to mask an unrecognized but crippling mistrust of the Earth that he or she is trying to save.

But who is it that doesn’t trust life, that doesn’t trust the Earth? This is the thorny, unsettling question that I have been wrestling with in the months and years that have passed since these insights were received on the shores of Lake Michigan. My body trusts. Other creatures—snakes and squirrels and baby skunks–they trust. As a young child I trusted.

Yet some more recent facet of myself (call it the ego, the personality, the surface self) has come to believe that the Earth isn’t a safe place. That it can’t be trusted. How can that be?! Why did we set aside our childhood acquiescence to life, our easy acceptance of grace, when the web-work, the seamless robe within which the many know themselves to be One, is so present, so apparent, such a given?

Not that I feel as though I have “fallen” from grace. Or sinned. Or made some terrible mistake. Or foolishly lost or maliciously repudiated it. Rather that, for some deeply mysterious reason, I have stepped outside of that grace; have pretended to ignore it; have come to deny the Oneness, the beauty, the numinosity.
The consequences of this creative denial are terrible to contemplate, let alone experience—our repression of women, children and indigenous peoples; our exploitation of other species; our compulsive consumption; the mistrust of dreams and impulses and emotions; the stifling of breath and sexuality; the gut-wrenching fear of the unknown.

From these same roots of mistrust and alienation, however, there may yet grow a noble tree. Somehow, not despite the mistrust and the alienation but because of it, there may yet come a deeper trust; a reconciliation with those whom we have feared and abused; a restoration of grace; an awakening.

For children pass through the awkward and turbulent stresses of adolescence. And clusters of green grapes ripen only slowly on the vine. It would be misleading, therefore, to judge the sweetness of the fruit, or the temper of the child, if that judgment were to be made prematurely. Even so, it may be premature to judge the species.

In the growing faith that this may be so, I would wish that each of us might find the strength and the patience, the sense of wonder and the sense of adventure, the sense of humor, that will be needed as this new story of what it means to be human takes root within and among us. And I would hold the prayer that, as a proving ground for this slowly gestating story, we might each use our families and friends, our bioregions, and our daily lives.

The Fourth Letter (April 1989)

As we near the end of this seminar, and prompted by Joyce’s dream, I want to share some of my growing edges as I try to bring the bioregional question more clearly into focus in my daily life. What follows are some of the outer or lifestyle concerns. Next month I’ll attempt to touch the inner challenges.

Transportation We have no car. Pay a friend mileage for occasional use. A well-rooted dependency here, despite the awareness of high financial and environmental cost. We keep asking, “Is this trip really necessary?” Deeper needs and issues are clearly at work just below the surface–freedom, mobility, independence. A car can easily serve as a surrogate for these underlying needs.

Fuel We heat with wood and use photovoltaics for electricity, trying to lessen our contribution to high-power lines, acid rain and nuclear waste. Yet smoke from wood stoves can be a significant pollutant, and all the new DC gadgetry can sure be alluring. Current challenges include keeping a rein on how many amps we “need”; burning only dry, well-aged wood; improving our insulation; and incorporating more passive solar technology as a heat source.

Entertainment We seldom make the long trip to town and have no TV. The alternatives are rich and traditional, yet slow to develop–storytelling, dream-sharing, the almost lost art of conversation, massage, homemade music, visiting neighbors.

Income We try to minimize our need for income, thereby lessening our dependence on the cash economy. This enables us to turn more directly to one another and to the Earth for our needs. Learning to simplify, and to generate a small but adequate income at home, is what we’re currently working toward.

Parenting A strenuous and illuminating struggle. Constantly wrestling with the tendency to try to control my children in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. Direct parallels to the repression of women, minorities, third world countries, Gaia herself. It goes deeper than exploitation. A hidden, archetypal fear of intimacy, of spontaneity. Strange how what I most deeply fear is what I most deeply desire. Children bring the challenge home.

Waste We have no indoor plumbing, but haven’t yet converted our outhouses to solar composters. Likewise, we turn our kitchen waste into compost, and do some other recycling, but need to do more. The county landfill is filling up, and the alternatives aren’t appealing. Composting is a marvelous dream or sacrament–an outward and visible sign of an inward and interpersonal process. How do we transmute our mental and emotional excrement into nutrients?

Education As Lauren approaches traditional school age, the question of home schooling looms large. Many of the values, objectives and root assumptions of public education feel deeply inappropriate, given the world in which she’s going to be living. Yet the time, energy, clarity, empathy and consistency needed for home education is daunting. Underneath all the problems, however, I sense a wonderful opportunity.

Health This one gets scary at times, as when difficult decisions to forego immunizations or medical insurance come up against a case of whooping cough or the appearance of a breast lump. Basically (and while trying to claim the dream), we mistrust orthodox medicine’s divorce of the human body from the human heart and soul, and its subsequent pre-occupation with the treatment of symptoms. Exploring the healing virtues of local plants, adopting a healthy lifestyle, and learning to listen to the quiet wisdom of the body as it speaks through our dreams and intuitions, offers an indigenous, if not anxiety-free alternative.

Food Our community diet is vegetarian. We grow close to 50% of the food we consume. The desire to make our diet even more indigenous comes from health considerations; from the ethical uneasiness of being tied to modern agricultural practices; and from wanting a more direct connection with the Earth. The resistance comes from the appalling amount of time and energy it takes to grow one’s own food; from our conditioned appetites; and from our misuse of food as a surrogate for affection. Living in community makes these issues more complex, but the goal more attainable.

Time to plant some carrots and potatoes. Warm spring greetings to you all.

The Third Letter (February 1989)

Joyce had a strong dream last night. I had stayed up late, searching for a focus for this letter, and went to bed asking for help from my dreams. In the morning I awoke disappointed. Nothing. But then Joyce, who had no conscious awareness either of my searching or my asking, who hadn’t even known that I was working on this letter, shared a surprisingly powerful dream. It’s as though, in some uncanny way, her dream came in response to my own unspoken need.

In the dream she is attending a workshop on environmental issues. Many of the people attending this workshop are railing against the government or the corporations for their unresponsiveness to the critical problems facing the planet. Joyce is moved to say, with great emotion, that we have no right to demand radical changes from those “out there” when we ourselves are unwilling to effect comparable changes in our personal lives.

“The changes that we must turn to first are personal,” she emphasizes. “And they’re going to have to be radical.”

She then uses herself as an example of radical personal change, briefly recounting some of the alterations in her own lifestyle over the past 15 years—giving up electricity, running water and television; drastically reducing her level of income; learning to rely upon home health care, home education, and home-grown food; exchanging her personal car for a community vehicle…

Her intent isn’t to brag or to set up her lifestyle as a model or pattern, for each person’s circumstances are unique. It is her intent to be brash and abrasive. She concludes by actively challenging everyone to examine their own lives; to see if they are asking the same sacrifices of themselves that they are asking of Dow Chemical or the House of Representatives.

“Does your desire for change,” she asks,”run deeper than the mere willingness to recycle aluminum cans or send $25 to the Sierra Club? That’s a worthy goal for some, but not for us. We must become willing to consider inconvenient, even impossible changes; changes sufficiently radical to disrupt and transform our personal lifestyles!”

What strikes me this morning, upon hearing her dream, is its sharp contrast to waking life. Joyce doesn’t enjoy speaking before groups and only rarely gets riled. “Brash” and “abrasive” are two of the last words I’d choose to describe her. Yet in the dream she was outspoken and provocative, seized by a sudden and compelling realization of the magnitude of the impending changes.

Joyce takes the dream figuratively, as representing various portions of herself. As such, she finds it somewhat threatening. “Even in the dream,” she tells me, “I understood that although a person may have made a radical shift, a further octave is being called for. It’s an ongoing process. No one can afford to become complacent.”

While agreeing with her assessment of the dream as being largely symbolic and personal, I also feel that it came in answer to my own asking from the night before, and therefore take this opportunity to share it with you. The crocuses and daffodils in our front yard join me in wishing everyone an enjoyable and transformative spring.

The Second Letter (December 1988)

Hello again. I enjoyed spending time with the first set of responses to Tom’s essay. Quite a return on investment–to send out one letter and get 23 back! Thanks, Stan, for your initiative and your efforts. This is a wonderful opportunity.

I was moved by everyone’s clear concern for the Earth and encouraged by the diversity of viewpoints. Perhaps of most interest were the scattered expressions of the need for a new story. Some were implied; others direct. I felt J. Linn Mackey, for example, speaking my mind when he asked, “What are humans? Where do we belong in the scheme of things, and what is our role?” And then going on to say, “Some deep and informing vision of our new planetary and even cosmic role seems essential…”

Frank Traina likewise struck a responsive chord with his exploration of various windows through which we might choose to view humanity: as a “planetary cancer rapidly metastasizing”; or as “one of many ‘mistakes’ of nature–an experiment that failed”; or as an experiment that is as yet unfinished, and one that is potentially “so beautiful and different that a very high price must be paid for it.”

