Category Archives: Community

Dance of Life

Lately I’ve been going dancing every Wednesday night — one of my best decisions of late. Called ecstatic dance, it also involves something called contact improv dance. Here’s a sample of how beautiful it is. The man in the video, Brandon, is visiting various cities in a search to relocate, and has come to Silicon Valley. He taught a class on Wednesday; I participated, despite my reservations, and it was — well, healing.


If the embed doesn’t work, try this link.

Zen Life Kit

Below is the description of the Harper Family’s donation to the Wilson preschool fundraiser. More information about this is coming, including other prizes and ticket availability. I’m just sharing this in case you’d like to buy tickets when available ($1.00 each).

Zen Life Kit

Zen Life Kit

There’s a lot of talk about Zen these days, but not much understanding about what it is, or how to be Zen. This kit will introduce you to Zen and how you can awaken to it in your life. The kit contains:

  • $50 gift card to East-West Bookstore in Mountain View, CA
  • Two books, signed by author Karen Maezen Miller

    Karen Maezen Miller calls herself an errant wife, delinquent mother, reluctant dog walker, expert laundress and stationmaster of the full catastrophe. In real life, she is a Zen Buddhist priest at the Hazy Moon Zen Center in Los Angeles. She and her family live in Sierra Madre, California, with a century-old Japanese garden in their backyard.

    Momma Zen: Walking the Crooked Path of Motherhood

    Combining humor, honesty, and plainspoken advice, Momma Zen distills the doubts and frustrations of parenting into vignettes of Zen wisdom. Drawing on her experience as a first-time mother, and on her years of Zen meditation and study, Miller explores how the daily challenges of parenthood can become the most profound spiritual journey of our lives. This compelling and wise memoir follows the timeline of early motherhood from pregnancy through toddlerhood. Momma Zen takes readers on a transformative journey, charting a mother’s growth beyond naive expectations and disorientation to finding fulfillment in ordinary tasks, developing greater self-awareness and acceptance—to the gradual discovery of “maternal bliss,” a state of abiding happiness and ease that is available to us all. In her gentle and reassuring voice, Karen Miller convinces us that ancient and authentic spiritual lessons can be as familiar as a lullaby, as ordinary as pureed peas, and as frequent as a sleepless night. She offers encouragement for the hard days, consolation for the long haul, and the lightheartedness every new mom needs to face the crooked path of motherhood straight on.

    –Amazon description

    Hand Wash Cold: Care Instructions for an Ordinary Life

    It’s easy to think that meaning, fulfillment, and bliss are “out there,” somewhere outside of our daily routine. But in this playful yet profound reflection on awareness, the compelling voice of a contemporary woman reveals the happiness at the bottom of the laundry basket, the love in the kitchen sink, and the peace possible in one’s own backyard. Follow Karen Maezen Miller through youthful ambition and self-absorption, beyond a broken marriage, and into the steady calm of a so-called ordinary life. In her hands, household chores and caregiving tasks become opportunities for self-examination, lessons in relationship, and liberating moments of selflessness. With attention, it’s the little things — even the unexpected, unpleasant, and unwanted things — that count.

    –Amazon description

  • A handmade bookmark
  • A small statue of goddess Quan Yin, one of the most universally beloved of deities in the Buddhist tradition. She is the embodiment of compassionate loving kindness.
  • A Jacob’s Musical Car Charms to soothe and relax as you navigate the busy highways of life. Chime maker Jacob Sokoloff hand tunes these car chimes to produce a musical sound guaranteed to make you smile.
  • A box of Morningstar Incense

Donated by the Harper Family
Value $100

Sorting and Classifying

Back last summer, Claire started making comments about skin color. I said a word in Spanish to her, and she sharply rebuked me: “Don’t say Spanish. Pink people don’t speak Spanish!” I was taken aback. I asked her what skin color people have who speak Spanish, and she replied “Brown skin.” I pointed out that her Aunt Kristen and cousin Penelope speak Spanish very fluently, and they have pink skin. I also pointed out that our friends Sharon, Edu, Torben and Sonia speak German as well as English, and that people of all different skin colors speak different languages.

Still, I found the intensity of her response a little unsettling.

Then, last October, I wrote the following to her preschool teacher as well as to my mentor, Karen, because Claire had ramped up her opinions:

I’m looking for your reflections on a recent development in Claire. She is beginning to sort and classifying things, and in the past few months this has extended to people’s skin color. I’ll share some examples and how we’ve responded. I’m wondering if there is something “more” we could/should do.

