Heartbeat of a Bird

Last week, I heard something soft brush against the window, and from the corner of my eye glimpsed a dark cloth drop heavy to the ground. Upon immediate investigation, Avella and I discovered it was actually a bird, wings outstretched, gasping on the doorstep. That soft brush to us was actually a mortal blow to this delicate creature who now lay stunned below the glass it had assumed to be continuous sky. 


This is not a very pretty story, because I suppose it is a story that carries the theme of the coming of winter -- about the change we call "loss", about the way we process it, called "mourning", and about the darkness that is that great stretch of unfathomableness just beyond our immediate perceptions. We didn't know what to do for this now-shivering little friend whose porcelain-like beak seemed to be gasping for breath. Avella wanted me to call the vet. To get a shoe box. To call an ambulance. Anything! I considered all options and grasped for more. The rational mind sought the most logical solution. I found myself grabbing a muslin towel from the kitchen. And returning outside I very carefully scooped up the little hurt bird into the towel and held it in my cupped hands, hoping to warm it. That's when I noticed the blood on the concrete. And the eye that didn't seem quite right. And to Avella's pleas for an end to the bird's pain, I could then just say, "There is nothing we can do. Only be with it." 


For twenty seconds, we huddled around the dying bird. For twenty seconds, I felt its pounding heartbeat in the palm of my hand. And as we watched, she gave a sudden last frantic flutter of  her wings, and then she was still. With the same gentle tone of voice that I used to declare our helplessness, I observed that our friend had flown away. To a place we could no longer see. The surrendered feathers were now limp and warm in my hands, and I could observe: how beautiful the glow of peace around a form newly left for other realms. We set about to dig a grave for the trappings left behind, and talked about what beautiful astral skies she must now be soaring through. It was a miniature lesson in loss. 


I share it because it came to mind in wanting to acknowledge what Mr. Gebeau expressed at our last meeting about the Marckx family moving away. And wanting to acknowledge perhaps what we all might be feeling, at least in part. I hadn't really thought about it this way until he said the word "death". That it was like a death for him, to experience the loss of such friends who have been such a huge part of our Sanderling family. And perhaps more difficult because so unexpected. A flutter of cloth from the corner of the eye, and suddenly someone so close is no longer part of the daily rhythm. 


This way of learning, teaching, and being, weaves things together. The moments of the day are woven into rhythms, song is woven into lessons, one subject is woven into another, fingers weave in knitting, bodies weave in Eurythmy, and day by day the children are woven into a family. So when one leaves, a hole is made. It is felt, and it is difficult. But what remains -- the glow of memories that still live in every member of the community, that still influence and nurture each soul to greater growth. And the knowing that the one who no longer occupies this space, is flying in skies just as bright, if not brighter -- seeing, experiencing, learning new things. Things we are sure to hear about. 


And of course, the good news is that this Kiki-bird is sure to fly back for visits now and then. Yes, it is difficult when things change and we are helpless to stop them -- no shoeboxes or ambulances to swoop in with a quick fix. But there are also the new opportunities that are created. Avella has a new pen pal. And we all have a new place to visit. :) And there is the ever-open possibility of welcoming new ones into this beautiful life-weaving. So this winter we can practice what we have been watching our children do in their festivals. Acknowledge the darkness (of our shrinking days), sit with the loss (of our precious sun), but out of it bring forth our own sparks of tenacious light. 

"Yes, it *is* hard!"

A little while ago, Anne encouraged me to start sitting in on Handwork class once a week or so. When I can, I do. And I learn. When one of the children in handwork class groans in exasperation and claims, "I can't *do* this! This is *hard*!" my first impulse is to come back immediately with a chipper, "Sure you can! You can do it!" Mrs. Mason's response to this situation? "Yes, it *is* hard! It's very hard!" And that is all. And it is true. I've never knitted in my life and when she handed me two wooden needles and a little roll of yarn, my fingers suddenly turned into sausages. What side door? Run around the how? In through which window, and where is Jack popping off to? Now when I hear Avella say that pearling is hard, I'm not so flippant with my auto-response encouragement. There is something dismissing about it, I realized. Especially coming from someone who has no idea what a struggle it really is. Now I sit next to her with my gorilla hands and my ten measly stitches and I say, "You bet this is hard!" 


