A fragment of a grocery shopping list… this is probably about 25-30 years old. It’s her handwriting.

The address label is her mother’s… also about 25-30 years old. I keep these fragments tucked into a drawer… too insignificant for a page in scrapbook, or it’s own “sleeve” in a photo album, but because her handwriting beckons her presence, these scraps are not insignificant enough to toss in the trash. So, I compromise and just keep them in the drawer in the china cabinet in the dining room. Whenever I do  happen to come across them, it’s like she dropped in for a surprise visit. I never expect to find her, when I do.

People are, for one period in time, a mass of cells, atoms and matter — dense — and they take up physical space. They are real.  This is how we define people. Then, poof, they will disappear like dust in an instant. And all you have left, as proof that they once stood here in physical form, are snippets of their handwriting, or the address label that once directed posts to a home.

Not until those bundles of cells are crumbled into dust do you begin to see what has been there all along. What people truly are transcends physical space. They are, instead completely malleable, with a capacity to reside in the corners of drawers, alive in those certain songs, and silently standing by your side as that scent settles around your shoulders.

Time is such a wonderful healer.

This weekend, we pulled out the dust-covered, felt-covered football stadium my son created six years ago as part of his biography project. Before he took it to the curb, I asked him to leave it on the dining room table so that I could take a photo of it.

“You already did that mom.”

“No… I didn’t have this camera back then.”

I stalled to take the photograph, knowing that once I took the photo, there would be no more reason to keep his work around. I remembered how long and hard he worked on this project — the time we spent together at Joann’s picking out self-adhesive letters, felt, glue sticks for the glue gun and paint to complete the project… and the day he actually played hookey from school so he could finish his project. Just couldn’t bring myself to throwing this out, even though it has no useful value.

As I took the photo, I remembered how he creatively used pennants to showcase the subject’s quotes (a necessary part of the project’s written assignment part of the grade.) Words, quotes from a man’s life resonate with me the way no image can. Here, I remembered how the quotes my son chose paint a chilling, portrait — almost foreshadowing a character, the way Shakespeare did in Macbeth, of this man’s future. And my son, at the age of 9, could barely comprehend what he was “painting” in his portrait with these quotes.

“I don’t motivate players… I get them to motivate themselves.”

“Pay it forward.”

“I believe in over-learning. That way you’re sure.”

“I just can’t control my temper.”

The man in question was Woody Hayes. A man who was fired from a job he treasured, simply because he just couldn’t control his temper.

I am not a football zealot.  Yet, while my son researched this man’s life, I learned some beautiful things about the human spirit. Woody Hayes, despite his faults, and despite the many enemies he had, cared deeply about his kids. More than teaching them to play football, he wanted them to be great people.  He taught them to give back to the community by giving back to the community.

More than teaching them to how to play football, he wanted each one of his players to realize how providential their lives were — each one of them, no matter their background. Each one of them had an obligation to give back to someone else… someone future, not from the past. “Don’t bother to pay me back, give it to someone else who needs it, and let them pay it forward to.” No one was a victim. All of us have something to give back. After coaching games, Woody would visit kids in the Children’s Hospital.

Hayes enlisted in the United States Navy in July 1941, eventually rising to the rank of Lieutenant Commander during World War II. He commanded PC 1251 in the Palau Islands invasion and the destroyer-escort USS Rinehart in both the Atlantic and Pacific operations. Once out of the Navy, and running his famous football plays, ”three yards and a cloud of dust,” he found other ways to serve the country. For example, Woody walked each day to his job at OSU to do his share of energy conservation during the energy crisis of the 70s.

With great pain, he left the OSU locker room , after being fired for punching a player at the 1978 Gator Bowl.

“In football we always said that the other team couldn’t beat us. We had to be sure that we didn’t beat ourselves. And that’s what people have to do, too–make sure they don’t beat themselves.”

I know he punched the guy… I know he deserved to be fired. But, I can’t help but tear up when I see that feeble man, humbled by his experiences, walk up the podium at the 1986 OSU commencement speech, knowing his heart is jumping around like a little boy, speaking these words:

Graduates, Mr. President, faculty members, friends and families of the graduates who have done
so much to make this possible.Today is the greatest day of my life … I am so grateful and so appreciative to be here today, I just can’t tell you how much.

