Back to (Boat)School

The beginning of a school year can be a lonely time for homeschooling moms.  Several friends echoed my melancholy sentiments and said it wasn’t just because I moved away—I would be lonely even in my old environment. Some of the children’s friends go back to school and are no longer available to get together at convenient times, and the moms are either running the kids to and from school and various lessons and practices, or, like me, are hitting the books with their own kids and have time for little else. Of course, unlike me, they tend to live in regular neighborhoods in houses that stay put, with friends that mostly stay put. I am learning to be content to have Jay and the kids as my only daily companions—we have become a very close family (in more ways than one!).

Aside from a few moments of missing my friends and what used to be normal routines, I am really happy here, and our school year is going really well. Last year, we were constantly coming and going, packing and unpacking, so to have entire uninterrupted weeks and months to focus on our unit studies, I feel like we are making up for lost time this fall. Sam is a little older, too, so he can sit still on my lap while I read, and can be given things to do on his own while I teach the older kids and help them stay on task.

We just finished a unit study entitled, “Myths, Legends, and Fables” which introduced Ancient Greece and covered everything from Hercules to Aesop.  That morphed into an additional month of astronomy, of course, with almost all the heavenly bodies in some way related to the ancient names and stories. I learned so much—I was a good student, but I feel like there were things missing in my education that I am now learning as I teach my children.

It makes perfect sense for us to homeschool our children—what school would tolerate our schedule? Who would give a five year-old second grade work? Since when is tree climbing part of the P.E. curriculum? And aside from my objections to public school in general, the main reasons we homeschool our children have nothing to do with escaping negative things, but rather being drawn to all the positives.

I love homeschooling my children. It is not always easy (actually, it is rarely easy), but I do love spending my days adventuring through books, through history, and through nature with these interesting, intelligent, and funny people. I would hate to miss out on all their successes and failures; I want to be the one to see the mental light bulbs switch on, and to help them to persevere through disappointments.

I also have the insider’s view on the developing relationships between siblings, which brings both joy and frustration. I spend a lot of time teaching conflict resolution, but there are also precious moments. Last night I taught Sam and Sarah the art of snuggling; we climbed into Sarah’s bunk and sang songs and told stories, wiggled and tickled. The only way I could get Sam to climb down and go to sleep in his own berth was to promise more tomorrow! I frequently have to hush the boys at night as their storytelling gets out of hand with sound effects and fits of laughter. I have often wondered if the relationships in my own family growing up would have been closer without the pressures of a school schedule and social strata. I see that although it is nice to have other families with whom we can get together for play time, we are a pretty self-sufficient unit. I am very glad we have four children as they provide plenty of social interaction for each other (and us!).

I love that we don’t have to rush. We can go at whatever pace is necessary; slow down to savor the good stuff, speed up when things are going smoothly, or take time off when we need it. Because we opted to live on a boat and forgo the “normal” life, we also don’t have lots of running in different directions like headless chickens. I apologize to any of you who may read this and take offense—there’s nothing wrong with being on a schedule or being busy, it’s just that we’d rather be on “island time.”

I love the planning part of teaching perhaps more than the implementation, and that fun is doubled in homeschooling because I can draw on such a wide variety of resources: field trips relevant to our unit of study, cultural events, art exhibits, local parks and nature preserves, the public library, and anything else that you can imagine. Things seem to providentially fall into place, making the synthesis easy. Pertinent library books practically jump off the shelves into my hands, the museum of which we are members hosts exhibits that coincide with our studies as if on command and everything flows very naturally from school to real life.  

Last, but perhaps greatest, I know that I am doing something meaningful and enduring with my life. Not only can I infuse my children’s education with cohesive, interconnected and meaningful studies, but I will be simultaneously learning and expanding my own understanding. I will never regret the time and energy investment as we will all be reaping the rewards, perhaps for a few generations. Our closeness as a family is worth every difficulty we may face in this journey.

I can’t say whether anyone else should or should not homeschool their children. I only know that there is nothing else I would rather be doing with my life. I have my dream job: mother-teacher- baker-writer-sailor. Lucky, lucky me.

I try to tell him often how thankful I am for all he does, but I’d like to brag about Jay publicly for a moment. Over the past year, he has shown me again and again why he is not only the perfect husband for me, but also why there’s no one else I’d rather go adventuring with. I mean, the dude can fix anything. You name it, he’s done it: plumbing toilets and sinks, water tanks, electrical, water heater, air conditioning, engine repair—even epoxy and Awl Grip are no match for Jay.