These kinds of questions and choices, this search for a new story, is highly significant given that how we see ourselves as a species greatly shapes how we see ourselves as individuals. And how we see ourselves as individuals (our self-image) profoundly affects not only how we see and therefore relate to others–other people, other sexes, other cultures, other races, other species–but also how we define the limits of what is possible for us to do and to be.

Tom has likewise spoken to the need for a new story. The one he has chosen (i.e., the emergence of exploitative anthropocentrism and the transition to a participatory biocentrism) is the foundation upon which the edifice of bioregionalism seems to be built. Some of those responding to Tom’s essay can easily accept this foundation. For them, Tom is “preaching to the choir”. Their main focus is on how to spread the message and/or how to implement this version of the new story in a practical way; how to actualize the bioregional vision.

Others, myself included, want to step back a moment and consider the adequacy of the foundation; its “carrying capacity.” I would like, for example, to ask Tom some of the same questions I keep asking myself.

First, is our sense of estrangement from the Earth and from our local bioregions the cause of our other problems, both personal and collective, or are these many problems (including our alienation from the Earth and its bioregions) symptomatic of a deeper, more fundamental alienation?

Second, when did this separation from our biological and planetary matrix occur? Assuming that in an earlier time our species was more intimate with the Earth–its needs and gifts and seasons–how and why did we lose this precious intimacy? Was it due (as you suggest, Tom) to the development of our “scientific and technological skills”? Was this the forbidden fruit whereof we ate, causing us to be cast out of the “Garden”?

If so, then who (figuratively speaking) is to blame for our predicament? The weak “man” who succumbed to temptation? Or the seductive “woman” who offered the fruit? Or the subtle “serpent” who planted the seed? Or the inscrutable “god” who placed the subtle serpent, the seductive woman, the weak man, and the irresistible tree within the Garden and then demanded an impossible abstinence?

Finally, and growing inevitably out of the earlier questions, is the bioregional goal of “re-inhabiting the Earth” essentially a call to repentance for having eaten of the Tree of Knowledge, so that we may return to the Garden and restore our lost Edenic intimacy with the Earth? Or was the “fall” from grace, from biological and bioregional integrity, from an easy and innocent attunement with our fellow creatures, in some mysterious and disturbing way a necessary alienation? Does it perhaps serve some deeper, more inscrutable, not-yet-fully-realized purpose? And if so, what might this purpose be?

What story, myth, or metaphor, in other words, might help us remain open and responsive to the rising planetary tide of suffering and despair without indulging in self-recrimination; without yearning for a return to an earlier era of innocence and simplicity; without throwing the “baby” out with the bath water?

My gut feeling says that a growing, practical bioregional and biocentric vision and lifestyle is crucially needed in these times. It also says to be careful not to build such a vision and lifestyle on certain old and tenacious assumptions that may no longer be relevant or viable. And it says that bioregional awareness is but one beautiful theme being chanted around the evening fire, under the stars, in a circle of storytellers. Thank you all again, and especially Tom, for sharing your stories.

Introduction

The following five letters were contributed to a Bioregional Seminar that was conducted by way of correspondence. Fifteen to twenty people from across the country, most of whom had attended the second North American Bioregional Congress in Michigan in the summer of 1986, participated. The focus of the Seminar was an essay by Thomas Berry, a prominent spokesperson for the bioregional movement.

In the first letter we each introduced ourselves and responded to Tom’s essay. In the succeeding letters we were free to develop our own ideas and/or to respond to Tom or to any of the other participants. I imagine that all of us felt enriched by the exchange of letters. It was a wonderful opportunity to learn both from one another and from the process of trying to articulate our own beliefs and feelings.

The First Letter
(November 1988)

Greetings from the northern borders of Katuah, where the headwaters of the Roanoke River, which runs east to the Atlantic Ocean, meet those of the much older New River, which flows north to the Ohio and then south to the Gulf of Mexico. We’ve been here about 15 years—”we” being a small, intentional community, currently comprised of 6 adults and 2 children, not to mention a number of households “down the road”, plus innumerable more scattered through the county, plus all the deer, turkey, bobcats, copperheads, chipmunks, oaks and maples that were here long before we arrived.

I met Jim Berry in the summer of 1986. He gave me a ride to Lake Michigan, where we attended NABC II. (Thanks again, Jim, both for the ride and for the notice about this seminar.) As a further introduction, and also in response to Tom’s lucid essay, I’d like to share several recurring questions or concerns or growing edges pertaining to the theme of bioregions.

First–What story or metaphor offers the most creative insights into why humanity appears to be so suicidally obsessed with the desecration of Gaia? Many stories, old and new, have been proposed. Choose one we must, consciously or otherwise. Our choice will have a profound effect upon how gracefully we respond to the seemingly insurmountable problems and opportunities that confront us as a species.

Second–To what extent am I willing to wrestle with the direct connections between my personal lifestyle and the exploitation of the Earth? Where does my food come from, when I trace the various items of my diet back to their source? Where does my bodily and household “waste” go? What is the true environmental cost of the electricity I use, the car I drive? Does my participation in the current economy (the specific ways in which I earn and spend my money) feel comfortable to me, even under close scrutiny?

Third–Is it possible to divorce the health of my body from the health of the Earth, or to work toward the well-being of one while ignoring the needs of the other? Learning to listen to the bioregions of my body, and to respond to their needs, is a constant challenge. Rising to this challenge deepens my ability to listen and respond to my wife, my daughter, my friends, my garden, and, ultimately, to all the other creatures and species with whom I share these ridges and valleys.

And finally–How willing am I to use my immediate environment (my body, my community, and my daily life) as a crucible or proving ground, within which radically new patterns of belief and behavior may emerge? This close-to-home, down-to-earth work, these humble and humbling attempts to stretch into a greater measure of empathy and integrity, seem to me to be the inescapable prelude to any truly meaningful involvement in the wider arena of my bioregion.

So these are a few of the underlying questions that have been awakened by my exposure to the ideas of Tom and Jim Berry, by my participation in NABC II, and by my experiences in this ever-so-slowly evolving Katuah lifestyle. I’m hopeful that we’ll be able to explore at least some of them together during this seminar.

A New Beginning

Welcome to Light Morning’s newly re-designed web site. The first version went on line in 2001, courtesy of Microsoft FrontPage. With FrontPage now cranky and obsolete, and with a more flexible WordPress platform now available, it’s time for a change.

What’s New in ‘09?

The graphic design has evolved, and will continue to be tweaked. The site navigation system has been improved. Random Insights and Images have been added. Our photo albums have been updated and moved to Flickr. (See the Photos page for the link.) The Visiting and Interning pages have both been revised. And given the sophistication of spammers these days, our Contact page now sports a formal contact form, rather than the more innocent listing of our email address.

The biggest change, however, is the transformation of our Journal into a blog. For three years, from the spring of 2001 through the winter of 2003, we published dozens of articles exploring the physical, social, and transformational facets of this lifestyle. Those Journal articles are still here; they’re still relevant; and they’re easily found. (Use the Categories menu, the Search bar, and/or the Site Map, all to the upper right side of the Journal~Blog pages.)

WordPress allows us to easily resume posting both current and archival stories about our life at Light Morning. It doesn’t magically gift us with the time needed to write and/or edit these stories. But it does make the process of posting them close to effortless, which greatly increases the likelihood that they will be posted.

We Welcome Your Participation

WordPress also introduces a wonderful opportunity for dialogue. We therefore encourage your comments on any of the posts you find here, both past and present. We’d love to hear from you! Click the small “Add Your Comment” link at the top of any post, or, if you’ve already opened the post on its own page, scroll down to the bottom of the page. (With another nod to the spamming industry, you’ll have to log in and be approved the first time you post a comment. It’s quick and easy.)

And if you’d like to offer stories about your own experiences at Light Morning, or your own growing edges as they relate to Light Morning, please do so. Just let us know and we’ll tweak the WordPress settings to facilitate your sharings in this Journal.

Just as the graphic design of Light Morning’s new web site will continue to evolve, so will our understanding of how to enhance its potential to promote dialogue. This evolution will no doubt be bumpy and erratic at times, so we ask for your patience and welcome your participation. We hope you enjoy your time here, and look forward to seeing some of you in the lovely Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia.

A Navigational Postscript

The standard blog format is to list posts in chronological order from the newest to the oldest. This works well when you want to scan through the recent posts and can find them right at the top of a sometimes long list. If, however, the posts are part of a series, you come upon them in reverse order.

