Every once in a while I just stop writing. Sometimes the busy-ness of life seems to drive away all of my thoughts of picking up my pen and paper. Other times, I just lose the desire, the drive, and the urge to write. My mind is worn out and tired, and refuses to be pressed for ideas and the words to give them shape. Occassionally frustration is at the root of my seeming inability to write. My frustration towards my style, inexperience, and lack of ideas can cause my lack of motivation.

Last night I layed in my bed, thinking about what all I accomplished today. I did a science test, and got a B, I listened to my mum read about the bald egeal and how it ties into a Bible charictor. I looked at a fly under a microscope and made many observations. I was a game leader at a VBS. I caught up in my laundry, and went outsid and fed the animals. I know that I am not the busyiest, hardworking and definately not the smartest person in the world, but I'm also not the lazyiest, dumb person in the world. For that, I am greatful.

Riding in the car as the sun sets and darkness begins to cover the world. The rain falls and I feel the need to jump out of the moving car and stand in the rain and let it run down my face the way it runs down the window. And so I press my face against the glass, or plastic, or whatever windows are made of, and try to feel the water. I sit back and close my eyes and listen to the rain hit the roof. It's Mother Nature's music, her grand symphony. These are the times I realize how huge life is. The thunder crashes reminding me how much power the earth has.

Once upon a time--indeed upon the beginning of time as we know it--there lived a wizard.

Not the sort of wizard that wears a blue robe with bright yellow stars on it, and sits and stirs a cauldron all day. No, he was a real wizard.”

“What did he look like?” Rannon interrupted.

The old man laughed, at the old familiar question. “You know,” he said, “I think that question has become every bit as much a part of the story as the story itself!”

Wandering by the pond
I stop and see
The form of me
There, looking back.
Like a magic wand
The wind has moved
The pond and proved
Another world, beyond.

Wandering through the grass
I look and see
Up above me
The sun's bright globe.
And there in the pond
The Heaven's world
Is taken, swirled,
And thrown back up, renewed.

1.
It is a cool, lazy Thursday afternoon and I am cleaning stalls while waiting for my three o’clock lesson to arrive. On one of my many journeys to and from the shavings shed, I pause a while outside the back pasture. Sitting on my comfortable log, wiping my brow, I watch the horses interact as they jostle for the last of the winter hay.

Here I pause,
a brief respite
from all the going,
talking, living.
A time just for being.
Here I sit
in a jewel-tone world
breathing in the blue
and green and gold.
A moment
swift and separate
from our fleeting lives.
Here, I exist,
simply myself,
more in the earth,
and more withdrawn.
My soul quiets.
Hours spill like water
through my hands.
Here I cross
over the boundaries,
remain still and silent
along the road,
stepping outside
the journey.

The trees swayed in the moonlight.
Dancing! Singing! Throughout the night.
The sounds of trees calling stirred the air
The water came up to meet them there.
Into a dome it formed itself surrounding all within.
Into the circle stepped a creature.
Who’s roar was like the wind.
Who was as quick and swift as shadow.
Who knew when all would come to an end.
The creature danced in the moonlight.
His mane flowing behind him like grass in the wind.

You might be a unschooler if...

A rose, she is simple but beautifully radient as she opens her wings at the dawn of day. As the rays peek over the lucious green hillside, she lifts her petals one by one. She is not in a hurry to show what glorious color she will be, just one petal at a time is her choice of speed. By nightfall she is finished with her masterpiece. A few dew drops start to cling to her. She sets facing where the sun had said goodbye, waiting, fully bloomed for the next day. A rose, she is simple but has more beauty when it touches a soul, than when is seen by one.