Last year in school there were a majority of darker-skinned kids in class — Indian, Chinese, Pakistani, etc. Sometimes Claire said she worried kids would laugh at her because she had the wrong color hair and skin. She played well in general, but this was an occasional comment.

During summer we were doing a craft and I said “por favor” to her. Claire said: “Don’t speak Spanish! Pink people don’t speak Spanish.” I asked her who does, and she replied “brown people.” I reminded her that her Aunt Kristen and cousin Penelope speak Spanish and they are very pink (Caucasian), and also she has other friends who are brown-skinned and speak German. People can speak all types of language. (She has, by the way, taken Let’s Play in Spanish class and also likes to pretend to speak Spanish at times.)

Recently I showed Alex and Claire a photo of an African American baby adopted by a friend. Claire said she didn’t like that baby. Why? Because her skin is too dark. So we talked with her about melanin, and how it’s in everyone’s skin and the amount makes skin color lighter or darker, but that everyone is otherwise the same. We reminded her she has “brown friends” (from Guatemala and Mexico). She said that those friends weren’t very brown.

Same thing happened in a book about getting dressed: she said the didn’t like the girl with the dark skin because “she is not as good as pink.”

The most egregious example happened the other day in Popeye’s. We were eating and a man and little girl came in. The girl looked very slightly Hispanic. A moment after they entered, Claire said, “I don’t like that girl. I want to cover her head with a bag.” I replied sharply to this, telling her what an unkind remark that is. I said I thought the girl looked cute in her ponytail. Claire said, “Well I’m cute too.” I replied: “Not when you say ugly things about the way people look. That takes away from cuteness.” I followed up on how people are all good even when they look different from each other, and that is what makes people especially who they are. The subject got changed and she said nothing more.

Alex and I have talked about how to respond. Claire may be testing the limits of what is socially acceptable to say. She might really feel rejecting of anything different from her. She doesn’t spend a lot of time unsupervised by us, so we can’t imagine she picked this up from other people, and certainly not from us. We don’t want to overreact with attention and thus give her the excitement of having a big deal made over it and her, providing incentive to continue. At the same time, it doesn’t feel appropriate to ignore this, or let such comments pass without discussion (or when they’re really bad, some kind of rebuke). I admit I’m a little worried about her saying such things without us around and people judging me and Alex as a result. I’m also mystified. Can a person just be naturally racist? What’s going on with my sweet daughter?

She’s been doing the same thing about boys since this summer: boys aren’t good, they aren’t as gentle, etc. We’re working on countering this too, as you know. Yet this skin color judgment is really disconcerting.

Your advice is welcome!

The following is the reply from Teacher Carrie:

Thank you for your detailed email. I find this topic very interesting. I would like to first respond by saying I think you are doing a great job handling her comments. Especially when you explained why skin color is different.  I think it’s very important to have the discussion when these issues come up and not to ignore it. Giving a clear, appropriate explanation is good.  I understand your concern and I went through it myself with my daughter.   I then read a book that I think will put your mind at ease. It’s called Nurtureshock, by PO Bronson & Ashley Merryman. Have you heard of it?  I will bring it to class tomorrow. It’s all about nurture vs. nature, with a chapter titled “Why white parents don’t talk about race”, questioning whether we make it worse or better by calling attention to race. I need to reread the chapter, but through their studies they believe that children naturally prefer people who they can most identify with and skin color is one of the things that is clearly visible to children. Gender is also clearly visible to children. After I read it we starting talking with our children more about race & gender.
Lets talk after you read the chapter. I think you will feel a lot better knowing that this is something all children are trying to figure out.
See you tomorrow,
Carrie

And this was Karen’s reply:

First, nothing to worry about.

Claire is demonstrating her developing facility with “critical thinking,” the function of the mind that sorts, labels, analyzes and judges. She can see difference, so there’s no sense trying to convince her that there isn’t a difference. She is probably also exercising this function in ways that are appropriate and even encouraged: having a favorite doll, toy, pair of shoes, clothing, color, song, flavor of ice cream, etc. Four-year-olds can be infuriating in this way because they might refuse to wear anything but favorite colors, clothing and shoes, whether they are appropriate or not. But it is part of self-identification and self-mastery. She’ll move on by age 5.