Here is a man torn between his inability to shrug off how much he is savoring his own moment, like a little boy. He knows how much he savors this moment… because he lost so much. Yet, he can’t miss, and he doesn’t, the opportunity he’s been given, his obligation,  to throw out these bits of wisdom to the kids he loved:

“In football we learn some wonderful, wonderful things. And one of them is this: When you get knocked down, which is plenty often, get right up in a hurry, just as quick as you can. Do you know what to do then? You probably need more strength. Do you know where you get it? You get it in the huddle. You get it by going back and getting a new play and running that same play together with your teammates. That “together” is the thing that gives you the buildup to get ready to go again.

In your lifetimes, you’ll find that how well you can work with people will depend on how quickly you can get back to them and get together.

… you’ll find out that nothing that comes easy is worth a dime. As a matter of fact, I never saw a football player make a tackle with a smile on his face. Never.”

The garbage man is coming today… the football stadium box is still on my dining room table… maybe it will make it to the curb, next week.

Felt portrait of Woody Hayes by my son, six years ago. Framed, hanging on a wall. One item that will not be making its way to the recycling bin.

I have a 10-year old vision board up in the attic of my house that includes pictures of a red barn, a house on the water, surrounded by trees. When I pasted them on my board, I was merely cutting them up because the images soothed me; I liked looking at them. And the rest is history.

I had yet to discover their power. A vision board, inspired by this book: Visioning: Ten Steps to Designing the Life of Your Dreams is a board where you place your wishes. You could use magazine pictures, or your own sketches… whatever seems to draw you in.

What you’ll need to make your own:

• A big poster board
• Lots of Magazines
• Scissors
• Glue
• A Wish

The biggest problem is finding a place to hang your board.

On the Oprah website, the guests say, “vision boards  power also comes from the simple fact that it allows people time to focus and do something about their lives.” It’s like shopping for a new car, and suddenly you see the car you want all over the place.  “It’s kind of a visual and verbal articulation of my goals. I can remind myself, ‘You need to take actions if you want these goals to show up.’ It’s not a magic trick, really. It’s about you being the person who’s motivated to make that stuff show up.”

This is hardly about thinking when you were 10 that when you turned 40 you would be old; and then becoming 40, and discovering that you don’t really feel that old. Being 40, you may, or will discover, to your delight, is much like your 20s, only better. When you’re in your 40s, you’re old enough to have all the legal fun you want; and most likely, you have more money to do it with. In your 40s, you already know what it is you want. The 20s are the era of exploration; the 40s are the era of actually getting what you want.

People in their 40s are fascinating to watch. Now, with so many of my friends in the becoming 40, and in the 40 age range, I am surrounded by people who are discovering the deepest yearnings of their heart; the funny thing is, none of them were looking for the deepest yearnings of their heart. They were content living their lives as upstanding adults; many are husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, some are single, childless and travel around the world. But suddenly; there it is, like the Holy Grail, all spelled out in front of them. And the Grail demands changes.

This I have observed. People in their 40s secrete hormones that are not unlike adolescents. These hormones make it difficult for those in their 40s to sleep; a deep seated restlessness seems to attack at 2 a.m., and sometimes leads them to think horrible thoughts that, under morning’s light, make no sense. Insomnia reigns, leading to tiredness, irritability, and the feeling of “getting old,” of course. (Here’s a hint: Heed those stirrings, and the symptoms will leave…)

The hormones seem to awaken primal parts of the their brains and sometimes make them think about doing crazy things; things that threaten the survival of their career or family. Those who heed the musings of the heart seem to go through a period of traumatic upheaval and pain that touches everyone in their intimate circle. The lives of many of the 40-year-olds I know are sometimes more interesting than the tabloids at the grocery store; they make the shenanigans of adolescents seem like, well, child’s play.

