“Hey, Jennifer,” a fellow congregant mouthed to me under his breath as we entered the sanctuary last Sunday morning. “I have to tell you something that happened on my flight.”

So after the service, in the fellowship hall…

Him: On the plane, I sat beside this woman who homeschools her kids, except she doesn’t use any structure!

Me: Yeah, that’s called unschooling.

Him: No curriculum, no structure, no nothing! And her husband is in the military. Isn’t that weird?

Me: Well, no curriculum doesn’t mean an absence of structure. They probably make their own schedule. Unschooling is actually a pretty big thing in the homeschooling world.

And then I listed off names of mutual acquaintances that practice no-curriculum learning. I wished I could add our names to the list, but I can’t count myself in that camp. At least, not … yet.

Clarification: I’m not crazy about the term “unschooling.” I think it sounds negative, defensive, and in-your-face. I prefer the term Self-Directed Learning—you know, that crazy wonderful thing that kids do from the get-go and that adults do all the time? It’s also more commonly known as Just Living.

I’ve been doing lots of reading about how children, when left to their own devices, delve into all kinds of interesting things, pushing themselves to grow and develop in amazing ways. Oodles of studies, coupled with (even just a minimal dose of) Common Sense, says we learn best when we have the freedom to follow our interests. When taking a close look at the effects of self-directed learning, it’s clear that these people—the ones who have been encouraged to practice it from the very beginning—do just fine in life. In many cases they do even better—far better—than the average Joe Shmoe.

On the one hand I get this. I believe it. It makes sense.

And yet, I haven’t chosen this homeschooling method for our family because … I’m afraid.

What am I afraid of? Oh, you know, the normal stuff. I’m afraid:

*my children won’t be equipped to get what they want to get out of life.
*my children will turn into lumpies that roll around on the floor all day long moaning about how bored they are (like their mother does—one of us per household is plenty nuff, I say).
*they won’t challenge themselves to work hard.
*they won’t push themselves out of their comfort zone.
*they’ll be lazy.
*I’ll feel at loose ends because I’ll have to abdicate my rights as Brilliant Big Boss.

But wait a sec. Aren’t these the same concerns that most parents have? WILL OUR CHILDREN SUCCEED, we stress. ARE WE DOING ENOUGH. IS THIS THE RIGHT WAY. And so to tamp down our freak-out anxiety, we push and prod and boss because it gives us the illusion that we’re in control. Illusions are so comforting. (They also happen to be lies.)

So anyway. I’m telling you all this because I’m in the midst of some serious self-examination with the very real side possibility of change. The threat of a comfort zone shake-up jacks up the stakes a bit. My mind is roiling. What do all these words and ideas actually mean for our family? Am I audacious enough to make such a switch?

(I wonder what my husband will say when he reads this. Um, Honey? What do you think? Need a brown bag to breathe into?)

As I contemplate making a shift, I’ve been thinking about each of my children. How would they respond to full-time self-directed learning? I’m fairly relaxed about the younger children’s studies, so it’s mainly the two older ones who would be most affected. My older daughter is what I’d call a natural at self-directed learning. She’s a go-getter with defined passions. My older son, on the other hand, is much less specific in his interests. He’s relational, an idea-person, but with no (apparent) fire under his butt.

The other night I presented him with a scenario. “Son,” I said, “what if I told you that you are no longer a student? Instead, you are a researcher and Papa and I are your support team. We’ll get you what you need in order to research what you’re interested in. Say we did this—what would you want to research, hm?”

He couldn’t come up with anything. Which made me wonder: maybe not everyone has the ability to be a self-directed learner? Maybe some people need to be directed and pushed?

A couple days ago, exasperated by the disparity between the articles I was reading (kids are amazing! let them do their own thing!) and the lack of drive I was observing in my own child, I called up an unschooling mom (who refers to their style of education as Life Learning). Turns out, her young teen has similar issues.

So then I started to wonder: maybe this lackadaisical attitude is normal at this age? Maybe most kids are like this, but our culture masks it with the busybusy of sports, classes, and clubs? Maybe Floundering is an important developmental stage?

I settled back on the sofa and resumed my reading. Just a few minutes in, I happened upon an article in which a young teenager said of early adolescence, “It’s kind of like being a snake, getting read to shed its skin. When they are getting to shed their skin, their eyes cloud completely over and they have no idea where they are going.”

I shot up off the couch, crowing with glee because Yes, that’s it EXACTLY. Young teens! Clouded-over eyes! Molting skin! Can I get an amen?

Growth can’t be rushed, not mine, not my children’s. It happens from the inside out. Understanding and accepting this is the first step towards self-directed learning.

I’m not there just yet, but I do believe I’m on my way.