Somewhere below the post you’re now reading, for example, you’ll find the fifth and final post in a series called “A Bioregional Seminar”. If you want to read this series (or any other series) in the sequence in which it was written (1-2-3-4-5 rather than 5-4-3-2-1) you can click on the navigation link for that particular series and it will automatically sort them into a more readable order.

These navigation links can be found in two places: in the highlighted line of text close to the top of each post that is part of a series; and in the main navigation bar (on the upper right side of all the Journal~Blog pages) under the section called Journal Categories (Series).

You can try out this navigational sleight-of-hand any time you come upon a post that is part of a series.

~ Lauren’s Childhood at Light Morning ~

Part Ten: Earrings, Bicycles, and Power Bracelets
(continued)

Growing up

Autumn 1993 (continued)

Space (Monday, 15 November 1993) “Dad, can we–”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I don’t need to know. It’s been one thing after another, nickel-and-dime stuff, for the past hour. I’ve had a long day. Except for meals, this is the first time I’ve stopped moving since I got up this morning. I need some space to just sit here and do nothing for a few minutes.”

“O.K. O.K. You don’t have to be so grumpy.”

Lauren’s right, but I’m in no mood to say so. I’m feeling the truth of one of our most popular calligraphic pieces, “Sometimes being around small children is like being nibbled to death by ducks.”

My respite lasts about 30 seconds. Then my daughter bounces into the chair beside me, magazine in hand.

“Hey, Dad, look at–”

“Arrrghhh,” I shout. “I said I needed space. Space, space, space!!!”

Lauren sulks over to another corner of the room, gets out some paper and markers, and immerses herself in drawing.

Ten minutes later, having recovered at least some semblance of equilibrium, I walk over to make amends.

“What are you working on?” I ask.

“Space, space, space!!!” she exclaims without looking up. “Can’t you see I’m busy? I need some space!”

I can’t help but laugh. The mimicry is perfect. She holds up this “poor-me” drawing and then smiles her forgiveness.

“Let’s see if we can find something fun to do together,” I say.

She stashes away her art equipment and immediately comes up with a list of about six ways of having fun together.

Reflections (Sunday, 28 November 1993) “Mom, what color eyes do I have?” Lauren’s been studying herself in the mirror for quite a while.

“I’d say you have greenish-brown eyes,” Joyce says.

A long silence, with Lauren still in front of the mirror.

Then, “Mom, which color eyes do you think are the most penetrating?”

Joyce barely manages to suppress a smile, wondering what Lauren’s been reading recently.

“I think you have lovely eyes,” she says.

Lauren nods, looks pensive for a moment, and then goes back to studying her reflection in the mirror.

Kung Fu (Friday, 3 December 1993) “Why don’t you tell me about Kung Fu,” I ask Lauren, as we sit in front of a tape recorder. “Pretend that your Grandpas and Grandmas and your aunts and uncles don’t know anything about Kung Fu and you’re going to describe it for them.”

“O.K. Kung Fu is really cool. It has lots of awesome kicks and lots of cool stuff. It’s a martial art.”

“Describe a typical Friday when you go over for your class?”

“Laurel and Leia and Myra and Claire and I are in the class, besides Diane–she’s our teacher. Before the class starts, we’re hanging around waiting for everyone to arrive. Or sometimes we go and play in Laurel’s room. Then when we start the class we all sit down in a circle and Diane asks us, ‘How are you?’ and, ‘How’s your day been?’

“Then we stand up and do our posts. We put our arms out in front of us and we pretend like we’re looking at a post in the middle of the circle. We put our left foot forward and then our right foot forward. Then we sit down and do breath of life.”

“What’s breath of life?”

(Covering the microphone with her hand and whispering:) “Are you going to make me explain everything?”

“Yes, because…”

(With great exasperation:) “Dad, there’s everything in Kung Fu! It’ll take ages! All right, it’s like Dad’s going to make me explain everything, so you probably want to skip over this part.

“Anyways… Are you going to make me explain everything?”

“Yes, because…”

“Even if I forget some of it?”

(Laughing:) “I can’t ask you to explain something you forget. But, you see, no one knows what breath of life is.”

“How do you know Andrew doesn’t?”

“Well, [my brother] Andrew might, because he does Karate. But other people might not know what breath of life is.”

(Further exasperation:) “All right. Fine. Breath of life is something where we sit down and breathe in through our nose and out through our mouth for a couple of minutes. And while we’re breathing we think about the center of our body. Then we do our hand exercises and other exercises and then we start our walk. That’s where we do kicks and spins and stuff like that. Of course, we have to bow before that.

“And Diane lets us teach different things sometimes. We do one of our moves and then the others bow to us one at a time, and do the same move we did. (You bow to honor your opponent.) After our walks and our flows–where we can do any moves we want–she tells us stories and we do our posts again and that’s it.”

Lauren could, of course, have gone on a greater length, but the above gives a feel for one of her current passions. It’s fun to watch her practice her flows and kicks and spins down the middle of the living room in the community shelter, soon after we’ve finished a meal. She’s getting good, and loves it. Can’t wait until next Friday’s lesson.

Beatitude (Sunday, 12 December 1993) We went over to Doug and Stan’s for dinner last night. This morning, seemingly out of the blue, Lauren says to Joyce, “I’m really blessed to live in this neighborhood. Everybody’s so different. And I get along so well with everybody. I get a taste of everything.”

(One of my favorite photos)

The Pearl (Wednesday, 15 December 1993) A week or so ago, Adam was eating a bowl of home-made oyster stew over at Misty Mountain, where he’s living now, and nearly broke a tooth on a small pearl. When he told us about it, Lauren was intrigued. She wanted to know how big and what color it was, how pearls are formed, and whether they’re found in creatures other than oysters.

So when Adam arrives for Tuesday night meeting, he gives Lauren a small package. She is delighted, upon opening it, to find the small pearl.

Joyce and I glance at each other and smile. Both of us are struck by how curiously appropriate Adam’s present is, given the circumstances of the past two years and the slow transmutation of that trauma into grace. Truly a pearl of great price. And how exquisitely we out-picture the rich tapestry of our inner lives into something as mundane as an oyster stew.

Lauren’s Reading List (Thursday, 16 December 1993) Joyce awakens before dawn today to find Lauren in bed, reading by flashlight. This inspires me to draw up a list of the books Lauren’s read this year. So I ask her for help in compiling the list.

“You want kind of long books, right?” she says. “Not kid’s books?”

I nod.

She disappears into her room and comes out a short while later with an armful. Encyclopedia Brown and the Case of the Disgusting Sneakers (“the first long book I read from beginning to end”) is there. So is a Radio Shack comic book called “Whiz Kids,” which we picked up free at a fair last summer. Also several of the 60-page illustrated comics we got for her: Robinson Crusoe, The Prince and the Pauper, and The Time Machine.

Then there’s a collection of her current favorites-volumes 1 and 2 of The Baby-Sitters Club by Ann Martin (Kristy’s Great Idea and Claudia and the Phantom Phone Calls) and volumes 1 through 6 of Sweet Valley Twins by Francine Pascal (Best Friends, Teacher’s Pet, The Haunted House, Choosing Sides, Sneaking Out, and The New Girl).

“What about Alice in Wonderland?” I ask. “Weren’t you reading that not too long ago?”

“Yeah, but I still have another chapter to go on it.”

“What books are you reading now?” I inquire, knowing to use the plural. Lauren loves to be working on numerous books simultaneously, switching back and forth between them as the mood strikes her. And sure enough, she rattles off another half dozen titles.

The Best Five Minutes of My Life (Sunday, 19 December 1993) We’ve come down to our house after supper. I spontaneously suggest a round of massage: Lauren and I to rub Joyce for five minutes, then Lauren and Joyce to rub me, then Joyce and I to rub Lauren. The suggestion is met with quizzical looks, followed by nods of assent.

Fifteen minutes later, Lauren is lying contentedly on the floor, the lingering touch of her parents’ hands on her head and back and feet. She lets out a long, slow sigh of contentment.

“This,” she murmurs, “has been the best five minutes of my life.”

[A year goes by before I pick up my journal again, and then only for a final few entries. In December 1994, my journaling, and therefore The Lofty Chronicles, draw to a close.]

The Power Bracelet (Thursday, 1 December 1994) I’m working upstairs in the loft, cutting calligraphy mats. There’s a knock at the front door. It’s Sage.

“Hey Lauren, how ya doin’?”

“Great.”

“I hear you got a Power Bracelet!”

“Yeah.”

“Will you help me get it?”

“Sure.”

Then there’s mostly silence for a while, broken only by the soft drift of electronic music wafting up the stairs. Occasionally I catch a phrase or two.

