eight

Eight syllables are eluding me.

The song 'Hope' (wanting a better title, not finding one) is done but for eight syllables. I played it for D and realized from his reaction that two little lines in the first verse took the song in a direction I'd not intended.

Ah, the joy/curse of writing something, when your head space is right there. Then someone else hears it and without the context of your head space, it doesn't work. While this can be good - one song having different meanings for different people can be one of those surreal places where the stars line up and all is lovely - it can also lessen the song's strength if the listener sits there, stuck on "huh?"

For the record: but for that, D loved the song.

So now, I repeat lines in my head, trying to find those eight little sounds that will make it complete. If it were prose, I could take my time and set the stage, set the context so that we start from the same place. But it being lyrics, I am tied to a constraints of rhythm and line length that I have set for myself.

da da daa da da da-da da.

How hard can it be?

Hmm ... very.

simple

'Tis the season where work abounds, but simple pleasures are there to be found.

The chicks are growing nicely and the hens spend their days foraging outside, having found a new hangout at the back of the summer kitchen but sometimes making me laugh as they sprint across the lawn. Why they decide to, I often have no idea. But a running chicken looks pretty funny. The cows haven't arrived yet for the summer but I expect them soon.

The sun rises to birdsong in the morning, and I'm getting up early enough consistently to see it, and take a brisk walk to enjoy it up close and personal. Everything is getting greener by the day. We are busy with gardens, and spring cleaning, and mowing, and planning fixups - but the breeze is sweet and the sun is warm.

I believe I finished another song yesterday. It's got that complete feeling to it with the balance of music and lyrics now; I wrote the lyrics after seeing a video about autism, with interviews with parents talking about the struggles that can be faced with raising these precious children. It was sent to me by sis-in-law JG, whose son is autistic and such a sweet, sweet little boy. I hope the lyric is ... well, right.

I've been writing a few lately that have been an interesting twist for me: writing what I think of as "third-party" lyrics. My writing has always been from my point of view, many of the songs from very personal experiences. And yet I've had a few lyrics through my mind lately that have me standing in someone else's shoes. I'm tossing around the thought in my mind, ruminating on it (moo) as to whether it's having a chance to speak thoughts that someone else wants said, but can't put to words, or whether I'm just posing as something I'm not.

"Poets do not need to go to Niagara to write about the force of falling water" - Robert Frost

It bears thinking.

growth

Today we pulled out the summer clothes. The temperatures are consistently warm enough to have some shorts on hand for the kids to wear. All kinds of great shorts and capris were brought out from last year, ready to see the light of a few more warm summer months. Typically, this is when the girls find old favourites ready to put on again.

Not this time: almost none fit A or M. Most of R's were ready to pass down and they fit A nicely, but the younger two had outgrown absolutely everything. A few comments by the girls on how big they were, including some that had me giggling:

daughter: "my waist is in, but then it goes out"

me: "welcome to being a big girl. It will happen more, trust me"

And some that had me realizing that even at their young ages, the media has started to creep in and suggest that their beautiful selves might be less than perfect:

daughter: "this doesn't fit. Am I getting fat?"

me: "your body is designed to be shaped a certain way. We eat good food and exercise so that it can be healthy with the way it is meant to be, but you won't be exactly the same shape as your sister. And that's fine."

It's all yet another tangible reminder of little girls who are growing into young ladies. And once again I find myself reflecting on the passage of time (so fast!) and being thankful for the time we have together (so precious!).

Apparently, some of that time together will soon involve a shopping trip.

history

Yesterday was the Regional history fair; A and M awoke looking forward to the day. They spent it at the Museum of Civilization in this amazing huge hall overlooking the river, visiting with friends, presenting their projects for judges, and taking part in workshops. One hundred fifty projects from schools all over Ottawa were there to be showcased.

After getting them set up I drove waaaay back to the town with the feed store, where 14 little peeping chicks had arrived for us. They were brought home and put under the able care of R before I returned downtown.

On returning, M excitedly showed me a note that had been left on her table by one of the judges, saying that her project on the Canadian Horse was that judge's personal favourite, and giving M three books as a small prize. I thought it was sweet, and her day was pretty much made at that point. Soon after, the kids' choice awards were announced, the kids having voted on their peers' projects, and A won a gift bag from that.

When the real awards ceremony started, I was surprised to hear M's name called as the first winner of an award on behalf of Canada's History Society, which came with a 2-year magazine subscription. She was beaming as she went up. A few more awards were given out and then a Founder's Award, one of several given to kids who showed real enthusiasm in their project, was announced - and M's name was called again. Wish I'd caught the look on her face at that instant. The Military History award was announced, and went to A's Vimy Ridge project, which beat out several excellent ones, including some done by groups and older students. She was ecstatic.

A good day, all in all, for Creekside School. The girls did great work on their projects, knew their material, and - perhaps best of all to the teacher in me - found interest and curiosity in history, and found excitement in sharing what they'd learned with others. Fostering a love of learning, and teaching the ability to communicate well, are two of our goals with homeschooling. A and M did that today.

We returned home to a very peep-y home. A cold front has moved in and so the chicks spent their first crucial night in a washtub on the kitchen table, on a heating pad and with a warming lamp overhead. All fifteen made it through the night. So far so good!

worthwhile

Some blessings in life you just wonder what you did to deserve them. Then you realize, probably nothing.

I spend my days doing what would officially be considered nothing of worth. I do not have a job; I do not earn money. I homeschool my kids and write music (okay, maybe a little more than that). Some days I feel like I have little to show for it. I'm not driven by the need to accomplish things, to get more done on my list than I did yesterday. Sure, sometimes I wish I got more done. But then I'd miss out on moments with the kids, or playing with a phrase that catches my fancy.

And then.

Oh, then.

I thanked D today, as I emailed him a lyric on my latest ramble with words, a little something called 'Scatter' (for now at least), for never making me feel like what I was doing wasn't worthwhile. For encouraging me and not treating my writing as a waste of time.

And then.

"Babe;

Your writing, your music - is part of who you are. Part of what makes you beautiful. Part of what makes me love you ... To squash it would be in conflict with my love. It is not a waste of time because I see the joy it brings you and so it brings me joy..."

Well, of course I cried.