It is true he is not the most romantic or communicative man around, and we all have our areas of weakness, but he is so good at plodding along, one foot in front of the other, toward a goal. I admire his ability to detach emotionally from a problem and find a way to solve it.  (Maybe that’s why he’s no Romeo—I am a bit like a problem that needs solving, sometimes…) I know it is hard for him to balance work, projects, and family time, not to mention selling a house, traveling cross-country and trying to enjoy a little time on the water.

The tasks Jay takes on are often Herculean, but with his sensible nature, he reminds us all that slow and steady wins the race. (Can you tell we are studying Ancient Greece in our homeschool right now, with a focus on myths and fables?) Someday, our home will sail into the distance because he, little by little, discovered what makes this boat tick and repaired the things that don’t tick quite right. I just love that man.

Today I mark the passing of a friend. Sibyl was someone we met here, a friend of a friend on our dock. I will miss her greatly. I wrote this poem in tribute; she was a bird lover, an ornithologist as well as marine biologist. Her two cockatoos, Scout and Spike, were favorites with my kids. 

For Sibyl

I hope it doesn’t sound absurd
To say my friend was like a bird:

Often fussy, known to preen,
But sensitive to things unseen.

Sometimes silly, sometimes wise,
She had the knowing kind of eyes.

Always friendly and gregarious,
Loved to cackle, often hilarious.

Ruffled or flustered, would sometimes brood,
Needed some coaxing to alter her mood.

Had a gentle and caring way about her—
I can’t imagine the world without her.

Sometimes she tired of her earthly cage
And flapped and battered clipped wings in rage.

I wished for nothing more than this: that she
Could fly from her troubles and be free.

Fly free, my friend, fly free.

We always move the first week of August—it’s tradition.  So I wasn’t really surprised when Jay, upon reflecting that the summer was almost gone and we weren’t making any forward progress, declared that it was time to move.  Sunday, August 2nd (our twelfth anniversary, incidentally) marked the last time we packed up our things after visiting the boat. Monday we made it home. Although there are logistical challenges to making this kind of move, the real test is a mental one. Yesterday the house on dirt was called “home,” and today the floating house is called “home.”  We drove back and forth all week, loading and unloading the boat, and the house, and made frequent slips, saying, “I’m going home to get such-and-such, I mean, I’m going to the house…” Or, the kids, asking, “Are we going home yet?” and I unsure how to answer. 

All that confusion has now come to an end. After a year of flying between two nests, the mama bird has come home to roost. I write from my now-tidied and organized, cozy, little salon. The galley is crammed with kitchen gadgets I have learned to live without, and now appreciate more than ever, and the bookshelves are loaded with my most prized possessions, the few that are left after a savage culling. I have given away 15 boxes of books, so far, and will have to store the leather-bound volumes an old friend left to me when she no longer needed them. I brought only what I considered “necessities” but Jay’s condemning look as he loaded my homeschool boxes was almost more than I could bear. What have I weighed us down with that I really could do without?  I don’t know the answer to that question, because I’ve never done this before.

What is really mortifying is how much stuff we have left over. Anyone who knows me knows I seek to live a “simple” life—we don’t even know the Joneses, let alone try to keep up with them. We moved back to Florida to downsize, donating everything from our Atlanta basement, and have continued to make regular trips to drop things off at the Hospice Thrift Shop and Salvation Army. So it is truly shocking to see what is left after I have been hard at work for two months giving things away. Now that we are out of the house, I have been ruthless, but still, every time I open a closet or kitchen drawer, more stuff grins out at me. Where did it come from? Did we really think we needed it?  I feel that I am a great hypocrite (which I surely am): I who profess to be un-materialistic, have amassed a quantity of material things.  Many of these things are gifts which we graciously received, or duplicate sets of things from living in two places at once, but many were purchased frivolously, lumped into the “grocery” budget because Costco sells oh-so-much-more than food.  You know how I love a good sermon, so here’s one for me, “But if we have food and clothing, we will be content with that.” 1 Timothy 6:8.  Only in trying to get rid of it have I seen how much more we possess than we need.

