I’m learning to knit.

A few years ago, I started following the blogs of some avid knitters. Inspired, I asked one of my girlfriends to teach me. At her house, she showed me how to cast on and do the basic stitches. Over the next few months, I practiced at home and saw my friend whenever I needed help (which was often).

After taking a break from knitting for a couple years, I started back up this winter. Another girlfriend took on the role of instructor this time, helping me select the right yarn and needles, and patiently sitting beside me while I wrestled with sticks and dropped stitches. On my own I watched Youtube videos to learn terminology and form. When stuck (which is often), I take my knitting to church in hopes of cornering my friend (or any of the expert knitters in the congregation, for that matter) and begging a little help. Learning to knit has been painstakingly slow and tedious. It has also been immensely satisfying.

Learning to knit involves the same process—inspiration, getting help, trial and error, and diligence—I use to tackle other endeavors, such as blogging, parenting, sourdough bread making, money management, photography, and gardening. Sometimes I learn as much as I need to be functional and then I quit. Sometimes I lose interest and slack off. Sometimes I push myself with something all together different like belly dancing, up and moving to another country, or cheese making. But the key components to my learning always remain the same.

Am I learning to knit so I can be a professional knitter? To manage our money to become an economist? To garden so I can open a stand at the Farmers Market? No, of course not. I’m learning all these things because I have chosen to, either out of necessity or desire.

Learning is all about acquiring new skills and information. We learn because we are curious, because we need to, because we enjoy it. The neat thing is, when learning is self-motivated, the lines blur between need and want. I need to learn how to raise my children because I want them to thrive. I want to learn to knit because I need to do something creative. I need to learn how to manage my finances because I want to be in charge of my money.

Children are naturally self-motivated. They are boldly curious and exhaustingly tireless. Their dogged determination is unnerving. Just ask their parents.

Which leads me to wonder: why do we allow adults to be the masters of their learning but not children?

And here, my friends, is where it all breaks down. Are all the lectures, worksheets and tests that revolve around information—the prepositions, parts of a cell, state capitals, etc.—truly necessary? What must children learn in order to be well-adjusted and productive adults? Is it the particulars that are important, and if so, which ones and why? Or is it curiosity, self-awareness, and the ability to know how to learn that will get our children where they want to go?

I rarely do library visits by myself anymore. The children love to go, and, for the most part, don’t bother me as I stomp all over the building, violently yanking books from the stacks. Plus, I need the children to help haul the books to the car.

Most mornings before lunch, we all pile onto the sofa and the kids bring me fearsome heaps that demonstrate their ability to dream big. I read only library books, and each one only once. Even so, we’re pushing it to make our way through all the books before we must return them.

A couple library trips ago, I ran into a friend of mine who happens to be an expert on children’s literature. She pointed me in the direction of the biographical picture books and now I’m hooked. Along with the Berenstain Bears and Frog and Toad, we read stories about Harriet Tubman, Michael Jordan, Rosa Parks, Jane Goodall, and Franklin Roosevelt. We read about Grandma Moses (she lived right here in this valley!) and look up her artwork on the internet. We read about Gregor Mendel and his peas and then, because the children are so fascinated, I use brown and blue crayons to map out the genetics of their eye colors. We read about Dr. Seuss which inspires the kids to search our shelves for all his books and go on a Seuss-reading jag. And we read about Casey Jones, I spy the recipe for Hobo Beans at the end of the book, make them, and suddenly we have a new family favorite.

The children went absolutely crazy-nuts for these beans. They ate fast and heaped their plate with seconds. The boys, especially, couldn’t stop raving. “What do you mean these are hobo beans?” my older son said. “They should be called kingly beans!”

I put the leftovers in the freezer and my children have rebuked me ever since.

“Why did you freeze them!”
“We want to eat them now!”
“When will you get them out?”
“Can we have them for supper tonight?”

Moral: library books are nourishing in more ways than one.

Hobo Beans
Adapted from a recipe found in Casey Jones, retold by Larry Dane Brimner.