In this way, yes, “racism” is natural in that we see and categorize and thus respond to things differently. She will be socialized, through school experience, to change the attitudes and expressions that cause other people harm. I can remember that this would be done in group lessons in Georgia’s pre-kindegarten (so age 4-5) when the recognition of different skin color emerges. The teacher used a “persona doll,” a fabric doll with African American or Hispanic features, to play lessons out.

Your explanations are too lofty for her to grasp and although this causes you social discomfort, it is only passing. We are never rid of racism, that is, fear of other people and things who are different than we are, but we learn to keep it to ourselves. If I were you I would mention it to the preschool teacher and see if they have any curriculum to address it. I bet they do, and that way you aren’t putting yourself in an adversarial role.

Georgia had an African American teacher in preschool and Georgia was afraid of him because of his dark skin. He laughed about it to me, saying he understood that all the kids had that difficulty. What a good place and good way to both express it, and to learn otherwise.

Hope this helps.

Maezen

So Alex and I re-read the chapter in Nurtureshock and comforted ourselves a bit that we aren’t alone in this, and that it is normal behavior. However, it continues. Claire has Disney princesses: Snow White, Pocahontas, Belle, Cinderella, Rapunzel, Tiana, Aurora, Jasmine, Ariel, and Mulan. In her pretend play, Claire consistently makes the non-Caucasian princesses — Tiana, Mulan, Pocahontas, and Jasmine — play the “naughty” role, or the role in which they aren’t as smart as the white princesses. I have consistently refused to play the games this way; sometimes she accommodates me, and other times she prefers to play alone with these roles. I try not to push back too hard on this, because Claire is persevering and strong-willed, and my effort is likely to backfire on me and entrench her more firmly against brown skin. I can only hope to keep talking about differences, and how skin color is real but that goodness and badness is not determined by it — and hope over time she comes to understand and accept. Or, at the very least, stops verbalizing it.

Tell Me About Despair, Yours

As Claire gets older and encounters the world, I find myself thinking that I need an exorcism of my past. That sounds drastic, yes? Claire displays an intensity and sensitivity that I recognize. I observe how she interacts with kids at school, and I feel painful echoes. I want so much not to project my past hurts and memories on to her — she needs me to be confident in her and for her.

Yet I struggle. When I think back over my childhood and school experiences, I don’t wax nostalgic. The first memories that come to mind are not happy ones. In a perfect storm combining my personality, family milieu, and the outside world, I entered kindergarten absolutely not ready for school or the world.

I was a timid, docile child, perceptive and agonizingly sensitive. I had older sisters who were in school full-time when I was pre-school age, so I had no experience playing with peers and navigating the conflict that arises from this. My first day of kindergarten I was so scared I refused to eat snack and cried. Throughout elementary school I seemed to attract unkind treatment. By the time I entered middle school, my way of dealing with peers was to bury my nose in a book and remain detached. I didn’t socialize much with people in or out of school. My self-confidence measured near zero.

One evening I talked with Hub about a school memory that still causes tears (and if I get started, I recall others that do too). My husband asked, “What would you have wished for?” The six-year-old me had a ready answer: to feel safe.

I have since written in a private post at least 20 events at or near school through my youth that generated a lot of pain then and have the power to still. Now, I know that many people experienced bullying or hurtful incidents in school. My husband has even described memories. However, he (and others) don’t carry the pain as I do, and don’t project it all onto their child’s life. Re-reading my list, I have to remind myself that these incidents occurred over thousands of days of school. I’m certain that many of those days were at least neutral, and just as many were happy days, or contained happy moments. My life wasn’t a torment every single day. My list of injuries strikes me as banal.

So what the hell is the problem?

The pain is not something I nurture; I don’t ruminate anymore over my past injuries. It comes unbidden, rising and engulfing me like a rapid tide whenever I observe my child encountering difficulty (e.g., rejection — whether perceived by her or real). I am transported instantly to childhood and respond accordingly, but this is overlaid with the protectiveness of a mother, and so all my energy goes awry. I personalize Claire’s experiences as my own. It interferes with my ability to be present for her.

Part of this pain is just a parent’s burden. We worry about our children. We ache for them. We want to protect them. Yet I feel that somehow I respond internally in a way that many (most?) other parents don’t. I feel raw and unable to maintain composure. Claire detects and absorbs my anxiety.

Observing Claire deal with her hurt feelings brings a mixture of pain on her behalf, irritation that she’s not tougher, and fear for her well-being in the world. I cannot control what she encounters out there when she starts school full-time this fall. However, I can provide a loving, peaceful, supportive home environment; home can be safe haven. But only if I manage to separate my angst-ridden ego from its Herculean attachment to my past.