The prospect of seeing what the heart wants, and realizing this may involve a re-ordering of life’s priorities, can be terrifying. Much simpler, we believe, to simply ignore those constant tapings on the door of the soul. This can lead to misery; putting a lid on the heart, closing down walls and siphoning off the heart so that it can no longer feel the ache of missing something; while at the same time stunting the heart from feeling the joy. Because it is, after all, the presence of joy that takes us to our heart’s desire. I wonder sometimes, if this is the cause of all of those anxiety attacks, muscle aches and illnesses; the heart is screaming for the soul to wake up and following its path.

Suddenly, joy has become a dangerous thing. Joy will demand that you cut off anything that is not serving you; like the dead branches of a tree.

When I see that upheaval face-to-face, I am always caught in some sort of awe-inspiring revelation. That once mousey husband, who always seemed so irritated, is transformed into an outgoing, successful carpenter – who now has a new wife. His eyes glisten, and, really, “I do think he looks more handsome now.” Every time I see this conversion, I am amazed beyond belief; what was once misery has been transformed by simply aligning one’s purpose with the joys of their own heart.

Still, some have the courage to look at the heart’s yearnings directly in the eye, and try to see if there is a way they can make some small, minor modification to realign life’s priorities.  To their delight, they often find that this one small step seemed to have opened up the entire universe. Options that never once existed are spread out like a table laden with food and jewels.  They followed the musing of their heart and escaped through the tunnel without a scratch; they remain unscathed; their intimate circle is equally unharmed, and miraculously benefits from the afterglow of joy.

A friend gently told me this when I was in my 30s: When you cross the street, you will have left an opening around everyone who once stood beside you. They will begin to act differently just because you moved. This, they cannot do, until you cross the street.

It’s up to you to make the move; so that the lives of those around you can be transformed.

Living an authentic life requires an inordinate amount of courage and introspection. Those in their 40s are just beginning to understand the gravity of the responsibility we have to our own lives. You might be able to get by living someone else’s dream when you’re young, in your 20s. But this will never hold up when you reach your 40s.

Your soul will demand that you fess up, pay attention and align your life with your heart.

My husband has a spot on his chest that he proudly shows off every year on our son’s birthday. This is the spot I bit when those last few contractions came when I was standing up, leaning on my husband, at 9.5 centimeters. I was in a rush to see my baby sooner rather than later. Today, that son is 10.

If I was standing during labor, at 9.5 centimeters, this means that there was no epidural; there was no internal monitor. The veil between the physical act of labor and a woman’s body was not cushioned, padded or softened. This was exactly what I wanted. Unlike his older brother’s birth, two years earlier, that resulted in a c-section. This plan had its roots formed in the hospital room when I first came into the world. There, childbirth caused my Mother to “come face-to-face with death.” Her story originates further back when her own Mother fell into a black hole of death, but eventually escaped. My Mother’s story was full of pain and isolation. The nurses left her alone too much; Dads, of course, weren’t allowed in to comfort.

I was terrorized by these stories. They haunted me. For 38 years, I lived with an overwhelming fear of childbirth. As a young girl, I used to lie in bed at night and try to think of ways I could avoid the whole act, yet still become a Mother. One of my favorite scenarios, because it was a fool-proof system for preventing pain, was to begin an anesthesia treatment early in the pregnancy, so that I would sleep through labor and delivery.

I didn’t know then that birth unfolds; a woman responds to what’s happening. Every action she takes with either make it easier for her body to open, or harder.

Ten years ago today, I walked through my fear. Unlike my Mothers, I did not pummel to the depths of death in the process.

To prepare, I was hypnotized, started yoga, listened to guided imagery, took the Bradley Method, and hired a Doula. My goal was drug-free labor. If I could reach back and grab the root of my deepest fear; I could do anything, I thought. I needed to live without fear.

Still, despite all the prep work; my body was reluctant. Stuck at a painful 3 cm for 72 hours, I took many walks through the woods and park by our house. The walks did little to move me along. Something was still holding me back — this was in my mind and not my body. I avoided my doctor’s phone calls. He wanted me to come in so he could “induce me” and get this over with.

What I can remember from those three days of walking were the incredible flowers that were blooming; Lilly of the Valley, the Kentucky Bean tree and the Lilacs all bloomed at the same time; the smells were intoxicatingly pleasant. Returning home from our walk, we’d see the message waiting light blinking; the doctor had called; again.

