of all the moments

The past several months have been filled with opportunities for healing and inner work so I took a break from writing in this space. Slowing down to ponder which moments matter in the long run and which moments shall pass has required all of my attention. From this I have found that weight of certain moments depend more on the posture of my heart and mind than it does on the actual details of what is transpiring. It is a difficult thing to unpack, but I will try.

Seeking magic in the mundane has been my way of salvaging those moments when I teeter at the precipice of sanity. There is no formula to it, only an inward journey I imagine we all must make at some point—- full of enfolded paths unique to us. For me, this path includes motherhood and time in nature, they are integral to the life we are cultivating as a family and the healing we seek.. Were it not for motherhood, I might miss the silvery trail of slime on a piece of bark and this delightful exchange: “That silvery trail? It is evidence that a snail passed slowly from one side of the forest to the other,” one child declared. “How do you know it isn’t a slug?” retorted another. “Or perhaps it was both, a snail and then a slug along the same highway” replied a third.

Even the tiniest bit of earth conjures a sense of wonderment and awe when we humble ourselves to look closely.

For me it begins not with mindfulness but with consciousness. Mindfulness is focusing one's awareness on the present moment (especially as part of a therapeutic or meditative technique). Consciousness, however, is being aware and responding to one's surroundings; awake. There is a difference.

Yet, I have a habit of filling my time all too quickly. Ideas percolate from all corners of my being. If I am honest, I have found a surprising number of ways over the years to rove through life unconsciously filling schedules with intentional activities and gatherings, but now, I seek an inner slowness—- to be conscious of my choices and the impact they can have within the boundaries of my thoughts and the atmosphere of my home, yes, but also its impact on the smallest of critters on this old earth.

Amidst the hullabaloo of urban life (yes, we actually do live in Chicago proper!), finding an life-giving rhythm that works for our family has become essential. It has been a gradual journey into slowness for us and we have been learning to cultivate habits of gratitude and grit within the confines of our apartment. While, my time continues to be limited by deadlines and projects, my hope is to write about our family’s journey in contentment in the next several posts. How do you define contentment? Is it something your family has had to process or cultivate? I would love to learn from you!

patchwork art

Our lives are a patchwork of stories and lived moments. Despite my best efforts to cultivate a seamless day filled with whimsy and wonder, I found myself again and again starting at mere remnants of what I had hoped to offer. And this is how my story begins, amidst the throes of life, cultivating agency and courage to show up just as I am, “broken yet whole.”

I recently had the opportunity to share at a WILD + FREE conference in Dallas. It was such an honor to meet: Ainsley Arment, Sally Clarkson, Julie Bogart, Amber Johnston, Leslie Martino, Bethany Douglas, Tina Ingolds, Greta Eskridge, Besty Jenkins, Rachel Kovac, Elsie Eludicelo, Erin Lochner, and so many others.

What a humbling thing it is to stand alongside women I admire so deeply and meet so many others with a heart for reclaiming childhood.. There are words that these women have spoken or written over the years that have inspired me in deeply profound ways.

It is hard to even know where to begin, so here is a little reflection from that weekend:

I wanted to stand before these amazing mamas in a patchwork dress because I felt it represented the collective beauty of each irreplaceable mama in that room, each with a unique story and life unlike another. This idea of clothing oneself with,“ compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience,” also conjures patchwork imagery because our efforts may not come together as seamlessly as we envisioned. It is humility at its finest, learning to see the art of the everyday.

Beautiful as those sentiments may be, this reality was difficult for me to accept. I wanted so desperately to overcome my limitations, but what I needed to overcome was my own pride so that I could courageously accept myself as I am and others as they are. In so doing, I create space for a beautiful patchwork of lived moments to emerge from the seams of my consciousness and understanding.

While I searched for words and cohesive ways to bring my story together, only a patchwork of moments and memories continued to surface. So I stitched them together for the talk I was asked to deliver. ThoughI’m unable to share the transcript here, I hope you’ll take a moment to ponder the beautiful story and life that is uniquely yours, the very fingerprint you leave on the lives of those who cross your path.

