Clean.

My blog is moving!

Big news, my friends! I'm moving my blog from here to my shiny new site, rachelwolfclean.com.

I think you'll find my new blog is nicer to look at, easier to navigate, and more mobile-friendly. Do tell me what you think! Then update your favorites folders, and head over to explore and subscribe.

I don't want to lose you in the switch, so I've added an email link to the front page to simplify you keeping up-to-date on new posts. 

See you there!

 

Love,

Rachel

Small town magic

State statisticians will tell you that Vernon County (of which Viroqua is the county seat) is "the second poorest county in Wisconsin".

But perhaps measuring richness in only dollars and cents is a misguided attempt at determining the value of people, places, or communities. 

Because once your basic needs have been met, there is much more to quality life than the size of your bank account. I think often of Bhutan who, instead of measuring their country's GNP (gross national product), measure their GNH - gross national happiness instead.

Perhaps Viroqua is the Bhutan of Wisconsin. 

We might not be rich in dollars, but we're undeniably rich in connection, creativity, and kindness. We have made it a priority. 

Many of us moved here because we were longing for community, for kindred souls, for belonging in a small rural town. And we found it. I've written before about our welcome here some 11 years ago: a three week "meal wheel" - home-cooked dinners delivered to our door by strangers night after night when Lupine was born - only weeks after we moved in and didn't know a soul.

This was our perfect place to land. 

And because community is maintained by our continued participation in it, later this week I will cook and deliver a meal to a family with a new babe as well. That's how community happens. One meal, one project, one outstretched hand at a time.

Because as backward as it may sound, at the heart community is individuals. Individuals choosing to go out of their way to build it.

A spark of community lights when someone has an idea of how they can bring art to our neighborhoods or kindness to those in need. Community begins to take form as those projects are tentatively brought into the light. And then like a magnet, these small actions draw in others who desire the same, and a community is built.

We've done that in this quirky little town, as have generations before us.

 

But I digress.

 

I guess it's hard for me to talk about this parade without first exploring what community really means. Because this is the heart of both our little town and our annual parade. And though my post today isn't as much about the goodness in these hearts so much as the creativity that dwells there, I had to touch on both.

For the eigth year in a row Viroqua has risen above your average town of 4,600 (in my heart, anyway) and pulled off an epic, beautiful Harvest Parade to welcome the autumn season in with open, loving arms. Run by volunteers on donated supplies and cash, the Harvest Parade is the highlight of autumn.

The very first parade, way back in 2010 was an absolute delight. Lupine, Sage, and I all participated, and I remember thinking at line up, "Who will be watching? Aren't we all here?!" Because, well, it's a small town.

And it felt like that again yesterday. So many familiar, friendly, sparkling faces, bedazzled and lined up to parade. So much laughter, joy, and an effervescent energy of community in the most tangible sort of way. Parents, grandparents, and individuals; babies in arms and kids on foot, unicycle, and bike; homeschoolers, public schoolers, and Waldorf; farmers and town folk; born-here and transplants.

Community.

This time Lupine marched alongside a few dear friends, and Pete, Sage and I stood aside and soaked it all in, watching our community dance by. And what a sight it was! 

So what can I say, Viroqua, except: Thank you.

Thank you to the people who show up and make this kind of magic happen. To the people who pause their work and make time to create community.

Thanks to those who have the vision, the passion, the imaginations, and the dedication to pull this kind of magic off. To those who don't necessarily have the time, but who make the time. We're all so grateful that you do.

And truly, this little town is that much more magical because of it.

  

I am not a teacher

If I am not an artist, how can I possibly homeschool an artist? 

Likewise, if I am not an engineer, how can I believe I am capable of homeschooling one? Or an inventor, or a philosopher, or a veterinarian, or any of the passions that my children may possess? 

And the concept that a homeschooling parent is their child's single source of information? Well, that's a heavy burden to bear.

And so a common belief exists that in order to homeschool you need to know everything.