I told my Dad, “My doctor thinks I’m not going into labor because I’m scared.” He said, “Well, you probably are.” His words gave me an instant wave of relief. I was afraid. This was the elephant in my “mind” that I was unwilling to acknowledge; yet I became aware of how much energy I was investing in suppressing this fear. So, I carried the fear with me, and things began to open up.

Labor was not pleasant; but it was my doula that made it bearable. Rather than passively waiting for each contraction to pass, she gave me jobs to do during each one. Visualize something, lean like this, stand here, and her favorite, “relax your mouth and you relax your entire body.” My job was to figure out how to relax while pain came in waves. Tension made the pain worse; and made the birth come slowly. Now, I had focused work to do. I began to feel empowered in the places where I felt the most fear. This lack of empowerment was the root cause of my Mother’s birth stories. Gynecology asked women to lie on their backs, feet in the stirrups — “get out of the way so we can do our job” was the motto of the medical profession. In that time, there were few other options.

When the nurse said I was 9.5 cm, a red flag when up, as I instantly remembered the part in the Bradley class explaining that 9-10 cm is the most painful part of labor. What’s coming will be even worse than what I’ve already been through… My doula put her face close to mine, and started talking before my brain could complete those negative thoughts. She gently said, “OK, you’re 9.5. If you stand up through these next few contractions, we’ll be able to get gravity to help us make those contractions that are coming work harder for you. You’ll hold your baby even sooner.”

Stand up. At 9.5. This was unheard of in the birth stories I learned; this is the point where you’re supposed to be closest to death. Now, 9.5 was a “place’” a station with its own set of tasks. There was no option; the doula and my husband were already lifting me out of the bed. There were so many words that comforted me in those statements; “contractions that are coming.” I realized then, the contractions are coming anyway, so I might as well use them. I relaxed completely.

Now, I saw that contractions were like a train that would come in and out at regular intervals. If I didn’t work hard enough to “open” for this one, there was always another train coming right behind. I found myself waiting for them to come. I wanted to jump into each one. And thank God, there was even a break between each one! Whoever designed this whole “labor” thing really knew what they were doing.

Still, the words she said, so gently, “…you can hold your baby…” shifted my perspective. I wanted to hold my baby, and if standing up meant that labor would be over sooner, stand I did.

That’s when I bit my husband. The pain was sharp, ohhhh so bad. The bite was maybe my way of sharing the intensity of what I was feeling. My doula was right. Standing up made the contraction so much stronger; and labor was over within a couple of minutes. I was soon holding that baby, and that warm little baby against my chest was pure bliss.

I did more than give birth without drugs. I wiped out decades of terror and fear; I replaced the horrific birth stories in my family with ones of empowerment. I love it when my husband rubs that spot on his chest and brags about that day when Mommy gave birth. I always smile and remember all the demons I conquered that day.

And today? He’s still a babe.

With all the bread, cookies and treats, I’ve been making, combined with this winter weather, I have moved to some more “aggressive” yoga series that work off the extra pounds, while still maintaining the required union of body, mind and spirit.

As I am traditionally a Hatha yogi, and faithfully take Shiva Rea – Yoga Shakti daily. I needed something new to work muscles and glands that might be getting overlooked. I decided to try Kundalini yoga, as this type of yoga delivers one of the most efficient ways to transform your life. First, understand that the only workout I do is Yoga. Yoga, to me, is a time saver: it works my heart, my lungs, and builds strength and flexibility, while also delivering a path to the “Peace that passes all understanding.”

Fat Free Yoga – Lose Weight & Feel Great w/ Ravi Singh & Ana Brett By title alone, I couldn’t wait to try this Yoga DVD. This yoga focuses on strengthening your core, by combining traditional yoga poses with the breath of fire. There was much emphasis on detoxifying the glands, particularly the thyroid and adrenal glands to boost, and ultimately, regulate metabolism.

This video’s focus on your abdominal glands gives a double bonus: First, it tones and flattens your stomach, and strengthens your core. Second, in yoga terms, your core is your center of power. Working this area of your body makes you more “aware” of your weaknesses, (both emotional and physical) strengthens them, and in turn, gives you more “willpower” to say no to the wrong foods, the wrong choices, and to do what is right for you.