At the heart of what I hoped too share is a deep desire to empathize and see marginalized folks who are stuck in the fray of belonging while building a life of meaning, Perhaps they are too exhausted to raise their voice, perhaps too overwhelmed with tasks at hand to set boundaries or seek help, I wanted them to feel seen and heard. I hoped the words I share encourage them to see the ways in which their invisible work are leaving a legacy of love —a heritage.

I think the most beautiful truths are woven together with mystery. We tether ourselves to many things but what if we actually clothed ourselves with humility—recognizing our frazzled moments are patchwork of possibility. .

While I have given a TEDxtalk, I have never shared anything so personal in nature before and I am deeply grateful for the experience. I did not realize how many women felt invisible or struggled with racism in the W+F community until I shared and they came forward to tell me their stories. There were women from immigrant families , women whose husbands had been called, “virus.” and women are struggling to navigate the cultural divide I straddle daily. I know what I shared was not flawless but it was honest and a raw retelling of how homeschooling had been a haven for healing.

The finite bounds of what we can or cannot do as humans tethers us to a shared humanity. It drives me to search for beauty in limitation. It is through the mending and tending that we heal, our fragmented and frazzled efforts for whimsy and wonder, culminate to reflect the ways we have mended and tended to hearts, these seemingly broken moments alone are but scraps but together they become art.

“*To Janessa: We do all experience bias and I wonder if we all unconsciously possess some form of it as well. I am the first to confess the limitations of my own understanding and strength to juggle the ideas within and share them in a cohesive manner, I appreciate your candor and our conversation in the elevator. I used the phrase, “a woven childhood” to describe the atmosphere I sought to cultivate in my home because of words that Elle of @wovenchildhood wrote and I finally got to meet in person. She is just as delightful as I thought she would be and anything I shared about “reclaiming childhood or reclaiming childhood” is most certainly inspired by Ainsley’s words and wisdom over the years!

diligence vs. rigor

During our early days of “adventure school” I sought to be in nature as much as possible, but there was a foreboding sense of doom that accompanied our hope to reclaim childhood. It seem that my husband and I had been taught to view education through a set of lens that is no longer supported the family culture we were building. So we chose to do school differently during the pandemic. It came from a longing to connect with our children deeply and learn alongside them. It is a privilege to cultivate creative learning rhythms, but we did feel pressure to conjure some form of rigor so we could validate our learning. This thinking only created anxiety within our home and hearts. While I sought heart-led learning, I found myself turning to performance-based worksheets in those moments. After some deep dives, we discovered the difference between diligence and rigor. We are hoping to cultivate diligence, not rigor. We are hoping to cultivate wonder and beauty.

“..the word “rigor” comes from the Latin “rigorem” which means numbness, stiffness, hardness, firmness, roughness, rudeness. If we are aiming to order our children’s affections, learn to love what is lovely, join in the great conversation, and cultivate a soul so that the person is ready in every sense of the word to take on the challenges around the corner and on the other side of the college entrance exams, then, they said, work for “diligence” instead. Diligere mean to single out, value highly, esteem, prize, love; aspire to, take delight in, appreciate…what we really mean by rigor is not just doing hard things, but cultivating a habit of focused attention.”
-Sarah Mackenzie

A moment in time: I could have chosen to correct the direction of her nozzle or let her be, let her imagine “misting magic” over her favorite plant at time. I’m not sure why I thought play didn’t count as learning (even thought we sought play-based pre-Ks!), but the pervasive thought of rigor was rooted deep within my being.

A confession: I use to cringe when they did school work in a non-traditional way, like under their fort because it wasn’t at a desk. I guess I feared they’d forget to how to learn seated at desks and in chairs. Silliness, I know. As I saw that learning happens EVERYWHERE and ALL. THE. TIME ( best of all under a fort!), I began to shift my self-talk to, “You want to do narrations under the fort? Sure thing! We get to do “school” differently in this season, it is a gift, I do not need to make it look or feel like a classroom for it to count . Under the fort, my eldest discovered that she quite enjoys latin and greek. I was surprised to find her spending extra time looking over words and breaking them down into their groupings! This doesn’t happen every single day, but often enough for me to see that the fruit of diligence is different than rigor at a heart-level. There is a season for everything under the sun and that includes learning. We know how it feels to push ourselves beyond what feels life-giving and that is not a legacy I’d like to leave.