So here is my question (italicized below), arising from a Mary Oliver poem, “Wild Geese”:

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Tell me your despair. Tell me your childhood school memories. Are they happy or harsh, or a mix? Tell me if they still rule you, and if not, how did you win freedom?

making wishes

The Hundred Languages of Children

The child is made of one hundred.

The child has a hundred languages,
a hundred hands,
a hundred thoughts,
a hundred ways of thinking, of playing, of speaking.

A hundred, always a hundred,
ways of listening,
of marveling,
of loving,
a hundred joys for singing and understanding,
a hundred worlds to discover,
a hundred worlds to invent,
a hundred worlds to dream.
The child has a hundred languages (and a hundred hundred hundred more),
but they steal ninety nine.
The school and the culture separate the head from the body.
They tell the child:
to think without hands,
do without heads,
to listen and not to speak,
to understand without joy,
to love and to marvel… only at Easter and Christmas.
They tell the child:
to discover the world already there and of the hundred they steal ninety nine.
They tell the child:
that work and play,
reality and fantasy,
science and imagination,
sky and earth,
reason and dream,
are things that do not belong together.
And thus they tell the child that the hundred is not there.
The child says no way. The hundred is there.

–Loris Malaguzzi, Italian Early Childhood Education Specialist, 1994

Childhood Revisited

As Claire gets older and encounters the world, I find myself thinking that I need an exorcism of my past. That sounds drastic, yes? Claire displays an intensity and sensitivity that I recognize. I observe how she interacts with kids at school, and I feel painful echoes. I want so much not to project my past hurts and memories on to her — she needs me to be confident in her and for her.

Yet I struggle. At the risk of giving TMI, appearing to sound like a victim, or hurting the feelings of certain people, I’ve decided that perhaps by iterating my memories I might cleanse myself. When I think back over my childhood and school experiences, I don’t wax nostalgic. The first memories that come to mind are not happy ones. In a perfect storm combining my personality, family milieu, and the outside world, I entered kindergarten absolutely not ready for school or the world.

I was a timid, docile child, perceptive and agonizingly sensitive. I had older sisters who were in school full-time when I was pre-school age, so I had no experience playing with peers and navigating the conflict that arises from this. My first day of kindergarten I was so scared I refused to eat snack and cried. Throughout elementary school I seemed to attract unkind treatment. By the time I entered middle school, my way of dealing with peers was to bury my nose in a book and remain detached. I didn’t socialize much with people in or out of school.

The atmosphere of home was governed by negative energy: anger, authoritarian discipline, and fear. It was a patriarchal household, and obedience was expected. When my elder sisters hit adolescence and my younger brother was born (simultaneously), the domestic scene exploded. It remained tense and ruled by outbursts of parental rage throughout my own adolescence. My self-confidence measured near zero. I remember being grounded “indefinitely” for a variety of infractions, and or being threatened with disownment (particularly with being sent off to a boarding school) if I did not behave certain way; the trouble was, what brought on ire wasn’t easily determined. I remember that throughout adolescence (age 11 onward) I felt responsible for my parent’s conflicts, especially my father’s outbursts of anger toward my mother.

One evening I talked with Hub about a school memory that still causes tears (and if I get started, I recall others that do too). One morning a boy at school — as we waited for permission to enter — threatened to kill me. This was first grade. I was terrified. I left and walked home. When I got home, I told my mother I didn’t want to go back. She turned me around and walked me back to school. I don’t recall if she asked why I came home, or if she spoke to the teacher about why; maybe she did. All I recall is that I felt betrayed and abandoned.

My husband asked, “What would you have wished your mother do to?” The six-year-old me had a ready answer: help me to feel safe. I grew up feeling alone, vulnerable, unsafe. I can iterate at least 20 events at or near school* through my youth that contributed to this (and there are many family incidents too). Now, I know that many people experienced bullying or hurtful incidents in school. My husband has even described memories. However, he (and others) don’t carry the pain as I do, and don’t project it all onto their child’s life. The pain is not something I nurture; I don’t ruminate anymore over my past injuries. It comes unbidden, rising and engulfing me like a rapid tide whenever I observe my child encountering difficulty (e.g., rejection — whether perceived by her or real).

Observing Claire deal with her hurt feelings brings a mixture of pain on her behalf, irritation that she’s not tougher, and fear for her well-being in the world. I cannot control what she encounters out there when she starts school full-time this fall. However, I can provide a loving, peaceful, supportive home environment; home can be safe haven. But only if I manage to separate my angst-ridden ego from its Herculean attachment to my past.