This yoga DVD is hard, but not impossible. This 90-minute DVD offers four 20 minute workout, giving you the ability to choose “how far you can go” on any given day. Still, I was looking for a tough workout, and this one delivered… in spades. The first time I did the workout, I wanted the workout to be over over in the first 20 minutes, and I’ve been doing yoga for over 12 years. I always did the entire DVD, and by the third time, I was learning to “appreciate” the exercises, and no longer found them overwhelming. Uncomfortable, yes. But, as Ravi explains, this discomfort sends a signal to your thyroid gland to secrete chemicals that will balance you, and boost your metabolism. The pain is worth the gain…or loss, depending on how you view it.

My favorite part of the DVD is the Your Life is in Your Own Glands, as this section brings hormonal balance. While I’m busy burning calories, my hormones are getting balanced, which is the gem that yoga brings to any workout. These exercises, along with the breathing meditations, are designed to help you strengthen your willpower, help you build nerves of steel, with the ultimate goal of helping you handle any challenge life presents.

Ravi includes low-impact aerobics, that involve the “cross-crawl” technique to balance the hemispheres in your brain. I thought these exercises were a little too light. I’m thinking about replacing those sections with jumping jacks. However, the poses, are TOUGH. Imagine lying on your belly, grabbing one foot, while the other is straight and off the floor, and rocking back and forth. Now, switch legs. Now, do both legs. I had a brief second there, when I thought I would hang up my yoga mat… forever… But I made it. This pose really is a wonderful stretch, once you get used to it.

The rapid twists, designed to tear out toxins, for some reason, have almost eliminated all of my neck pain. I’m not completely pain free, but I hope this will improve, as more time with Ravi marches on.

Unlike Shiva Rea‘s fabulous collection of musicians on all of her yoga DVDs and CDs, that you can listen to all day and night, I’m not fond of the music on Ravi Singh‘s DVD. So, I’ve written down the poses, along with the time for each, so that I can do it on my own, with my own tunes.

I’ve been doing this video for a month, three days a week, with Shiva Rea – Yoga Shakti on the other two days. (Hatha, it turns out, is the only workout that “stops” my restless legs.) In the end, I have lost 6.5 pounds in one month. The biggest benefit is that these exercises have strengthen my core, which has expanded outward to my arms and legs. I noticed this as I went back to Shiva Rae, and was able to hold downward dog that extended beyond my normal fatigue level. Also, when I run around at the park with the boys, my breath doesn’t get short as quickly.

Emotionally, I’ve noticed I’m a bit more relaxed… still impatient… but able to sit and wait, and not jump at the first sound of a crash in the house, and wait to see if it “resolves itself.”

If anything, Fat Free Yoga has enhanced my Hatha yoga practice. The stretches I follow with Shiva Rea are deeper, as my core is stronger, and the muscles in my legs and arms are strong enough to hold me while I extend farther. With those benefits, this yoga DVD will stay a part of my overall yoga maintenance. The hardest challenge is deciding each day, which one I will do, as I still need both.

Have you heard those stories about organ donors? A recipient suddenly falls in love with classical music, and later learns the owner of the heart was a classical musician; a fast-food junkie receives a heart from a vegetarian and suddenly meat makes her sick; or more dramatically, the story of a 10-year old who received the heart of a murdered 8-year-old. The murder was unsolved. Yet, the 10-year old began to have nightmares, and the details in her dreams convicted the killer with the time, weapon, place, and clothes he wore.

The stories are documented in Paul Pearsall’s, MD, book, The Heart’s Code, after he interviewed 150 organ transplant recipients and found that the cells of living tissues do remember. (February, the month of valentines, is American Heart Month, by the way.) Does the recipient know he’s getting far more than just a heart? That he will now have access to the pathways that make up another soul?

Memories are stored in our cells, not just our minds.

When a baby is created, the first sign of life is the beating heart. The heart comes first… not the brain.