Have you ever navigated diligence and rigor outside of school? How do you cultivate diligence in lieu of rigor?

Genovese Pesto

We pulled out the last batch of pesto from our basil harvest not too long ago and it reminded me of the time, Daniel and I backpacked through parts of western Europe in the spring of 2010.

I am not entirely sure what possessed me to order tickets in french, but it turns out my french pronouciation of Genova sounded an awful lot like, Geneve. So, I accidentally ordered tickets to Geneve, Switzerland instead of Genova, Italy.

By the time we found ourselves one train stop away from the alps we were shivering. We felt thoroughly under dressed as everyone around us had ski gear and very warm coats. I quickly made my way back to the ticket counter! Needless to say, our adventures took many serendipitous turns, a story for another time, but we really got to experience Cinque Terre as a local. Long story short, we found ourselves without a place to stay and sweet old couple, Santina and Lucerno took us in for the night, sent us to bed with toast, parma, nutella and that was how we came to discover our favorite pesto.

1. Gather:
   -Genovese Basil (3 cups of leaves packed), if growing your own, you may consider using the blossoms or even stalks, just make sure to grind longer)
   - 4 garlic gloves
   -1 teaspoon (tsp) salt
   -1/2 tsp ground pepper (optional)
   -4 tablespoon (TBS) pine nuts (toasted and cooled)
   - 1/2 pecorino or vegan parmesan
   -1 cup olive oil oil
   -Food processor
   - Salad spinner or air dry Basil

2. Toast pine nuts over medium heat on stove top, let cool (perfect job for a careful helper age 6 and up, varies depending on maturity level and availability of a observation tower)

3. Wash and spin the Basil leaves (perfect job for a toddler to press the salad spinner button!)

4. Place leaves, garlic, salt, pepper, cheese, and nuts into processor bowl, pulse a few times. Then leave one and add the 1 cup oil in a steady stream.

5. Enjoy over pasta, on crepes, or sandwiches. This recipe typically yields enough for a meal for us with at least one 8oz mason jar for the freezer. When storing in mason jars , be sure to add a drizzle of olive oil on top.

e a r t h

“...until we can grieve for our planet we cannot love it—grieving is a sign of spiritual health. But it is not enough to weep for our lost landscapes; we have to put our hands in the earth to make ourselves whole again. Even a wounded world is feeding us. Even a wounded world holds us, giving us moments of wonder and joy. I choose joy over despair.”
—Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass

As I take a moment to reflect on the Earth Days that have passed in our home, a nostalgia lingers over our days of making play dough for shaping little earths, its continents, and talking about earth care. We have a tradition of doing a clean up but prior to the picking up of trash, I invite them to play and see the wonders of this old earth, we do it to spark compassion for the very place we live, we do it hoping they will feel compelled to care and steward the beauty they see with genuine interest. And more often than not, as they find treasures they also see the trash and the clean ups happen in tandem.

While climbing around on those forbidden rocks at Thorndale beach one day, they saw much trash caught between the crevices, so much so, they pitched the idea for a clean up and then, something we’ve never done before, they wanted to invite others to join us.

Now, it happened to be our turn to lead the discussion for the Navigators troop in Chicago and with it being our family’s “earth week,” the kids put together a little presentation about earth and the great lakes, and invited their troop to do a clean up. It was a privilege to see them pull together a presentation, delegate parts amongst themselves, use recycled materials, and finally share it with others.

anchoring traditions

In a time such as this, we find it so important to shape the narrative of our homes. There is a level of responsibility we’ve had to take when it comes to cultivating faith. It felt as if we were sojourning through foreign lands, and yet, I believe there are timeless truths and principles that govern all of life. I think that it’s in taking time to ponder and wonder truth that our journey begins.