*For details on my sad sack past… Continue reading

Boundaries and Respect

Email is one of the few private spaces left in this hyper-sharing age. Sam Biddle at Gizmodo says, “This isn’t about having something to hide — it’s about keeping meaningful boundaries in an era when there are verrrrry few. We all need whatever scraps of privacy we have left, and your email is just that.”

Trust is an important bedrock for any relationship, but this isn’t trust. This is mutually assured trust destruction. Intimacy comes from sharing select private information with people, not giving them keys to your privacy kingdom.

When you share your password with someone, you open yourself up to the obvious downsides suggested by the Times. But you’re not just violating your own privacy, you’re violating that of everyone you correspond with. People send an email to your account assuming you’re the only one who will see it. They realize there’s a risk you might share the news with significant others, friends, family, or a random stranger on the bus, but there’s a reasonable assumption that you don’t have someone else reading your email.

–Kashmir Hill, Why Sharing Passwords With Your Girlfriend/Boyfriend Is A Spectacularly Bad Idea, Forbes

Wise Words For Parents

I really wanted to quote the entire article here, but out of respect for copyright I haven’t. It’s an intelligent article about the “cherish every moment” pressure and frenzy that accompanies parenting. The author portrays mindfulness — at least, what I attempt and occasionally manage to experience — beautifully.

There are two different types of time. Chronos time is what we live in. It’s regular time, it’s one minute at a time, it’s staring down the clock till bedtime time, it’s ten excruciating minutes in the Target line time, it’s four screaming minutes in time out time, it’s two hours till daddy gets home time. Chronos is the hard, slow passing time we parents often live in.

Then there’s Kairos time. Kairos is God’s time. It’s time outside of time. It’s metaphysical time. It’s those magical moments in which time stands still. I have a few of those moments each day. And I cherish them.

Like when I actually stop what I’m doing and really look at Tish. I notice how perfectly smooth and brownish her skin is. I notice the perfect curves of her teeny elf mouth and her asianish brown eyes, and I breathe in her soft Tishy smell. In these moments, I see that her mouth is moving but I can’t hear her because all I can think is — This is the first time I’ve really seen Tish all day, and my God — she is so beautiful. Kairos.

Like when I’m stuck in chronos time in the grocery line and I’m haggard and annoyed and angry at the slow check-out clerk. And then I look at my cart and I’m transported out of chronos. And suddenly I notice the piles and piles of healthy food I’ll feed my children to grow their bodies and minds and I remember that most of the world’s mamas would kill for this opportunity. This chance to stand in a grocery line with enough money to pay. And I just stare at my cart. At the abundance. The bounty. Thank you, God. Kairos.

Or when I curl up in my cozy bed with Theo asleep at my feet and Craig asleep by my side and I listen to them both breathing. And for a moment, I think- how did a girl like me get so lucky? To go to bed each night surrounded by this breath, this love, this peace, this warmth? Kairos.

These kairos moments leave as fast as they come- but I mark them. I say the word kairos in my head each time I leave chronos. And at the end of the day, I don’t remember exactly what my kairos moments were, but I remember I had them. And that makes the pain of the daily parenting climb worth it.

–Glennon Melton, Don’t Carpe Diem

Nothing Is Fixed

For nothing is fixed, forever and forever and forever, it is not fixed; the earth is always shifting, the light is always changing, the sea does not cease to grind down rock. Generations do not cease to be born, and we are responsible to them because we are the only witnesses they have. The sea rises, the light fails, lovers cling to each other, and children cling to us. The moment we cease to hold each other, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.

–James Baldwin

A New Year

Facebook has replaced blogging, it seems. At least for me. What to do with this little outpost on the web?

Happy new year, anyway.

We have more and more ways to communicate, as Thoreau noted, but less and less to say. Partly because we’re so busy communicating. And — as he might also have said — we’re rushing to meet so many deadlines that we hardly register that what we need most are lifelines.

So what to do? The central paradox of the machines that have made our lives so much brighter, quicker, longer and healthier is that they cannot teach us how to make the best use of them; the information revolution came without an instruction manual. All the data in the world cannot teach us how to sift through data; images don’t show us how to process images. The only way to do justice to our onscreen lives is by summoning exactly the emotional and moral clarity that can’t be found on any screen.

