Homeschooling Heart

132 :: Greenhouse Painting

This is where I found Amie on Mother’s Day: painting in the greenhouse. My girls have had a truly wonderful year in public school with excellent teachers and friends. But I think we all still have a homeschooling heart.

SCHOOL

126 :: Bubbles

SCHOOL

You’re like a little wild thing
that was never sent to school.
Sit, I say, and you jump up.
Come, I say, and you go galloping down the sand
to the nearest dead fish
with which you perfume your sweet neck.
It is summer.
How many summers does a little dog have?

Run, run, Percy.
This is our school.

– Mary Oliver

I think Mary Oliver would have made a wonderful homeschooling mom . . . for dogs and kids!

Marsh Marigolds

120 :: Marsh Marigolds

With What Hope

did you write your way into paradox,
trapped there
hands lit by thorns
and the creek
holding marsh marigolds under pines
unimaginable last spring?

These footsteps,
this passageway over the swale
where willow tips reach upward,
gather the sap of earth
running deep
and visible as soon as we arrive.

Do we belong here?

Merely by walking with bare feet,
earth opens,
and what’s within comes without
vulnerable, exposed,
life giving?

In her generosity
she makes herself susceptible
to contamination.

Everything comes to drink with
muddy feet,
a winter’s worth of thirst,
parched lips –

and still, she flows.

Seeding

117 :: Seeding

Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,
Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry –
Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams;
A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust
That will drink deeply of a century’s streams;
These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

Here in their safe and simple house of death,
Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;
Here I can blow a garden with my breath,
And in my hand a forest lies asleep.

– Muriel Stuart

Wild Rosebush

99 :: Wild Rose Bush

I fell in love with this wild rose bush over the winter. Finding her was like walking into the promise of one of my favorite poems.

With the help of my loyal photo assistant, Ellen, I’m planning to take photos in this spot over the next few months and watch this rose unfold its “givingness.”

Sometimes it’s these unexplainable little projects that wake me up at night. And I have to follow them. I have to follow the calling of the wild rose.

Wild Rosebush

How it stands out against the darkenings
of the rainy evening, young and pure,
its tendrils arched everywhere in givingness
yet absorbed in its own rose-being;

the shallow flowers, already open here and there,
each unasked for and untended:
thus, immeasurably exceeded by itself
and indescribably self-aroused,

it calls to the wander, who in his evening
meditating comes past along the road:
Oh look at me, see, over here, how safe I am
and unprotected and having all I need.

— Rainer Maria Rilke

Nearing Spring

73 :: Spoon Shovel

watching him work with a spoon
in the emerging mud

snow piles
melting down
layers of ice

ice once so hard,
impossible to break through.

Remember the morning we couldn’t leave,
couldn’t get into our car
covered in ice so thick, so cold
the doors frozen shut?

Remember the night we couldn’t speak
because there was so much frozen
to say?

That ice.
It thaws.

75 :: Pussy Willows

When we cut them
down in the swamp
the fuzz was nearly invisible,
still tucked inside.

Hiding.

Two days in the house,
and here they are.

Emerged.

Warmth does that.