When I first heard Thea validating the children's experience in this way, with the simplest mirroring of their own expression, I felt something alight inside me. Maybe it was that little bird that tends to flutter around seeking to be seen, and heard. It wants to know that its experience is real, and its feelings are valid. To not be able to rest in validation is exhausting. More exhausting than the difficulty of the task at hand -- whatever it might be. 


So yes, it is hard. But the children don't give up. And stitch by stitch the "hard" becomes something patterned, whole, and beautiful. 

Breath by breath, 

facing the obstacle, 

seeing the obstacle, 

naming the obstacle...

the fingers persist, 

and life is woven.  

PA Meeting November: Change & Sacrifice

Growing up Catholic, I delved just enough into the Old Testament to have indelibly impressed upon my soul some distant world where God was both awesome and terrible, and required horrendous things of those who loved him. Maybe it is the child who lives still shocked within me that sees in our new concrete-slab table (barrenly awaiting benches) a sacrificial alter every time I pass it, so many times each day. On the fringe of my thoughts I hear goats bleating, and slim knives sharpening, and can make out the ghostly shadow of Abraham, holding his eldest son firmly, gloomily by the shoulder. Is it the coming of winter that brings on these macabre thoughts? Whatever it is, I am reminded that there is a part of my soul still trying to understand these old stories -- still trying to understand the heart of the man who could bring himself kill his own beloved son at God's request. Or the heart of a God who could make such a request (whether he took it back or not.) There is a part of me still trying to understand the meaning, and purpose, of sacrifice. 


One of the main topics at our last PA meeting on December 1 was, of course, the location options of our intermediate site. Encinitas is not looking good so far. The most attractive, the most viable option right now would land us in San Marcos -- a 25-30 minute drive from the current site. The discussion that hummed around this news involved concerns about attrition due to the much longer commute (for some -- not for Meri -- though those 3 miles can be rough in high traffic I hear). And along with jokes about the new Brice Bus Business and a yoga studio in the parent's lounge, there was one consistent murmuring: Change. No matter where it is, what it is, no matter how attractive we make it, the transitional year involves the one thing that people fear most: Change. The Spring of our El Fuerte site is solidifying and taking shape more and more, but first we must creep into the Winter of our uncertain year. And deep within us all lies the primal fear: winter, darkness, death, the unknown... Change. And so here is where I'm coming back to the table. 


When I look at the biblical story of Abraham being asked to sacrifice his first born son metaphorically (thank you, college English classes), I see that without willingly surrendering our attachment to that which is most precious to us, our own growth, our own expansion into higher consciousness is not possible. On the outer level, what could be more precious than one's own child? On the inner level, what could be more precious than one's own ego, one's own concept of "self"? It is the ego that fears, the ego that suffers at the thought of change. It is the ego that clings to what is known, safe, and predictable. What super-human act of courage it must take to offer that up. (Not permanently, of course, as that would make getting around in the world a bit of a challenge.) But how beautiful if we could follow our children in taking up our apples to boldly enter the dark and winding path -- trusting the voice that asks of us to do so. Trusting that the light that has never yet let us down will still be there to warm and welcome us, to give us more than we need. 


Soon enough the weather will be warm, and there will be benches at our concrete slab table. And there will be family and friends gathered around it sharing laughter and good cheer. The macabre images will fade away along with apprehensions about uncertain futures. Because I believe in the beauty and necessity of our school. I believe in the power of our community to pull together to create. I believe that it is worth it for my daughter -- to unfold herself as a soul should, in the wise and compassionate rhythms of the living earth, with conscious souls to guide and walk with her. And I am willing to sacrifice my ego's attachments to comfort and predictability in order to stay with it.  

Spiral Musings

I almost deleted this photo of Avella from last night's spiral at first glance. But there is something ethereal about it, that captures a bit of the ethereal nature of the Winter Spiral itself. She is catching me watching her, but is captured before there is time to pose, or to change. And so I can see the softness of her silent self. And in the lines of cheek and chin, and the faraway look in her eye, I see my own child self.