This recipe is similar to a thick chili. I served it in bowls (no condiments), with cornbread and a green salad. It would also be good ladled over rice or egg noodles, or served with biscuits or mountains of buttered toast.

I’m not sure of the exact quantity of the beans I used. I had a huge pot simmering on the stove, and I just scooped from there. Perhaps two quarts of cooked beans? Three? Also, the beans had been flavored with garlic, onion, tomatoes, and chile cobanero.

Do not omit the pineapple.

3-6 slices bacon, chopped and cooked till crispy
2 pounds ground beef
1-2 large onions, chopped
1 pound dried red beans, cooked
1 cup crushed pineapple, briefly drained
1 cup brown sugar, gently packed
1 pint tomato sauce (I used roasted)
1 tablespoon mustard
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
splash of vinegar

Fry the bacon in a large skillet. Remove the bacon with a slotted spoon and set aside. Add the ground beef and onions to the pan (don’t remove the bacon grease!) and fry until browned and thoroughly cooked.

Combine the cooked beef, the bacon, and all remaining ingredients in a slow-cooker. Cook on high-heat for a couple hours until bubbling. Let simmer a couple more hours so the flavors meld. Serve hot.

This latest Sunday school class, the one where we had a panel of homeschool parents, was both wonderful and frustrating.

It was wonderful because the panel participants reflected a wide range of homeschool practices and approaches and were concise and deeply personal in the sharing of them. It was also wonderful because the room was filled with people who listened hard and asked thoughtful questions. The frustrating part was that the post-panel conversation never got to the heart of education: learning.

This is curious. Because if, in a conversation specifically dedicated to education, a group of people (academics, no less!) can completely sidestep the central reason for an educational system—teaching knowledge to our children—maybe learning isn’t what education is all about? Wouldn’t that be something.

Back when I met with the Sunday school class leaders—two friends who are advocates of the public school system—I found myself struggling to explain why lumping homeschooling in with public and private schooling felt wrong. It was like a question on an achievement test: circle the one item in the group that doesn’t belong. In this case, the answer, of course, would be homeschooling.

See, when discussing public and private schooling, the conversation takes place within a framework of Institution. But homeschooling is outside of that framework. Homeschooling takes the concept of education and strips away all the trappings. As a result, the conversation immediately becomes extremely basic: what is learning and how do we go about doing it?

Except that we can’t get to that conversation!

In the class response time, I sensed a deep opposition to and anxiety about homeschooling from a few of the people. I’m beginning to wonder if these strong emotions might be a result of our Anabaptist/Mennonite history.

See, a few generations back, the Mennonite church separated itself from the world by dress (for those of you who aren’t familiar with Mennonites, think Amish but not quite). After a couple generations, the church stopped with the head coverings and cape dresses and became “worldly” again, but then the church struggled with how to be relevant to the world. For some Mennonites (as well as for many other Christians regardless of denomination) (so maybe this is a Christian issue?), transforming the country’s institutions, such as the public school system, through hands-on involvement became tremendously important. As a result, when church members pull their children out of the school system to educate at home, to these social justice minded Mennonites it feels like the church is, once again, in danger of becoming irrelevant.

Of course, I don’t know this for a fact. I’m just wondering.

Funny thing is, none of the parents on the panel decided to homeschool out of opposition to the school system. They just wanted to teach their children at home.

People who opt out of the school system are no more shunning society than people who plant vegetable gardens. Sure, some people are delightfully radical about their vegetables; they grow food so they can be self-reliant, or because they feel it is their moral and ethical responsibility. But more often then not, people (even the ones who are radical about it) grow vegetables because they find joy in coaxing food from dirt.

Newsflash: plucking onions from the soil with your own two dirty hands instead of purchasing them in a plastic mesh bag under florescent lighting doesn’t make a person irrelevant to society. It makes a person a gardener.

Isn’t it the freedom to discover what brings us joy at the heart of a healthy society? Aren’t our very differences—our lifestyle choices, religious practices, and values—what makes us interesting?

Homeschooling is simply a different way of educating our children. It’s a personal choice, and that, in itself, is enough to make it a relevant one.