–Pico Iyer, The Joy of Quiet

Brief Notes of an Adventure

I just returned from my first sesshin at Hazy Moon Zen Center. It was fruitful. I’m tired and glad to be home. All that I experienced is settling, so I hesitate to write extensively about it. Here are some brief reflections. The first one is from my drive down, when I stopped at San Luis Reservoir for a break. The entire drive leads through two mountain ranges (the Diablo Mountains with the Pacheco Pass and the Tehachapi Mountains with the Tejon Pass) and the central valley; it’s beautiful country. It’s a six hour drive (one way) — which is just right.
—–

Brief Notes of an Adventure

The lake — a bowl of glitter!
Winds whisper to water,
waves murmur replies.
A crow flies, snail snared
in its beak.
—–

Rooster crows, broom sweeps.
A car growls to life.
Helicopters thump the sky.
Pigeon wings slap air.
Sirens keen, dogs bark.
Zazen in L.A.
—–

My food – Advil.
My nectar – water.
My balm – sleep.
—–

Now the cushion
Now the breath
Now the work.
Samadhi does not
come in a box or book.
It cannot be imagined
or conjured.
Bells, incense, bows, chants
bring dignity and form
to the formless.
But above all,
it is about the work.
Breath.
Samadhi.
—–

Cresting the mountain,
valley a blanket spread low;
slices of miles served –
feast towards home.

–Kathryn Harper

And Now…

Today Claire asked to make Simba, from the Lion King. She hasn’t seen the movies but is obsessed with the songs, especially The Lion Sleeps Tonight, Hakuna Matata, and He Lives In You. She wanted to also make his father and an elephant friend. Thank goodness for paper plates, construction paper, glue and paint! Claire painted the whole thing. She cut the noses of the lions and them and the eyes on. She glued the elephants nails and eyes on.

simba, simba's daddy, & elephant friend

Last week we made necklaces for each other, because on Thursday I head to Hazy Moon Zen Center to sit my first sesshin with my teacher, Maezen, and Nyogen Roshi. We used Shrinky Dinks, and I wrote her message to me and one to her (the handwriting is choppy because I wrote backward so it would read properly on the shiny side.) My favorite color is green and hers is yellow (though trending toward pink), so we’ll feel connected while I’m gone. I’m sure we’ll feel connected regardless, but this is a tangible connection for us both, a sort of talisman. It will be a fine time for Claire and her Daddy to go on special outings. I’ll be home Sunday evening from “Buddhist Summer Camp” (as Hub jokingly calls it) — one step (at least) closer to enlightenment.

love necklaces

Next up: thinking of something cool for dinner. It’s been mild this summer, but today it’s 95F! No complaints here. Hakuna Matata!

More Summer Fun

We’ve been busy climbing and splashing and creating! Claire had a total of three weeks of swimming lessons. She is still shy about getting her face in the water and going under water, but she had a blast with her teachers. She very specifically insisted on lady teachers “because they are more gentle.” (She had a man the first day and cried, and refused to even allow a man to put her into the pool.) She practiced floating on her back and kicking…

back kick

…and jumping into the instructor’s arms.

ker-splash!

We’ve also been playing with our food:

dinner
lunch

One day Claire asked for a knife and began slicing up pepper slices I’d given her. Once she cut them all, she ate them. Never before had she asked to do this, and she demonstrated real dexterity at cutting. That brain of hers is always growing!

slicing pepper

Yesterday we took a day trip to Mount Madonna County Park. It’s a gorgeous park, and they also have campgrounds, which we may reserve for later. Here’s the scenic view of the valley:

view from mount madonna

And up-close views of beautiful mosses and lichen:

such a variety of green

We saw California banana slugs:

banana slug view 2

And a Santa Cruz Gartersnake basking in a spot of sun:

cool snake

The redwoods are amazing:

hollowed out giant

These were the Twin Giants:

beauty on high

We had fun hiking the trails:

mommy and claire

We visited the Henry Miller Summer Home ruins, and Claire hopped around:

in the miller house ruins

A view from within the former house:

room with a view

Claire had many questions about the former house and why no one took care of it anymore:

miller house 2

We walked and walked, and later she had a nap on the way home:

strolling

We’ve played with paint and paper plates:

paper plate ladybug
paper plate fish

And we’ve started collecting our spare change in a jar which we decorated. We’ll empty it periodically and use it to donate to the food bank, or the Family Giving Tree, or some other worthy organization.

our collection jar

And so our summer continues!