An earnest desire to weave together an authentic integration of life and learning is what initially inspired our desire to seek truth with all our hearts. Simple as it sounds, it has been marred by the cheap cynicism of our times. As we come to terms with the reality of influence in the lives of our growing humans, we continue onward in our own search for understanding and it anchors us.

The journey of reaching down deep into our hearts to meditate on all things lovely and noble begins with the dance of an open mind*.

I wasn’t feeling well on Maundy Thursday and didn’t get around to making hot cross buns when she pulled out the recipe and began to make these on her own.

She may have been helping bake for a long time now, but it was really touching to see her take initiative. She even asked to borrow my camera for the shot of the spices below.

I hope we learn to measure our strength by the ability to practice kindness and gentleness in the hard moments.

Over the years, our faith has most certainly be tested and we have had to decide for ourselves what it is we believe.

I see such timelessness in the way we wait for spring despite its tardiness, Dillon’s eagerness to see that first crocus or daffodil, But as for us, we are awaiting that first violet still. on this Resurrection Weekend.

While we wait, we will make it our ambition to lead a quiet life of working with our hands, baking bread and dying eggs the slow way we have done for years.

And we shall continue to rise early on such a special Sunday to remember the beauty of promises kept and timeless mysteries that unfurl before us day in and day out. The deepest of magic that tells of death being overcome with life and newness as light invades the dark.

*The peace I am thinking of is the dance of an open mind when it engages another equally open one. -Toni Morrison

Chronicling COVID-19

As I went through old posts and updated this space, I came across this letter I wrote to my littles April of 2020. At the time, we’re simply hoping to hold sacred the care and keeping of little souls, nurturing their affection for this old earth while trying to navigate uncertainty and anchoring ourselves in faith.

thought I’d share an excerpt from that letter of what I hope our kids remember of pandemic times.

Dear ones,

A hush fell over our busy Chicago street this March. Our city, like many others across the globe, was seized by a fear of a seemingly invisible virus. I wonder if you’ll remember the surreal silence that settled over our corner of the city and the stillness of our bustling street. I hope you’ll remember how we huddled close in the face of uncertainty and the comfort we found all nestled together on those early spring mornings, the mid-April snow, and the refuge we found in our faith and nature.

Nature was a luxury on frigid spring mornings, affording us the grace to see wonderment at every turn, the green shoots pushing through the dirt, birdsong as they settled in for spring. We watched birds build their nest with finds from nature and built our own each morning as we gathered close for stories. Somedays, this was the only peaceful moment of our day, but even in the mess and ugliness that arose we grew in our compassion for each other. Most importantly, we grew and continue to grow.

At first, we welcomed the time at home, cherished the togetherness, the squabbles and sweetness sandwiched in between. Our morning ritual of lightning a candle, warm oats, a nature walk, followed by lavish brunches of crepes or soft-boiled eggs and toast, or the crumpets made by dad’s' sourdough. How we laughed together, squabbled over things big and small but made room to see sweetness reveal itself. How we laced every recipe and every activity with learning moments, seeing the collective tapestry of numbers woven into the everyday. How it was drudgery at first but came to be something you cherished looking back. I’d like for you to remember how you saw both your father and I falter and fall, yet rising up again in love and tenderness toward ourselves and toward you. I’ cherished our time huddled around a story, letting our (but mostly, Dillon’s) vocabulary burst with nonsensical phrases, the hilarity and belly laughter that ensued, the wrestling matches on the our wooly rug. . How we cherish seeing old friends at the field in front of the Senn. How we learned the unique songs of each little bird that came our way. How we planted tiny sunflower seeds that sprouted and towered over us all summer long as we tended to the tiny bit of earth entrusted to our care. How we refused to grow discontent because of our limited possessions and confined spaces. How we hoped the sunflower would smile upon our neighbor who was locked inside for the bulk of this time. How we noticed every beetle, bug, or slug that sojourned here. The needle felted messes made, the sparks that chased away the storms. I’ll never forget the tender moments that sprang from the chaos.