Mine to Share

Morning chores, before the rain

Three days of rain have reduced the snow to a slim crust that crackles underfoot. Gone the skiing. Gone the sledding. Gone the slate-clean sense of the land in slumber, the earth a hidden thing, hushed and invisible under the soft weight of all that white. Years ago, I was skiing in a snowstorm and saw the bough of a balsam fir break under the accumulated weight of snow. From time-to-time I still wonder about the particular snowflake that was one too many for that branch. One snowflake too many. Imagine that.

If I hadn’t complained in this space about people who complain about the weather, I’d complain about the weather. I’ve come to terms with pretty much every aspect of the variable and at times capricious weather of northern Vermont. And not just come to terms with it, but come to genuinely appreciate it. But rain on fresh snow? Rain when I’m just getting into a nice rhythm on the skis, a daily ramble down our field and back up, across Melvin’s high mowing and a few arcing turns on the steep hill behind his house, back along the tractor road through the cedars, and then into his back pasture, the tracks of my skis running over the meandering path of a nice sized deer, nosing for frozen orbs under an old apple tree. An hour and no more, just enough to work out the kinks of mind and muscle and furthermore retard the slow expansion of my waistline. When did that happen, anyway? I guess when I up and turned 40. I suppose that was my mistake.

The boys don’t seem to care about the rain. They’re far more adaptable and generally resourceful than am I, and they’re rarely willing to let the weather determine their fate. Most kids are inherently like this, I think. But most parents are not, so children inevitably learn that rain on snow is something to bemoan. They learn that zero is too cold , or that 95 is too hot, or that one should not set up camp in the woods on a 5-degree night. The other night, when Rye and I were sleeping out, I woke up cold. Not dangerously so, but still. Cold. “Rye,” I said, shaking him a bit to wake him. “I might have to go in.” (Translation: Rye, get the hell out of your sleeping bag, we’re going inside). “What?” he said, incredulously. “Can’t you just put on more clothes?” Then he pushed himself a little closer to me, a small offering of warmth, and went back to sleep. I put on my coat, wiggled my toes to be sure they were still responsive, and followed my son into slumber.

The longer we walk the homeschool/unschool path, the more I recognize all the ways in which it is not merely Penny and me facilitating our sons’ learning, but our sons facilitating ours. Maybe this is not true for all parents who keep their children out of school, but it sure is true for us. I suspect some of it has to do with the fact that Fin and Rye are passionate about their interests. Their passion does not always make things easy, that’s for darn sure. But it means that I’d have to try real hard to not learn from them. Part of what I’m learning, of course, is the passion itself. It’s the same thing I wrote about in my last post, that quiet inspiration of connecting with those who have found their path and are following it with intent.

Of course, it’s a little early to say whether or not my sons have “found their path,” and it would be ridiculous to speculate, anyway. As I have written many times before, their future is not mine to imagine. But one of the things I am most grateful for in relation for our choices surrounding Fin’s and Rye’s learning is that their present is mine to share. Their learning is my learning. Honestly, it’s the best damn education I never imagined getting.