Written with inspiration from Natural Born Learners: Unschooling and Autonomy in Education, Freedom to Learn (which I already told you about), the blog of Penelope Trunk, the blog of Peter Gray, etc.

Photos brought to you by The Puppy Cuteness Overload Board.

This same time, years previous: three things, weight in, please, my ethical scapegoat, on slaying boredom, cilantro beet salad, the quotidian (6.25.12), dark chocolate zucchini cake, chocolate peanut butter cake, spaghetti with fresh herbs and fried eggs, a break in the clouds, sour cherry crostatas, driving lesson, lemon ice cream with red raspberries, slushy mojitos, beef empanadas, honeyed apricot almond cake, oregano, garlic, and lemon roast chicken, there’s a red beet where my head used to be, and brown bread.

Last night I sat on the porch swing and cried my way through to the end of The Fault in our Stars. I don’t make it a practice of crying when I read books (unless I’m reading them out loud—then I’m completely worthless), but this one shot my record all to smithereens.

Actually, “cry” isn’t the right word. I sobbed, complete with snot, chest-heaving, and guttural sound effects.  My older daughter kept peering out the window and saying, “Gosh, Mom,” and then yelling to the rest of the family, “You oughta see her! She’s really crying!”

It was all good though. There was no trauma in the emotional turmoil, no fear or angst, just a piercing sadness mixed with profound peace. Cleansing therapy, it was.

Then I made my husband stay up until midnight watching Her with me. Poor guy was crawling out of his skin, but he stuck with it.

So today I’m in recovery. I baked a pie, fed the kids leftovers for lunch, supervised some deep cleaning, and just finished off a piece of boozy chocolate cake. I’m contemplating curling up and doing some more reading—exactly three books are calling my name, lucky me—but I’m trying to balance all the reading with a small bit of writing output.

Which I just did, so now I’m done, good-bye.

PS. Photo: courtesy of Just Because.

This same time, years previous: walking through water, the quotidian (6.19.12), refried beans, what I got, cabbage apple slaw with buttered pecans, swiss chard rolls, and strawberry margarita cake.  

Last weekend I was in a play. It was a small affair—it ran just two nights—about Elder John Kline who was assassinated in these here parts back in 1864. I played Orra Langhorne (what were her parents thinking, naming her Orra?!). I had two monologues, and that was that.

Confession: I wasn’t too keen on doing monologues. Dialogue is fun and monologues are rather lonely affairs. But I decided that I might as well tackle the evil monologue because it’s good to have a handle on these things. You never know when they’ll come in handy, right? Besides, I’ve been wanting to learn more about theater and the director would be working with me one-on-one, so it’d kind of be like a tutoring workshop/class. Which is what it was, so that was nice. Says Pollyanna.

Anyway. Friday night’s show went down smooth as cream. Saturday’s show, not so much.

For my role, I dressed English (as opposed to plain Mennonite/Brethren) in a blue gown and hoop skirt. My bangs got ringletted and the rest of my (short) hair got twisted back, pinned to the breaking point, sprayed to death with liquid concrete, and covered with a knitted snood. I looked like a cross between Miss O’Brian and Louisa May Alcott.

So Saturday night, I walked out on stage to say my piece. The lights went up and I started talking. A few sentences in and I was suddenly struck with the awful realization that my snood was slipping. It’d gone all loose on the right side and the left side was pinching something fierce, probably because the whole thing was hanging from just a few pins.

I couldn’t touch my snood because my hands were full of pencil and notebook. Besides, there’d be nothing I could do about it if it was dangling. So I angled my head this way and that, trying to catch a glimpse of my shadow. Then it occurred to me that I’d soon have to stand up and turn, making the slipping snood completely visible to the audience. Should I not turn? Should I just halfway angle myself? Oh dear.

The whole time this was going on, I was talking talking talking…about conveyance of property and hanks of blue thread and the lives of Union men being in danger. Or at least that’s what I think I was saying. For all I know, I was telling a tale about Scooby Doo bouncing a soccer ball over the moon.

Really, it was the oddest thing. I could see my running commentary, complete with words and punctuation, scrolling across the right side of my brain. And the left side of my brain was carrying the script. I couldn’t—or wouldn’t?—shut off my internal chatter. It was as though in the absence of fellow cast members to push against, I was upping the ante to keep myself engaged.

I have no idea if signs of my internal battle were visible to the audience. But I do know that I must do better at controlling my mind. When I’m not present in the moment, all the joy goes out of acting. Which kinda defeats the whole purpose, me thinks.

Next show’s in August: Kiss the Moon, Kiss the Sun. I’m the doctor. Bonus: no monologues, no slipping snoods.

PS. Turns out, my snood was not slipping. My mic was taped extra tight which created a pulling sensation.

This same time, years previous: magic custard cake, a dare, cold-brewed iced tea and coffee, and how to freeze spinach.