Math. Science. Spelling. Art. History. Grammar. Language. Technology.

Everything.

And if you don't know enough math or biology; if you don't remember a thing about algebra or if your spelling is embarrassing, how can you homeschool?

And so, we reason, we cannot.

And off to school they go.

And while I personally had a positive experience in the public school system and know countless kids who are thriving there, the logic above is deeply flawed. Send your child to school if that is your best or most logical answer, yes, but not because you think you don't know enough.

When we think of learning in the linear, teacher-student-classroom paradigm then the notion of "teacher knows all" makes some sense. As a college student it was frustrating when I felt that a lab teacher didn't have a handle on the material. It limited my learning.

And if the teacher is in charge and the student is a passive participant in the learning process, simply soaking up the information before them and letting it seep into the empty space inside, then yes, I see the logic. 

But when it comes to homeschooling I respectfully - yet passionately - disagree.

Because our children are not empty vessels quietly awaiting us to transfer knowledge from our minds into theirs. Their minds are not voids needing only a set of facts to be complete.

Think of them instead as gardens already rich with seeds, their passions and gifts just waiting to coaxed up into the sunshine with a bit of nurturing and encouragement.

Their minds are alive with interests of their own, rich with gifts and passions that they can pursue with abandon when their schedules are forgiving enough to allow it.  

And so Sage can spend hours learning about wilderness survival, practicing fire starting techniques, and building his survival kit. Later he can research medieval armor and learn about different construction techniques, then set off to make some for himself.

And Lupine can spend hours each day exploring her art, with pencils and smudge sticks and paper in hand. 

And none of that has anything to do with the knowledge that I possess.

It's not about me at all.

Indeed, Sage knows that during my Environmental Education days I wrote a winter survival curriculum and taught countless classes on the subject. Yet he rarely asks for my input, and I rarely find it valid or necessary to share. And Lupine knows that as a teenager art was my one passion, yet she often asks to teach me how to draw a portrait, a tulip, a landscape. Not the other way around. 

Because I'm not their teacher after all.

Our knowledge as parents does not limit what our kids can learn.

And only when we deconstruct the notion of teacher and student does that begin to make sense.

If we are not our children's teacher, then what are we? Think instead of yourself as their liaison to a world of information and inspiration, resources and people, just waiting to join them on their journey.

And instead of pouring what we know into our children's waiting minds, I believe our job is to inspire them to fall in love with learning and nurture the seeds that are already there.

And so we watch them for their passions and gifts, then facilitate opportunities for them to connect with resources and mentors out in the world. We act as their liaison and connect them with the rich community of people who are just beyond our door. 

Our work is not to teach, but rather to help them fall in love with their gifts and nurture the seeds that are already germinating in their fertile minds. 

And that was how it happened that yesterday Lupine was the only child attending a morning figure drawing session at a local art gallery.

She had considered attending for weeks and was building her courage to leap when she found out that one of her favorite people in the world was the model. And that was that. We were going.

With a confidence equalled by any artist in the room, she pulled up her drawing bench and laid out her supplies. She set to work on her drawing, looking around the room on occasion to see what others were creating. The man next to her offered some gentle suggestions of whose work to look at, and I watched as she took notice of other mediums and techniques around the room. 

And me? I sat in the back, observing, and knowing that I really had nothing to bring to the table except for helping create the space for her to join in.

 

Am I my children's teacher? No, I really don't think that I am. 

But am I qualified to help her water and tend this garden of interests that is germinating in her mind? 

That answer is a confident yes.

 

First snow

There is a certain quality to the the morning's first light when the first snow has fallen while you were asleep. The room is illuminated with this amazing, etherial light so you know that it snowed before you even look outside.

(All of my more northern friends are nodding their heads right now, knowing just what I'm talking about.)

But normally I wake before the sun and miss the treat of opening my eyes to this magical light.

But on Saturday night we had a scare with a suddenly very sick pet. I was up until the wee hours of morning tending to him, and once he was through the worst of it I went back to bed. I woke often to check on him and so I slept late on Sunday.