Sage is apparently telling Lauren about his previous evening: “I played and played and played practically without stopping.”

Lauren: “Go back into the forest where that treasure chest place is.”

Sage: “I’ve got 37 pieces of Magic Powder.”

For those without ready access to 8- or 10-year-olds, the above conversation may sound obscure. Two weeks ago I would have been equally puzzled. But that was before the arrival of Game Boy. Now the small, portable, Nintendo-like electronic game is my daughter’s almost constant companion. It’s impressive to see just how absorbing it is.

The silence downstairs is broken by Lauren’s excited exclamation. “Holy moly! Awesome!”

“What did you guys find?” I call down.

“Nothing.”

A pause, followed by a polite elaboration. “A fairy place.”

“A what?”

Patiently: “A place where there are fairies.”

More silence. These games are well designed. Lauren’s not completely obsessive. She lays down the Game Boy to eat meals and, surprisingly, to read. But for now, at least while the tide of novelty is running strong, she’s devoting quite a few hours a day to exploring this electronic labyrinth.

The two players downstairs have reached the Game Boy version of Terra Incognita.

“I’m someplace I’ve never been before,” Lauren murmurs.

To which Sage rather plaintively replies, “Where’s Seashell Mansion?”

Starting Over (Saturday, 3 December 1994) We’re down at our house, hustling to get ready to leave for a day in Blacksburg–lunch with a friend, library research on real estate law in the afternoon, folk dancing in the evening. Lauren’s been reading up to the last minute. Now she’s frantically trying to get dressed.

“I can’t find any sweat shirts anywhere,” she moans, trying on various clothing combinations in front of the mirror.

“If you hadn’t waited until the last minute,” says Joyce, who’s trying to back off a headache. And they get into a brief squabble about procrastination and appropriate attire.

Then, after a few moments of silence, comes the turn-around.

Lauren looks over at Joyce. “Can we start the day over?”

Joyce smiles. “Sure.”

“Hi, mom.”

“Hi, kid.”

Lauren finishes dressing and we move into our day, the clothing issue having evaporated as quickly as it arose. The issue’s never the issue, I marvel to myself, except when we get stuck in it. Then, until we’re able to extricate ourselves, there’s nothing but the issue.

Girl Talk (Wednesday, 21 December 1994) Without going into inappropriate details, I’ll simply report that as Lauren wends her way toward adolescence, she and Joyce have been developing an important rapport. Lovely strands of sisterhood and friendship weaving into the mother-daughter tapestry. Long talks about bodies and boys.

Occasionally, walking into a roomful of sudden silence and conspiratorial smiles, I realize that I’ve intruded into some of their “girl talk.” Lauren’s lucky (whatever that may mean) to have such a fine mom.

Epilogue

Lauren and Joyce

Lauren and Joyce celebrating Lauren’s graduation
(summa cum laude) from our local community college
with a degree in communications design in May 2005.

~ Lauren’s Childhood at Light Morning ~

Part Ten: Earrings, Bicycles, and Power Bracelets

The road goes ever on and on... (by Lauren)

Autumn 1993

I Hate Home Schooling (Friday, 15 October 1993) Doro’s car pulls in the driveway shortly before supper this evening. Lauren gets out, thanks Doro for the ride back from Kung Fu practice, and says good-bye to Claire and Bryan, Claire’s 10-year-old brother. Doro is turning the car around and heading home when I come out of the community shelter to see how Kung Fu has gone.

“I hate home schooling!” are Lauren’s first words.

I’m startled, never having heard her express that feeling before.

“How so?”

“Bryan was teasing me about math on the way home. Asking me questions like, ‘What’s 9 times 7?’ or ‘What’s 12 times 8?’ I don’t know those big numbers yet! He was showing off and making me feel stupid.”

“That wasn’t very nice.”

Then, feeling my way cautiously, I add, “Hasn’t mom been nudging you to learn the rest of your multiplication tables?”

“Yeah. But that stuff’s boring.”

I nod my agreement.

“Look,” I say. “Why don’t you and I practice the multiplication tables secretly. Then when you’ve learned them, you can surprise Joyce. And the next time Bryan tries to tease you about them, you can surprise the heck out of him, too.”

Lauren’s eyes light up.

“That would be fun. When can we start?”

“We’ll start tonight. You can help me grind grain after supper and we’ll practice where no one can hear us. And after you’ve learned the first half of the times tables, through the 6’s, I’ll buy you something special, like some noodles or soups that you like, as a prize. And when you get all the way through the 12’s…”

“I want to learn the 13’s, too!”

“When you get through the 13’s, then, you’ll get another reward.”

“O.K. We’ll start tonight. But don’t tell mom. This is going to be a surprise.”

[As a footnote to this rare and transparent resort to bribery, I recently bumped into an article from U.S. News and World Report, entitled "Tarnished Trophies," and pointing out the risks of using rewards as motivation.]

Wedding Cake (Saturday, 16 October 1993) We’re celebrating Adam’s birthday here tonight. Alice has brought along the birthday cake, which is delicious. Lauren loves it. Savoring her last bite, she sighs, “This is a great cake. When I get married, I’m going to have a cake just like this for my wedding.”

Baby Shower (Monday, 18 October 1993) Lauren attended her first baby shower yesterday. Ron’s brother, Curtis, and his wife, Lisa, are expecting their first child in November. There was added cause for celebration because Lisa’s first pregnancy, last year, had to be terminated when the child’s skull didn’t develop properly. Everything’s looking fine this time.

In prior years, Lauren hasn’t been old enough to accompany Joyce to a Blessing Way, which is a more ritualistic and Native American-inspired version of the baby shower. Lisa, however, grew up in Copper Hill. She came out of the traditional “old-timer” culture, rather than the alternative “newcomer” culture which Curtis represents. So it was appropriate that Lisa’s celebration be a baby shower rather than a Blessing Way.

When the invitation arrived in the mail several weeks ago, Lauren was thrilled to see that it was addressed to “Marlene, Joyce and Lauren.” I could almost see Lauren’s self-image shifting as she studied the envelope–one of those subtle, transitional moments in a child’s life, like losing the first baby tooth or spending the first night away from home. The invitation told Lauren that she had been accepted into the special circle of Lisa’s “women friends.”

This honor, I must add, didn’t prevent Lauren from being herself at the shower. After the presents had been opened, and the womanly talk had turned to stories of babies and birthings, Lauren slipped outside to join Curtis, Peter and Sage (the exiled males) for a rousing game of two-on-two basketball. It was perhaps the high point of her afternoon.

Yet Lisa’s gesture, and the celebration of the impending birth, clearly touched Lauren, for upon coming home yesterday, she made a lovely pencil sketch which beautifully captures Lisa’s shy, maternal excitement. After finishing the drawing, Lauren found a mat and a frame for it, wrapped it up, and delivered it to Lisa this afternoon.

Mothers (Tuesday, 19 October 1993) Lauren is prepping for Lisa’s baby shower. Part of the ritual calls for each woman to share her mother-line with the circle of other women. Lauren is practicing.

“I’m Lauren. Daughter of Joyce. Daughter of Lilly. Daughter of Dana. Daughter of…”

She hesitates.

“Daughter of Mellie,” I prompt.

“Daughter of Mellie. Daughter of…”

Another pause. Then, with what I swear is a straight face, “Can you get me to Eve?”

Multiplication by Moonlight (Wednesday, 20 October 1993) Lauren and I are walking down to the house sometime after supper. It’s already dark, but a bright moon lights our path. We’re walking slowly, practicing the multiplication tables as we go.

“What’s 5 times 9?” I ask.

“45.”

“What’s 6 times 9?”

There’s a pause while Lauren searches her memory.

“Remember the nine trick,” I say. “When you multiply something by nine, the digits of the answer have to add up to nine.”

“54.”

“Right. How about 2 times 9?”

“18.”

We pause on the little slope between the garden shed and the vineyard, both of us knowing we’ll have to stop when we reach the house, because Joyce is there and we don’t want to spoil the surprise.

So we lie down on the grass, looking up at the moon and the stars and the light clouds overhead.

“What’s 4 times 13?”

Another pause.

“That’s your deck of cards trick,” I remind her.

“Oh yeah. 13 cards and 4 suits makes 52 cards in the deck. 4 times 13 is 52.”

“Good. How about 3 times 13?”

The lesson drifts on, both of us savoring this classroom of the moment, practicing multiplication by moonlight.

“Snakes in the Cave” (Friday, 22 October 1993) Lauren awakens this morning with a powerful dream and tapes it for me to transcribe. Yesterday she was sitting on my lap while reading me a story. The dream seems to be speaking to several related themes–Lauren’s approaching puberty; Oedipal issues; and the ongoing healing from her and Myra’s involvement with Adam the summer before last. My transcription follows.