Knowing this information makes me uneasy about checking that box on the driver’s license application for organ donation. I know this is the greatest gift I can give… but knowing that the organ comes with its own “private” personal history changes everything. It’s nut just a pump; it’s a heart full of memories, pains, joys… that will live on despite my physical presence here or not. I haven’t been able to wrap my mind around the whole concept just yet…

This month, I’m starting a radically new yoga routine — Kundalini Yoga. On a physical level, I’ve never worked harder, sweating and panting through the end. On a heart level, I notice that it is pulling deeply embedded memories out of hibernation. Stories flash before me like a mini-movie-dream.

Between each yoga, (asana), pose, you are invited to rest. At first, I was irritated, as my goal for doing this DVD was to keep my heart rate elevated throughout the entire routine. I have since learned that the rests do not de-escalate my heart rate that much, really. The rest is necessary — without these little pauses the memories the poses invoke would pile up and crash at the end of the hour. The rest is not for my heart rate… it’s for my heart.

Have you noticed how dramatically different the mind and heart approach a problem? Just when you think you have it all figured out logically, you somehow feel uneasy. Slowly, and I am learning that it’s always, the logic of the heart begins to make itself known. The logic is suddenly so clear you cannot make another choice — and that knot in your gut seems to vanish. Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “To believe your own thoughts, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men–that is genius.”

Those little pauses are so important. Although the mind speaks loud and clear, the heart never shouts. It always whispers. Without the pauses, we can’t hear what the heart is saying.

Have you noticed this?

Funerals move too quickly –

they close the casket

before you’re ready

I need — and want — to linger.

Is this is a favor?

That truck with the dirt

shows up as we leave the grave.

Please, don’t let me see.

He lived a long life

so, you think you won’t be sad.

Death is expected.

Still, a reminder

your place in the universe

has shifted a bit.

Then you see his son…

sitting in that same church pew

where you sat with Dad.

Please spare him this pain…

and then, the tears flow in waves.

You move your gaze,

And see the sibblings

the baby brother is now

left behind, again.

I’m so happy

that I still have someone small

who sits on my lap.

My tears fall on his

little shoulder; can I stop

grief’s sting in his life?

I hug him tighter

then I whisper in his ear

love is forever…

I avoid this topic like the plague. Kids need to play, explore, and build their imaginations, and preschools that put an emphasis on reading, math and handwriting steal those opportunities from kids. My statement usually incites anger and probably fear, in parents who’ve already justified the decision that their child needs to build elementary skills while in preschool, and have already spent a few happy months in a preschool that is doing just that. Plus, they are already financially and emotionally invested in the school and its teachers, and even though the child is only three, the family thinks its too late to turn back now. And besides, they believe, I am wrong.

I’m choosing to speak up now because The Wall Street Journal (What’s Gotten Into Kids These Days? January 17, 2008; Page D1, By Sue Shellenbarger) has now reported some research data that backs my belief.

Behavior problems among preschoolers are emerging as a national issue. In several studies released in the past month, researchers at Yale, Rutgers and Cornell universities, among others, are treating preschoolers’ conduct as a challenge that calls for changes in school programs and classroom management. The problem has reached the point where researchers are recommending preschool teachers have access to mental-health consultants, like the psychologists who help out in higher grade.

This is kind of chilling. Why are behavior problems emerging as a national issue?

The causes aren’t clear. Some experts blame a government drive for accountability in schools that is intensifying emphasis on early skill-building in reading and math, frustrating kids who aren’t ready. Others cite a variety of other factors, including parents’ early use of child-care centers, family instability, poor prenatal care or an increased incidence of such learning difficulties as attention-deficit disorder.

This is creating a need for children to have extra training on more social and emotional skills so they can deal with other kids. “Indeed, the academic achievement that parents covet, and that schools are so avidly seeking, can’t be attained without good social and emotional skills as a foundation,” adds the WSJ. If you can’t fathom what a preschool is that does focus on play, imagination, and the ability to build emotional confidence, check here.

There’s no reason to teach a child to hold a pencil before he’s ready, just because someday he’ll need to know how to hold a pencil. If you have trouble grasping that concept, think of it like this: what if we took the same attitude with sexual skills? The child just isn’t ready. At preschool, I hope there are teachers willing to help my child button his costume, teach him how to say, “I don’t like that, but I do like this,” and show him how to pound play dough.