So when I opened my eyes - desipte my concerns for the cat - I noticed the beautiful light streaming in through my window. As I hurried off to find him I stole a glance outside. Such beauty, just beyond these walls. 

At noon I took my cat to the ER vet. (He magically acted much stronger as soon as the vet showed up, the stinker.)

With medicine and special cat food in hand we headed back home through the snow. Our route home takes us across the Kickapoo River, and since the cat was feeling better I pulled over and dashed onto the bridge for a quick few photographs, my heart full of gratitude of many sorts. 

Because no matter how how challenging things are, if we choose to look up we can still find beauty and hope all around us. 

 

I'm not technically savvy enough to figure out how to load my video here so you'll need to pop over to my Instagram for that. The video is right here and totally worth the detour in your day. 

 

 

High water

Our neighborhood is a bit of a mess right now. Yesterday morning we woke to what some estimate to be the third 500 year flood here in less than a decade.

Sit with that for a moment.

It's often difficult to tell how bad the flooding is based on what we can see from the house. So yesterday morning when we saw that the creek (normally just visible from our front porch) was a churning chocolate milk river we knew the flooding was worse than we suspected. The four of us walked to the creek to survey the damage, then tentatively explored the neighborhood, checking in on some friends, and surveying the damages.

I found myself vacillating between being a child-like curiosity about the high water mark and the chilling reality of how serious this truly was.

One neighbor temporarily lost 40 head of cattle to the rising water. Immense beef cattle swept away (along with their fences), coming aground again on a neighboring farm a couple of miles downstream. The water was that fierce and that high. A friend found themselves caught in the rising water, their car swept more than 100 feet out into a cornfield, the river raging all around them. Thanks to the help of the volunteer fire department they made it out safely, but the what-ifs keep rattling in my mind. Not far from here a house was caught in a mudslide, killing the man inside. 

Both Crawford and Vernon Counties (where we live and where we work) have declared a state of emergency. With roads washed out, driveways blocked, and bridges collapsed there is a good deal of hard work - and patient waiting - that still needs be done before life can return to normal.

But the snowplows and the road crews were out yesterday, tirelessly clearing rocks, trees, and mud from the roadways. Based on what we have seen, though, it will be a long time before things return to normal around here.

As for our family we're just thankful for the distance between house and creek, that the hillside above us held fast, and that the power is on and our sump pump is keeping the basement relatively dry. 

Our animals are safe, our house is standing tall, and we're mostly just grateful that it wasn't any worse. And now we all pray that no more rain falls here for many many days.

And one more thought, no matter where you call home: 

Every time I see the creeks rise beyond their banks I worry about E.coli, especially with children. Please, please be safe out there and do what you can to limit contact with flood waters. I know multiple people who have fought for their lives after contracting E. coli from innocent looking flood water. Be careful. We need you.

Stay safe out there, friends. 

 

To the fair

It's true. I sort of hate the fair.

As a highly sensitive person (and a cheapskate budget conscious mama) it's just a little hard for me. 

The food! The lights! The noise! The $20 for five minutes on the bumper cars! It's all a bit much.

And a shout-out to all you parents of kids with food sensitivities. Because the fair can sometimes be a downer for them, too.

But don't revoke my Nice Mama membership card just yet. Because I did go. (And yes, managed to keep my grumbling to a minimum.) I even enjoyed our five minutes of bumper car madness as well as seeing lots of friends we don't often bump into (no pun intended).

I snapped a few photos of the fair that, looking back today, make me wonder why I hate it so much. Seeing it from the quiet of my kitchen it's honestly rather quaint. 

So here you go. A day at the fair for you. (Without the poor choices about food, overstimulation of noise and lights, and yes, without the woosh of all your money in the world getting sucked out of your wallet.) 

You're welcome.

Honestly, I'm not sure what's not to love about this cute little fair. 

I'm kidding. I'm still not crazy about it. 

 

 

 

(All except that bunny.)