“I’m sitting on Daddy’s lap in this cave thing. And there are lots of snakes and everything. Sage and Chris and Myra are there, too. We’re looking around and Chris puts his foot into a little puddle. It seems like it has scum on it. Then the scum clears away and you can see a copperhead.

“So he takes his foot back out of the puddle.

“Then I look up and there’s this snake that looks like it’s going to bite Daddy or me. And it’s like black with green and orange, and I think yellow stripes. It’s disgusting looking. It’s huge. There are millions of other snakes in there. It’s weird.

“There are some snakes in the way of where we’d normally get out. So we have to jump over them. It seems like a mining place where they have a horse stall. There’s a beam with boards across it and a doorway without a door, like the horse stall down at Alysia’s.

“So we jump onto the beam and hang on. And there are lots of rats. Then we jump across again and get out. I’m scared. Very scared.”

The Spanish Impulse (Wednesday, 27 October 1993) Roger and Tarcila joined us for pancakes a couple of Sundays ago. Roger’s a carpenter, specializing in restoring church steeples. He’s been in New York for several months, but prices were high and work scarce, so he’s giving Virginia a try.

Tarcila is Chilean. She and Roger met in Tarcila’s home town in southern Chile a number of years ago. They have lived there since, with periodic job-related journeys to the States.

Tarcila and Lauren hit it off right away. Tarcila’s learning English; Lauren decided she wanted to learn Spanish. Soon they had paper and pencil in hand and were huddled on the couch, teaching each other phrases and making word lists.

Tarcila’s been back several times since her first visit. She and Lauren are continuing their language work/play. Tom, who also knows Spanish, got some material out of the library and bought a Berlitz Spanish tape for Lauren. Joyce and I ordered something similar from one of the home schooling catalogues. The tapes are well done, geared to kids, with lots of catchy songs and music.

This has been a good exercise in home education. We had been weighing various language options for Lauren–French (Joyce and I both studied it in school, but it has little, if any, use in daily life); Esperanto (we have an audio cassette course for it, and there’s the family background, but it’s even more esoteric than French); and Spanish (which makes more sense, given this country’s demographic trends, but toward which I’ve had a curious prejudice).

Following the principle of child-led learning, and taking advantage of Lauren’s impulse and of the present opportunity, it appears that Spanish has been chosen. In a way, it’s better that all three of us will be starting from the beginning. It levels the playing field. And now I’ll have the chance to explore my subtle prejudice.

Two Worlds (Wednesday, 3 November 1993) Lauren awakens this morning with an understanding about the world of dreams. It is there as soon as she comes out of sleep. She shares it almost immediately with Joyce and then, over lunch, with the rest of us.

“As soon as I woke up I knew that there are two worlds. And that dreams are just covering up the other world, or only letting you see part of it.”

“You mean while you’re sleeping,” we ask, “that dreams are covering up the other world?”

“Yeah, that’s the other world. And dreams are only showing you pieces of it.”

“Do you know which it is? Are dreams covering up the other world or just showing you pieces of it?”

“I think sometimes they’re covering it up and sometimes they’re just showing me pieces. And sometimes dreams are like postcards from that other world.”

Lauren, Rose and Shara at Kindra's birth

Earrings (Tuesday, 9 November 1993) Today’s the big day, the long-awaited day, the day toward which Lauren has been counting down for the past six weeks. No, it’s not Christmas or her birthday, the two red-letter days on a child’s internal calendar. But almost as special. Today Lauren’s newly pierced ears become fully functional.

Her resolve had ripened sometime in September.

“Dad, I want to get my ears pierced. Mom says it’s O.K. with her. Is it O.K. with you?”

“Are you ready for it,” I ask, remembering her earlier ambivalence.

“Yes!”

“Go for it, then.”

With a little assistance, she calls around Roanoke and finds someplace that will do the deed. (“Ears pierced free with the purchase of three sets of earrings!”) On our next town trip, she and Joyce go into the store and enact one of those classic mother/daughter coming-of-age rituals.

“It didn’t hurt too much,” Lauren reports. “They used one of those ear-piercing guns. [Whatever happened to ice cubes and bloody needles?]. There was a little crunching noise and then it was done. The lady said I did real well. She said sometimes the girls scream and holler.”

Lauren grins and shows me the two tiny gold studs that will keep the holes in her ear lobes open; the three pairs of earrings she purchased; and the little bottle of disinfectant that she’ll be swabbing on the wounds morning and night for the next six weeks.

Those weeks had dragged by with agonizing slowness. Lauren did the obligatory swabbing religiously, with barely a reminder needed. She also took a meticulous inventory of Joyce’s earring collection. (“Mom, will I be able to borrow this pair? Or this pair? How ’bout these?”) But mostly she kept an eye on the calendar.

Now, at last, the magical day has arrived. We’re in Arden, visiting family and friends. At the very crack of dawn, out come the studs and on go a new pair of earrings. (“How do they look, Dad? Do you like them?”) Her poor ears get quite a workout their first day on the job, with Lauren trying on and changing earrings a couple of dozen times at least.

To top it off, we visit Peg and Lew (my aunt and uncle) after supper. Lew just “happens” to make earrings. Bringing out a small collection, he tells Lauren she can choose a pair as a present. She eventually narrows the field down to two, but is unable to go any further.

“I’d like this pair as the present,” she tells Lew. “Thank you! And could I buy this other pair?”

Lew very graciously, and with a twinkle in his eyes, agrees. Lauren leaves beaming, with sparkling silver dangling from her suddenly grown-up ears.

I Keep Pinching Myself (Wednesday, 10 November 1993) Here’s a short story about complementary impulses. We’ve driven north to visit family and friends and also to peddle some calligraphy. Our new marketing strategy (all 5×7 size, a smaller display box, wholesale price just under $100, direct sale only, and focusing on metaphysical bookstores) has been wildly successful. Just about every storekeeper than has seen the calligraphy has wanted it. By the time we get to the next store on our list, on the outskirts of Philadelphia, only two of the eight displays we brought with us remain unsold.

This particular store, however, is closed and won’t open up for another two hours. By then we are hoping to have a good start on our long drive home.

“Come on,” I say to Lauren, who is standing in front of the closed store with me, gazing wistfully at the selection of used children’s books. “Let’s hit the road.”

So we re-trace our steps to the van. But as we pass one of the other shops on the street, Lauren suddenly says, “Let’s try to sell a display here.”

I glance at the store. It’s a tiny gift shop. Pleasant, but with no hint of anything metaphysical, or even unorthodox.

“No way,” I say to myself. And to Lauren, “Why not?”

After all, if I’m wanting her learn to trust her impulses, here’s an opportunity. So we walk into the store and I lay out my line to the lady behind the counter.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I can’t afford to buy anything more until after the first of the year. But I might be interested then.”

I explain that we’re from out of town and are only passing through. Like gypsies, I muse, selling crafts from door to door, with our gypsy wagon van parked outside.

“Do you have any with you?” she asks. “I’d at least like to look at them to see if I want to order some in January.”

I go out to the gypsy wagon, get a display, and bring it in.

She browses through it, stopping to chuckle or to nod appreciatively at various pieces, asks about prices, and then reaches under the counter for her checkbook. A moment later we’re back on the street, Lauren clutching a check for $98 and grinning broadly.

“See?!” she exults. “I told you that would be a good store to stop at.”

“You sure got that one right,” I agree, slowly realizing that the niche for our calligraphy may be bigger than I had thought.

An hour later, heading south toward home, we pass Swarthmore, where I grew up.

“Let’s get sub sandwiches for lunch,” I say, impulsively turning down Chester Road.

We park the van by the train station in downtown Swarthmore and order the subs. Lauren and Joyce humor my nostalgia as I reminisce about riding the train to Philly on rainy Saturday afternoons to play pinball in the 30th Street station, or putting pennies on the railroad tracks to be squashed into flat copper discs, or carrying my bike down the stairs of the underpass and then up the other side.

Remembering how central a bicycle had been during my early teen years, I re-affirm my intention to get Lauren a decent bike. Her little “starter bike” has finally fallen apart. What she really needs, on our hilly, graveled back roads, is the kind of mountain bike that I have. One with safe, fat, treaded tires and a good range of gears. I’d already done sufficient phone research to know what brands to look for and to avoid and what prices to expect.

After lunch, we drive out of town. Just outside Swarthmore, I stop at a gas station to get directions to a connecting route to the interstate highway. Next to the gas station is a bike shop. In the bike shop is The Perfect Bike. The perfect size. The perfect brand. The perfect color. The perfect price.

Lauren test-drives it around the parking lot.

“Does it ride well?” we ask. “Do you like it? Is the color right? Do you want it?”