My one great joy in this cleansing process has been that so many have come into our lives needing exactly the things I am giving away.  That has made it easy to part with things which I would otherwise begrudgingly donate. We have all made small sacrifices to pursue this dream—giving away toys and books is hard for our children, too. The only “things” we haven’t yet parted with: Sugar and Spice, the family cats. I don’t think they want to spend their golden years surrounded by water, but we won’t be satisfied with less than a happy home to which to send them. Maybe someone out there is lonely for a pair of spinster cat sisters—I just hope we find that person soon!

A lot of bird activity lately. We noticed two things when we got down to the boat this weekend. Lots of berry-colored “residue” all over the deck and blackbirds we occasionally have to shake off the top of the mast.  Second, a mob of seagulls fighting over the pilings of the breakwater surrounding the marina. I like waking up to bird noises because it reminds me that I’m in my bed on the water, but this is ridiculous—the squawking and screaming of what sounds like hundreds of gulls, but really is just dozens of bickering birds. The unspoken rule seems to be “one bird per piling” although there’s plenty of room for two or three, and there are often empty pilings further along the sea wall. I’ll notice a lull—everyone seems happy for the time being—each bird preening or resting on his own piling. Then a new bird comes along, or one that decided to move to a new piling, and as he tries to alight, he sets the entire flock to squawking. The conversation, if I may be so bold as to translate from Gull-ese, would go something like this:

“No, you can’t land here, this piling is occupied.”
“No, not here either.”
“Go away!”
“Hey, that’s no fair. Did you see that? He took my spot! Here, move over and let me share.”
“I don’t care what he did to you, you can’t share my piling!”
“Can’t have mine either”
“He took her piling! I can’t believe this. We should all move over and make more space.”
“You make some space; I’m staying here. This is my piling.”

On and on it continues, for about ten minutes. Then everyone gets settled again and there is peace for a few moments. Does this remind you of anyone you know? Sadly, I recognize that pattern from our own house, or boat, rather, with a few small changes: “He pinched me.” “She took my toy without asking.” “He broke something he didn’t build.” “She’s hogging the potty.” “He hit me.”  I often ignore the petty bickering, allowing the children the opportunity to practice conflict resolution on their own, or, if it merits my attention, step in as arbitrator (I try not to play judge-and-jury).  My husband mused recently that the boys would have fewer arguments if they didn’t share a room, something that would actually be dire punishment to them both.

Anyone who has had to downsize will recognize the temporary difficulties of diminished personal space. It feels for a little while as if you are on top of each other—arguments flare up, shared items are in constant demand by two or more parties, and no one can get away from the offending person or situation. And then everyone finds a little space of their own and things settle down for awhile. Really, the whole world is like that. Just as there may be plenty of space further down the sea wall and the birds bicker over a few more-desirable spots, the whole world seems to want the same piece of real estate—like Israel, for example. There’s plenty of room in Siberia, but nobody wants that piling. Why can’t we all just get along?

The answer is that we humans are hopelessly selfish, squabbling and grasping endlessly for our own wants and needs—we come out of the womb saying “Mine!” (If you don’t believe me, you must not have ever lived with a newborn.) And the solution to the problem? There is only one cure for selfishness. It is an accursed and nearly-impossible feat, akin to suicide: slay the self. I am no proponent of drinking the tainted Kool-Aid, mind you, merely of placing my needs in their proper place, under the authority of the Creator-God and His law of love. Ironically, when one gives himself entirely to God (not merely to a set of religious beliefs or rules), He re-establishes that self in its true form, as it was created to be. I am never more myself than when I have denied myself for another’s sake. I am then the nobler, truer, braver, freer self—not because of self-love, but because I love another enough to consider his needs first.

A loving family is the perfect place to learn this. Though it would temporarily solve the problem. we are not going to send everyone to their own Siberia to have peace and quiet. We are instead going to do the opposite and force people to work their problems out and stick together until they find fellowship. (I once chained my two oldest boys together and made them stay that way all day. Their crying turned to laughing by lunch time, when they simply had to cooperate to get any eating accomplished. I have no idea how they managed the bathroom.) I can’t say that I know the secret to living well in close quarters, as we are still struggling quite a bit with our selfish natures. But, somehow in the confined space in which we find ourselves, better, truer and nobler people are being forged.  Whatever solution you may come up with on your own, the problem of selfishness results in nothing short of war, whether it be fighting over pilings, toys, or property. When put into a cramped space where we don’t get what we think we deserve, humans are no better than bickering birds.