Some preschools have initiated testing, to aleve parental anxiety and to ensure that their child will be able to compete in elementary school testing. However, a bulletin in Mothering Magazine (145, Nov-Dec 2007: p35) cites an annual Gallup/PDK poll of people who claim to know at least a fair amount about the Bush administration’s No Child Left Behind (NCLB) Act:

The vast majority (82 percent) said they would “prefer that schools be judged by growth in students’ achievement rather than by the simple percent[age] of students who score at or above proficiency on their state assessment.” Indeed, a growing percentage of parents of public school children–from 32 percent in 2002 to 52 percent in 2007–feel there is too much emphasis on testing.

I’ve seen the stress the NCLB leaves on Middle-School kids, and now it seems the NCLB act has hit the preschool room too. Hopefully, the work of the nonprofit Forum on Educational Accountability (FEA), will bring back some balance, and allow childhood to flourish again. The FEA sent a letter, August 7, 2007, to members of the Senate and House education committees for a major overhaul of NCLB, including implementing “multiple assessments of learning and multiple indicators of school performance,” signed by 117 leading educators, scholars, and researchers. The letter supports the Joint Organizational Statement of NCLB. You can view this statement here.

I would love to hear what other Moms think about this issue. There are several Hip Mommas I know who have such a wonderful way with words, and hearts that hate to see childhood pass so quickly, like Amy, Dawn, Louann, PunditMom — your opinion always rocks,Charlotte,(we’d like a global perspective) YogaMum, Mothergoosemouse (congratulations again), Patios, Beck, Mama M, Leslie, Jess — and you know I can’t just write every Mom and Dad’s name here, so don’t even think about your name not being here if it isn’t, and just let me know if you agree, or why in the world not.

As you choose preschool, or perhaps consider a NEW preschool, consider this poem, written by George Athanas.

I want to be six again. I want to go to McDonalds and think it’s the best place on earth to eat. I want to sail sticks across fresh mud puddle and make waves with rocks. I want to think M&M’s are better than money because you can eat them. I want to play kickball during recess and stay up Christmas Eve waiting to hear Santa or Rudolph on the roof.

I long for the days when life was simple. When all you knew were your colors, the addition tables, and simple nursery rhymes, but it didn’t bother you because you didn’t know and didn’t care. I want to go to school and have snack time, recess, gym, and field trips. I want to be happy, because I don’t know what should make me upset. I want to think the world is fair and everyone in it is great. I want to believe anything is possible.

Sometimes while I was maturing I learned to much. I learned of nuclear weapons, starving children, battered wives, death, unhappy marriages, and abused children. I learned of the unhappiness that exists and like my addition tables I never forgot it. I want to be six again and think that everyone I know including myself will live forever because I don’t know the concept of death. I want to be oblivious to the complexity of life and be overly excited at little things again.

I want television to be something I watch for fun, not something I use for an escape from the things I should be doing. I want to think answering the telephone is a privilege not a pain in the neck, and that bus rides are fun regardless of where I am going, not an inconvenience because I could have driven there faster by car. I want to live knowing the little things I find exciting will not always make me happy as when I first learned them.

I remember not seeing the world as a whole but rather only being aware of the things which directly concern me. I want to be looking at the picture of life so closely that I can only see the people directly around me — family and friends — as the people who concern me, unaware of the power of the government and the possibility I have of being insignificant. I want to be naive enough to think that if I am happy so is everyone else. Because by being aware you take on responsibility, the responsibility to act or know you didn’t and live with the consequences.

I want to walk down the beach and think only of the sand under my bare feet and of the possibility of finding that blue piece of seaglass that I am looking for. I long for the days when while I walked down the beach it was the only thing I thought of. But those days are gone. I am destined now to walk the beach always thinking other thoughts, worrying other worries , reliving memories good and bad that the beach reminds me of, enjoying the view and air but never completely removing myself from the thinking, worrying and rethinking that is always going on inside of me.

I want to be six again, happy to be alive yet unaware of what life really is. I want to spend my afternoons climbing trees and riding my bike, letting the grown ups worry about time, the dentist, and how to find the money to fix the car’s battery. I want to wonder what I’ll do when I grow up, not worry about what I’m going to do after graduation.