“Yes,” she cries. “Yes! Yes! YES!!!”

Many hours later, droning down the long stretch of I-81 from Winchester to Roanoke, I catch Lauren in the rear-view mirror. She’s gazing lovingly at Spokes, as she has named her new bike.

“I can’t believe it,” she says. “I just can’t believe it. I keep pinching myself to make sure Spokes is really there. I can’t wait to get home!”

“Well,” I say. “You got the idea to take our calligraphy into that unlikely gift store and we walked out with a check. I got the idea to stop by Swarthmore for subs and we left with a bike. Sometimes trusting impulses can pay off big-time. We’re happy you’re so happy.”

“Oh, I am,” she replies. “I am.”

The tie-dye kid

~ Lauren’s Childhood at Light Morning ~

Part Nine: Guardians
(continued)

Red knot (by Lauren)

Summer 1993 (continued)

Lauren’s Guardianship (Monday, 9 August 1993) I finally sign my will today, after a long delay due to some delicate problem-solving. My father has been advising Joyce and me to include instructions about Lauren’s guardianship in our wills. Lacking any specified criteria and preferences, he says, the courts would decide where to place her in the event of our deaths. So we started exploring this question and quickly realized just how complex and difficult it was.

In short, Joyce and Lauren and I decided to ask Vins and Bev to be Lauren’s guardians. I’ve known Vinnie since grade school. He was my best friend at Swarthmore High and we’ve kept in pretty close touch since then, through happy times and sad. Bev, his wife, is a wonderfully warm woman. They have two sons, Greg (a couple years older than Lauren) and Stephen (who was born last year). They live is Penn Valley, a suburb of Philadelphia that reminds me of Swarthmore.

So that’s the short account. The full story would take more time and space that seems available to me. But I’ll aim for some middle ground, starting with this lengthy passage from a letter I wrote to Vins and Bev last April, shortly after we returned from our trip to California to celebrate Hope and Caleb’s 50th wedding anniversary.

“It’s taken a while to catch up on all the loose ends around here. I have an inherited disposition (blame it on my father) toward procrastination. Over the past few years I’ve seen more vividly how loose ends tend to accumulate and rob me of my energy. Maybe it’s my age (Dylan’s refrain comes to mind, ‘maybe it’s the weather or something like that’), but my energy has become increasingly precious. Curtailing my tendency to procrastinate has freed up a lot of what had previously been wasted. It’s been, and to a lesser extent continues to be, a hard struggle, which makes the successes all the more satisfying.

“Speaking of aging (and getting toward the point of this letter) we seem to have been dancing with a greater awareness of our mortality lately. Someone shared a book with Joyce that Helen Nearing recently wrote. The final chapter tells of Scott’s death, at age 100, several years ago. He wanted his death to be graceful, so after reaching the century mark he gradually stopped eating. The fast ended with his peaceful death, in his own bed, with Helen at his side.

“Then a neighbor and good friend was called to Michigan. Her mother was dying of emphysema. As the executor of her mother’s living will, and in consultation with the rest of the family and the attending physicians, it was Doro’s responsibility to request that the life support systems be disconnected. It was a poignant moment. Her mother was still in and out of consciousness. But after the medical paraphernalia had been removed and most of the medications discontinued, they were able to take her home, where she regained enough lucidity to spend time with her former husband and her children before lapsing into a final sleep.

“The stories of the two deaths were catalytic. I recalled a dream I had, not long ago, about being on a lake and stopping at the cabin of an elderly widow. Her husband had just died. She showed me his study. Other than one or two pieces of paper–things he’d been working on at the time of his death–everything was in order. He had left few, if any loose ends. Upon awakening, I felt a sudden connection between my on-going wrestling with procrastination and my need to ‘put my affairs in order’; to make all possible arrangements for my eventual demise.

“Others here in the community must have experienced something similar, for attention started turning to wills and living wills, preferences for burial or cremation, questions about viewings and wakes. We also tried to feel our way into this culture’s pervasive pattern of denial concerning death and marveled at how much this denial blinds us to the experiences and wisdom of other cultures, many of which see death as a doorway, an opportunity, something to be prepared for and looked forward to. All of this seems foreign to me (maybe it’s my agnostic upbringing) and yet intriguing.

“Working on my will, though, kept these abstract speculations grounded, so to speak. Most of the will-work was pretty straightforward. My father had sent a model will, along with some comments and suggestions. The one real stumper concerned Lauren. In the unlikely event that Joyce and I should die simultaneously, my father recommended that we name a guardian for her, in order to forestall some judge rendering a decision about her placement without the benefit of knowing her, or us, or our wishes.

“You two were on a short list of people we felt good about asking to consider being Lauren’s guardians. The reason the list is so short is that, somewhat to our surprise, not many of our immediate family or friends meet all the criteria we’re hoping for–someone we’re close to, and who we feel might be willing to open their hearts and home to Lauren in the unlikely but of course possible event of our deaths within the next ten years; someone who has been part of a relatively stable marriage and has had first-hand experience with children of their own (none of my brothers or my sister, for example, have children, Lauren being the only grandchild on either side of the family); someone, too, with common sense and familiarity with financial matters, for in the event of our deaths, Lauren becomes heir to some fairly significant assets from both sides.

“We’ve started to talk with the folks that came to mind–to heart, rather– and this letter is part of that exploration. It would be much easier in person, of course, but I’m not sure when we’ll next be getting up to Philadelphia. So perhaps this letter can be as a feeler or a seed.

“Despite all my talk about wills and wakes, I have no intimations of an untimely death. Quite the contrary, I expect to live on for quite some time. Maybe this has to do with a sense of unfinished business down here. A vision or ‘child’ that still needs our love and attention. But on the other hand, maybe my expectations of living to a ripe old age are simply denial. The cocky stance of a sassy immortal.

“In any case, my affairs won’t be ‘in order’ while this question of a guardian for Lauren remains unresolved. So take it into your hearts and let us know what you find there. Whatever you discover–a sense of rightness, or of reservations, or a need to talk it over with us in person–will be helpful. Meanwhile, we’ll continue to explore it with a few other couples. We hold the belief that whatever is best for everyone involved will make itself known.”

Lauren, Pilar, Myra

While awaiting a reply from Vins and Bev, we talked with another friend, Jo, about the possibility of she and her husband, Richard, becoming Lauren’s guardians. Jo has known and loved Lauren for many years. They have an especially close and warm relationship. Richard, who we’ve only met once, is a doctor. He’s been attempting, in the face of entrenched resistance from the orthodox medical community, to weave a more holistic approach into his practice. Jo and Richard live in North Carolina and have two sons, both of whom are in college.

We also considered several other couples in the more immediate vicinity. But we kept bumping into significant obstacles. Either their heart connection with Lauren wasn’t strong enough, or the marriage was going through difficult times, or the sudden stress of adding a nine-year-old girl to their family felt as though it would be too great a burden.

We came close to raising the question with Wes and Shara, who lived here at Light Morning several years ago, prior to moving to Roanoke, where Shara got her RN nursing degree. They have a daughter who is slightly younger than Lauren and are expecting a second child in February. Wes and Shara hold many of the quirky, unorthodox values that we’ve been striving to embody the past twenty years, and Shara’s an especially warm and nurturing woman and mother. But they’re in a transitional phase in their lives right now, actively engaged in deciding where to put down roots, where to plant their perennials and make their stand. It didn’t feel appropriate, therefore, to ask them to consider being Lauren’s guardians.

Fortunately, both Vins and Bev and Jo and Richard, after giving our request careful thought, wrote to tell us of their willingness. We were deeply touched. We added the necessary sentences to the draft copies of our wills and were about ready to ask the folks living here to witness our signatures.

Ron, however, who, along with Marlene and Tom, had been kept appraised of the decision-making process, suddenly got in touch with some surprisingly strong inner resistance to our intended course of action. He felt that both for Lauren’s sake and for that of the community we should find some way to allow her to remain here in the event of our deaths.

My initial reaction to this was something less than fully empathic.

“Why did you wait until the last minute to voice your reservations?” I asked. “We’ve already explored the local alternatives carefully and weren’t able to find one that felt viable.”

And to myself, “Whose decision is this, anyway?”

My frustration and impatience were tempered, however, in several important ways–by Ron and Lauren’s love for one another; by my own understanding of how tricky it can be to get in touch with deep emotions; and by an awareness that such a weighty decision didn’t belong to Joyce and Lauren and I alone, but must include the others with whom we share our daily lives. So we told Ron that we would put aside our wills (so to speak) and stay open to the process until we could find something that everyone could feel O.K. with.