As I'm sure happens with many parents, watching my daughter grow has allowed me the opportunity to heal through each parallel phase of my own childhood. She is just now entering the phase of life that, in my own path, began to grow dark and difficult. I thought, watching the children walking through the spiral, how difficult it is to make one's way in the darkness. The path is only made clear once the center has been found, and the light therein slowly, slowly brought forth -- not even for oneself, but for others, that their way might not be so difficult. I couldn't have known, at eight years old, that I had embarked on a tremulous, spiraling journey into the unknown. But as the years grew harder, and the darkness more viscous and menacing, I felt the journey keenly. I just didn't realize that it was toward my own light that I was moving. I simply followed the next step in front of me, as the children did to find their way to the center. 


As I re-live my eighth year through my daughter, I can re-visit, and re-form, my memories. I can walk with her through the sacred spiral, coiled like a cocoon of earth's gifts to us, and "remember" that I was so guided, too. Though I felt I was alone -- as we all must ultimately be on our own soul's journey -- I can "remember" that a sacred space was held for me by silent, loving witnesses to my searching, and my growth. Though I could barely see the next step before me, though I stumbled often, and was singed time and again through frustrated carelessness, loving eyes walked with me, as I so walked with my daughter. 


Perhaps this winter dance with the darkness and the light will stay with her in the fabric of her soul, so that when life grows heavy, and the days long and bleak, she will remember where she can turn for solace and reassurance. She will remember the courageous walk inward, and ever inward, where the source of light is found. And she can gather the faith she needs from the well within her heart. 

Winter Spiral Magic

The Winter Spiral Fairies delivered all of the apples to Mr. Gebeau's class after Thursday's PA meeting and put them in the new mini-fridge that also suddenly appeared there. (For those who haven't seen -- our parent holiday gift to Jason so the paints can be kept nice and fresh. And the apples, too.)

What our room looked like this morning:

A Few Stolen Images from Winter Spiral:

Coring for Winter Spiral

Marcel and I realized, as we blinked at the 26 organic apples spread before us on the counter, that neither of us had ever cored apples in the manner of Waldorf Winter Spiral. We had the tools, and we knew what the end result was supposed to resemble. So we plunged forward. The first 12 were pretty good, considering this was attempt number one.

But then the Waldorf Angels whispered a tiny tip into my ear and I tried something that might save future Winter Spiral Corers a little grief. (It's not easy digging out half-cores with a knife.) So I'm documenting here:

How to Core a Winter Spiral Apple

What you need: simple corer & a small paring knife

Twist in your corer between 1/2 and 2/3 of the way

Stick the point of your paring knife down the center of the core and twist

Sometimes it breaks in half, but it's still easier -- comes out pretty clean!

No jagged edges for the candles :)

Why this Blog?

A group of Sanderling birds is called a "grain". Grain is the staple that nourishes and sustains us -- Mother Earth's perennial gift to her children. A grain of sand calls to mind William Blake's innocent words: 

"To see a world in a grain of sand, 

And a heaven in a wild flower, 

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,

And eternity in an hour." 

Our "Grain of Sanderlings" is all of this: our 2nd Grade "peeps" on the beach, shuttling their little bodies across the sand according to the rhythms of the world around them. It is our choice to educate our children in a way that nurtures and sustains the heart as well as the mind, as bread -- made with a million miraculous, mundane seeds of the earth -- nurtures the body. And it is this wondrous and sometimes difficult journey we have undertaken to slow down and see the beauty and wonder that exists right before us in the smallest details. In the rub of chalk across the page. In the well-woven stitch. In the song that spills easily from our children's growing hearts. Here is eternity -- available to us in every moment. The opportunities for noticing are mundanely waiting, like so many grains of sand. 


And, on a more straightforward and practical level, this is a place for us to help one another:


- stay informed about class events
- have clarity on what is expected of us in volunteer roles
- seek and share ideas from all before making important decisions
- post photos, articles, recipes, songs related to festivals, field trips, or special events
- express personal insights and experiences related to our children's education
- whatever else we want and need it to be


It is a beautiful opportunity we all have now -- to give our children the kind of experience I'm sure we all wish we *could have* had. But we get to have it now -- through our children's process, and through the process of being a part of this community. Figuring things out. Creating as we go. Listening. Watching. Letting ourselves open to wonder as our children are learning to do. I for one am very grateful for this opportunity, and grateful to have parents like all of you to travel with.