It’s not that I want to live my life over again, I’m basically happy with how things turned out — so far. Rather I want to be able to escape but not have to pay for it later. I want to be able to visit my six year old state of mind, play in my six year old state of mind dirt and swim in my six year old state of mind water. Life was good then but I didn’t know enough to realize it. I was so anxious to grow up I spent time, I should have enjoyed being young, acting older. I want that time back. I want to use it now as an escape so that when I have a computer program, six reading assignments, two depressed friends, and second thoughts about my major I can travel back and build a snowman without thinking about anything except why the snow sticks together and what could I possibly use for the snowman’s mouth.

I can help you find your contact when you’ve lost it in the bathroom, while it mysteriously fell from your finger while you were putting them into your eyes. I know exactly the places to look… sometimes it falls on your cheek, and it just sits there, waiting to be picked up. Or, it’s sitting lightly on your hair, precariously balanced — untethered by gravity’s pull. If it’s not in either of those two places, I can usually find it hanging on the edge of the sink, or the edge of your toe. No matter, not to worry, I will always find it, no matter where it has landed. To this day, not a single contact has ever been lost under my care.

The relief of finding that lost contact gives you a not only a day of sight, but also a sigh of relief, no need to rush to the phone in the hopes that the Dr. has your prescription in-stock today, and no hassles. But what else can I do? Is the simple act of knowing I’m here and will always be able to find your contact enough? Have I mastered the critical skills? It’s hard to know, but sometimes as I watch you navigate through the mine-fields of life, I feel inadequate and helpless.

I can help you create flash cards to help you remember that lava is above ground, and magma is below, but I’m unable to run to the store to replace all the things the smoke has robbed from you, I’m still inept at sending birthday cards at the time they mean the most, and unable to put your self-esteem back together when they’ve battered you to a pulp. I can’t undo the wrongs of this world, the wrongs that are shutting you down from dreams. But, I can make a kick-ass muffin that will keep you nourished and on-your-toes for 10 hours straight. But what good is that, really, if I’m missing the big things that can get you through? What are the big things?

Do I feel distant when you’re hurting? This is just me coming into the full awareness of my own limitations. I’m observing your hurt, and perhaps I’m thinking of how I could have prevented this for you.

I read once that most of us only use 10 percent of our lung capacity. The inability to breath deeply can lead to serious illness, as deep breaths eliminate many toxins out of our bodies. I told her this, explained it in detail, yet she still died of pneumonia. I thought I was so clear when I explained every step of a good deep breath to her. Something I couldn’t fix.

Just before I wake, inspiration comes to me in the form of some great and grand act I can take to eliminate a problem, clear an obstacle for someone else, or clear a whole new path. This idea usually stirs out of deep sleep, into my clothes and down stairs where I do first thing first: I start cooking breakfast, I make sure lunches are packed, I drink my warm lemon water, I pour cereal, I break-up squabbles, and find lost pieces to important costumes that will be worn today.

In about 40 minutes, the inspiration that has brought me down to the kitchen in the first place has withered down to a puddle of liquid that has no feet to move. I can no longer find its beginning, middle and end, and unable to see my role in its master plan. At this point, my raison d’être is now cleaning breakfast dishes, working on dinner and clearing a path through the toys, and realizing that today, I will not conquer world peace; I’ll be lucky to get everyone to bed on time.

No Mother really wants to admit that the act of caring for her children takes her away from her “higher purpose.” Actually, children create inspiration, the desire to better things, and my children build the resolve wtihin me to do the right things and to get what needs to be done, done. They are wonderful inspiration feeders. So, it is not the children themselves that blocks us from doing something great, it is the work that comes with the children. It’s difficult not to believe, (or is it that we want to believe?), that our destiny lies beyond the purvey of washing dishes, and scrubbing floors. Worse, is the feeling that the presence of these very acts on our daily agenda is what is keeping us from our destiny.

This feeling of helplessness, unable to foresee the tragedies that life will throw at you, makes my skills of making a perfect ghost, a so-so marshmallow, great olive-oil or spreadable butter, so trivial. Even though I do all these things with great love, I feel sometimes, when life is especially hard, that it is quite simply not enough.