I used the intervening weeks to step more fully into Ron’s shoes. I felt the devastation of losing Lauren on the very heels of having lost Joyce and me. I felt Lauren being suddenly deprived not only of her parents but of her home, the rest of her community family, and all her friends as well. I felt her loss of home education, and many of the other values that weave into and make possible this on-going experiment in “child-led learning.”

Ron, meanwhile, was putting a lot of energy into trying to formulate a practical local alternative. His efforts stretched my heart. But he was unable to come up with something that could realistically and simultaneously meet the needs of everyone involved, the criteria that Joyce and I had established, and the inevitable scrutiny of Lauren’s bereaved and concerned grandparents, aunts and uncles.

So we ended up agreeing to implement the wills as they were, with Vins and Bev as Lauren’s guardians, and Jo and Richard, whose parenting cycle is out-of-sync with ours (their children having already left the nest) as back-up guardians. Ron felt that his needs and concerns had been “heard,” and that his rightful participation in the decision-making process had been honored. He also gained a deeper appreciation for the complexity of the question.

We also agreed that there is no “perfect solution” to such a problem, and that many of the values we all share have already taken root within Lauren’s psyche and will remain there, secure, regardless of what doors open or close for her in the future.

And that about concludes a very abbreviated account of choosing guardians for Lauren.

Trying to figure out what’s best for one’s child is neither simple nor easy. I’m just glad this culture doesn’t endorse the practice of arranged marriages.

The Childhood of the Gods (Tuesday, 24 August 1993) I’m walking down a side street in Salem, having just dropped our van off at the mechanics. In a factory parking lot I see a young man underneath his car, replacing the muffler.

Later in the day, on my way to pick up the van, I pass the same parking lot. The young man and his car are gone, but his old muffler is still there, lying on the ground. My first reaction is to shake my head at the insensitivity and immaturity of the person who had simply left his loose end behind as litter for someone else to take care of.

Hard on the heels of this conditioned response, however, comes a phrase that drifts through the back of my mind: the childhood of the gods. And with these words comes peace, and acceptance, and a feeling of warmth for the man I had just been criticizing. It’s as though his foibles (and my own, and everyone else’s) have suddenly been put into a radically different perspective.

Once more I bless the opportunity of being a parent. Had Lauren not come into our lives, had I not changed her diapers and picked up her messes and watched the slow growth of her thoughtfulness and awareness and responsibility, the ripening of her inner beauty, then these words, “the childhood of the gods,” would have been a mere shadowy abstraction, rather than an emotionally compelling and spiritually startling insight.

Slanguage (Sunday, 29 August 1993) For a kid who’s somewhat “out of the loop,” Lauren picks up popular kid slang and culture with great ease and agility, probably a combination of spending time with her publicly schooled friends and the occasional T.V. watching in Ron and Marlene’s basement.

“Radical,” “dude” and “awesome” are all stock-in-trade expressions, along with their fused forms, such as “dudical” (dude & radical) and “dudacious” (dude & audacious?). Then there’s “No Duh,” a rough translation of which might be, “what you just said is so absurdly obvious that it barely merits a response.” (“Lauren, it’s looking like rain. You might want to bring along your umbrella.” “No Duh!”)

[You have to remember this is backwoods Virginia. I'm sure most mainline kids have long since gone on to other phrases.]

Finally, there’s what I’ve come to call “the burp chant.” Any time that a belch issues forth (and especially if an adult happens to suggest that the proper response might be a polite “excuse me”–which, if pressed, Lauren will modify to “ex-squeeze me”), the following poetic retort can be confidently expected:

“I’m sorry for my rudeness, it wasn’t very smart,
But if it had come out the other end, it would have been a fart.”

So please ex-squeeze me, dudes, for so rudely including such an awesomely crude limerick in these hallowed chronicles.

Lauren with sword

~ Lauren’s Childhood at Light Morning ~

Part Nine: Guardians

Lauren on the back porch

Summer 1993

Marathon Visiting (Tuesday, 1 June 1993) Lauren’s been on the visiting circuit lately. Not long ago, she was hesitant to spend the night away from home. She’s making up for it now. She slept over at Claire’s several nights ago, then both girls went to Roanoke and spent the night at Rose’s. They came back from Rose’s yesterday and spent last night here. Today they’re off to Claire’s again. While we’re happy to see her so at ease socially, we do miss having her around. A little taste of what’s in store for us down the road a ways.

Tom’s Note (Monday, 7 June 1993) I left a copy of the Spring edition of The Lofty Chronicles in the community shelter last night for folks to look at. I found a note from Tom on it this morning: “Many thanks for sharing the attached. They are wonder-filled and I can well imagine that a young lady will one day enjoy them time and again–just as she now does [the] Star Wars [audio tapes], etc. etc.”

And just as she now enjoys pulling down and studying the two-volume album of her “baby pictures.” That’s my primary motivation for keeping this going. In addition to bridging some of the geographical distances between Lauren and her grandparents, aunts and uncles, I want her to be able to have a collection of verbal vignettes from her childhood. Hopefully she’ll find a few clues here as she grows into a deeper exploration of who she is and what her gifts are.

[And when you reach this part of the story, sweetheart, your dad sends hugs and kisses and wishes you well.]

Homework (Monday, 7 June 1993) Lauren came home the other day from playing at Claire’s, who still has another week or so of school before summer vacation begins. Today Lauren asks Joyce for some math homework. Joyce looks surprised. She complies, however, and writes out a page of problems. Lauren works on them for a few minutes. Then, shoving the sheet aside, she announces, “I hate homework.” Joyce and I grin. It is pretty apparent that Lauren had listened to Claire’s complaints about homework and wanted to try the words and the feeling on for size. But before she could denounce homework, she had to manifest some.

Baseball Practice (Monday, 7 June 1993) A nice pattern has been evolving lately on Sunday mornings. Ron’s younger brother Curty, who lives down the road, is a big sports fan and likes to coach kids. He spends a lot of time practicing with his nephew, Peter. He has also coached several school teams.

Ron asked Curty if he wanted to come over for pancakes now and then on Sunday mornings and, after breakfast, give Lauren and Sage some baseball practice. Curty liked the idea. So the two kids have been getting some good coaching once a week.

The Ear Ache (Thursday, 17 June 1993) Early Sunday morning, Lauren woke us up in tears, saying that one of her teeth was hurting her real bad and that her ear was aching, too. The tooth was a loose one that we’ve been trying to encourage to come out for several weeks, ever since the orthodontist told us that its removal would make room for a permanent tooth that’s needing to come in.

We assumed that, as happened once before, the old tooth had hung in there too long and was starting to abscess, causing the pain. So we immediately started feeding her garlic, as a natural antibiotic, and dabbed some clove oil on her gums, around the loose tooth, to help with the pain.

The pain persisted, however, and we reluctantly shifted to kids’ Tylenol. We don’t like to use it, and have only had to do so once before. By masking the pain, it disrupts two important feedback mechanisms–the pain itself, plus the body’s temperature–making it more difficult to monitor what’s going on. But it’s also hard to see one’s child suffering. So we gave her a few tablets and she was eventually able to fall back to sleep.

After breakfast, I called Eric, our dentist. He had previously given us his home phone number and had told us he’d be glad to meet us at his office any time we had a dental emergency. There was no answer, however. Nor were we able to reach him all day. Turns out he was away for the weekend…

[A note added later--Events outpaced my willingness or ability to keep up with them. To make a long story short, we finally got Lauren to the dentist Monday morning, after the repeated and generally successful use of hot vinegar compresses on her ear. Eric said that it was likely a viral infection which was causing the ear ache, rather than her loose tooth.

The pain persisted, so we called Luther, Lauren's pediatrician. He was out of town for the week. So with some trepidation--Luther is aware of our non-traditional approach to medical treatment and is fairly supportive of it--we called the back-up pediatrician. She was very nice and surprisingly receptive to our concerns about antibiotics. Most of the parents she talks to are coming from the other side: wanting to get a prescription immediately, whether or not it's medically necessary. Being a mother herself, she shares our concerns about the down-side of antibiotics and only uses them on her own children as a last resort, when, she added, they can be a blessing.

She listened carefully to my description of the symptoms and how the ear ache was responding to what we were doing. I told her I didn't want to risk a ruptured ear drum and potential hearing loss, and would turn to antibiotics reluctantly, if it became necessary. She suggested that we continue what we were doing for another day or two, monitor the ear carefully, and get back to her soon.

We re-doubled our various prayers and therapies, and the next day the infection backed off. Lauren couldn't hear out of that ear very well for several days, which made us nervous. But the doctor said that was to be expected following an ear infection and that the hearing would shortly return to normal. Which it did.]

The Rainbow Snail (by Lauren)

Rising to the Occasion (Sunday, 27 June 1993) We had a strange “chance encounter” this evening, on our way home from celebrating the tenth anniversary of Zephyr, a nearby intentional community. It has been a two-day affair and Lauren has thoroughly enjoyed herself–playing exuberantly with some of her friends, swimming in the pond, and occasionally joining us for a round or two of sweats in the sauna.

Now, as we pass Smith’s Store and turn off Route 221 at dusk, on the last leg of our homeward journey, we are feeling clear and mellow and happy to be close to home. Descending the steep hill, we notice that a car has gone off the road on the other side. It’s part way down a steep embankment, on its side, pinned against a tree. The driver, a woman, is struggling to get out of the car.

We brake to a stop, jump out of the van and run across the street and down the embankment. The woman is probably in her late 30’s or early 40’s. Says her name is Regina. She is uninjured, but very disoriented. And very drunk.

She asks me to help pull her car back onto the road. Taking a quick look at how the car is wedged against the tree, I tell her that the only way her car is going to get back on the road is with the help of a tow truck. This really seems to frighten her, but seeing no other alternative, she asks us to call for one. She also wants me to call a friend of hers in Roanoke.

I go to a house beside the road and place the calls. By the time I return, several other neighbors are standing by the roadside. Someone tells Regina that Amos, who mans the tow truck at Reeds Garage, will be obligated to report the accident to the State Police. She panics.

“Who has a screwdriver?” she demands.

No one has one, so she scrambles drunkenly down the bank to the back of her car. When Amos pulls up, she is frantically using her keys in a vain attempt to remove the license plate from the car. Amos looks at her, listens to her slurred request that he get her car out of the ditch (“Right now!”) and tells her that he’d have to inform the police first.

When her pleadings fail to sway him, Regina tells him to get lost. Amos nods impassively, raises his eyebrows slightly to the neighbors, and drives away. Regina clambers back up to the road and watches him go, her frantic activity suddenly collapsing into a fierce despair.

“I’ll just have to walk back to Roanoke, then,” she says.

“If you walk along 221 at this time of night,” someone offers, “you’re likely to get yourself killed. No one’s going to be able to see you.”

“So what?!” she shoots back.

“Listen, Regina,” I say. “Your friend’s on his way up here. He can take you home.”

“I don’t have a home any more. I don’t have anything any more. It’s too late for that.”

And turning her back on us, she heads toward 221, striding up the hill somewhat erratically, but with surprising speed and determination.

Joyce and I look at each other wordlessly, get back into the van with Lauren, turn it around, and go after Regina. We stop her twice to try to talk her into coming home with us and waiting there for the arrival of her friend. She fluctuates wildly between expressing heartfelt appreciation for our caring about her and telling us, in no uncertain terms, to stay the hell out of her life.

On the third try, Joyce jumps out of the van, grabs hold off of Regina and says, “Listen, you turkey. I don’t care whether or not this is our business or whether we’re butting into your life. We’re not about to let you stagger drunkenly down 221 and get creamed by some car doing 60 mph. So shut up and get your ass into the van.”

And she pulls open the sliding side door.

Regina stares at her, wide-eyed and irate. She opens her mouth to get off a stinging retort, looks at Joyce again, then closes her mouth and climbs meekly into the van. Joyce closes the door, locks it, and climbs into the passenger’s seat.

“Let’s go home,” she says.

On the way to Light Morning, Regina’s mood continues to fluctuate wildly–self-pity one moment, vituperative anger the next, and insightful lucidity the next. I keep a constant eye on the rear-view mirror, more than a little apprehensive about having this distraught and perhaps dangerously unbalanced woman sitting next to Lauren in the back seat. But Lauren rises to the occasion, calmly consoling Regina and telling her that everything’s going to be all right. Gradually, the gentle concern coming from the child next to her begins to soften some of her sharp edges.

During her lucid intervals, Regina tells us about having lost her job, her house, most of her family and friends, and now her car and her hope. She had driven up to Twin Falls this afternoon, walked across the treacherously slippery creek just above the falls (a crossing that has cost more than a few careless hikers their lives), and then prayed to God for something, anything, to turn her life around and give her a reason to keep on living.

She had brought along a bottle of something to deaden her pain. But this had only caused her, upon leaving Twin Falls, to lose control of her car. And so we had found her struggling in her car at dusk–trapped, dazed and desperate.

Listening to her speak, as we near Light Morning, I recall my fire experience and Ron’s Christmas experience–people reaching the end of their tether, the pressures becoming too intense, the cultural and psychological binding spells fraying, and then the swift, sudden descent into the maelstrom of what is commonly called a “nervous breakdown.” And yet, along with the blithering idiocy, the emotional roller-coaster ride, and the incoherent psychic turbulence, can also come unexpected and very precious gifts of self-awareness and renewal.

I don’t know if Regina’s crisis will bless her in this way. We pull the van to a stop above Ron and Marlene’s house. Ron comes out and helps her inside. Marlene offers her a cigarette, several cups of coffee, and a listening ear. An hour later her friend Donny arrives, thanks us, and takes Regina home. And our long weekend at last draws to a close.

Rabbit, Rabbit (Saturday, 3 July 1993) Lauren has just suffered a big loss. She’s been eagerly anticipating spending a week with Joyce at the Augusta Folk Life Center in West Virginia, where Joyce has been an assistant calligraphy instructor for quite a few years. This would have been the third time that Lauren’s accompanied her. Lauren loves it there and had an especially wonderful time last year–the friends and the food, the music and the dancing.

This year, however, not quite enough students signed up for the calligraphy course to justify the expense of an assistant instructor during these tight economic times. Even though Lauren had been forewarned that this might happen, she was still devastated when the letter arrived and Joyce had to break the news to her.

Joyce’s own disappointment was tempered by the relief of not having to expend the significant amount of time and energy needed to pull off such a trip. Lauren’s misery, however, is unmitigated.

On the morning of July 1st she had made a valiant and successful effort to remember to say “Rabbit, Rabbit” immediately upon awakening. Superstition has it that if these are the first words uttered on the first day of a new month it will bring a person good luck.

Lauren had followed this magical ritual faithfully, praying for the trip to Augusta to come through. But both the universe and her personal good luck charm had failed her. Now she stands before me, her eyes filled with tears.

“I am never, ever,” she says passionately, “going to say ‘Rabbit, Rabbit’ again.”

Then all the pain and disappointment come pouring out and she sobs in my arms.

Myra and Lauren

Thanks, Dad (Saturday, 10 July 1993) Lauren’s been away on overnight visits at friends’ houses for the past three nights. This afternoon, while I’m up at the community shelter, she comes back from Claire’s, breathlessly wanting to extend the streak to four.

I look at her. The enthusiasm seems a bit strained. She looks wired. Over-extended.

“No,” I reply. “Three nights away is plenty.”

She begs and pleads and rants and sulks for a few minutes. Then, seeming to sense that her unusual reaction is only reinforcing my feeling of “no,” she pouts off down to the house.

Half an hour later, I go to the house myself to package calligraphy. Lauren is cuddled up in an arm chair, a book in one hand, a rice cake in the other. She looks up from her book. With clear eyes and a calm voice, she says, “Thanks, Dad, for making me stay home. I guess this is where I really wanted to be.”

I hug her and turn toward the calligraphy.

Joyce and I generally give Lauren plenty of leeway when it comes to choosing what she wants to do and where she wants to go. This time my flexibility (in being willing to shift to a more traditional “father knows best” mode) and Lauren’s flexibility (in being able to acknowledge her true needs) both felt good.

Julius Caesar (Sunday, 11 July 1993) “Hey, Dad. Where did the name ‘July’ come from?”

We’re in the kitchen. Lauren’s helping me prepare a meal.

“When they re-worked the calendar a long time ago,” I reply, “they named July in honor of a Roman emperor named Julius Caesar. July comes from his name, Julius.”

“Is he related to Little Caesar’s, that pizza place in Roanoke?”

“Well, sort of,” I say, chuckling to myself. “Pizza is supposedly an Italian food, even though I seem to recall hearing that it was first served in this country, and Rome, which is the capital of Italy, used to be the capital of the Roman Empire and is where the Roman emperors, including Julius Caesar, lived.”

“Did they live in Caesar’s Palace?”

I steal a quick glance in her direction to see if she’s pulling my leg. Her face, however, says the question is genuine.

“I think Caesar’s Palace is a gambling casino in Las Vegas,” I reply. “It’s just a catchy name.”

This seems to satisfy her for the moment because the questions stop. I continue cutting onions for the spaghetti sauce, wondering about home education, and the differences between education and schooling, and what cultural literacy means, and how the inner geography of the mind takes magical shape as we grow through childhood, becoming a blending of what’s impressed upon us from the outside and what’s already there (intrinsic, inherent, unique) prior to the receipt of any impressions.