A Child's Wonder

The child's wonder

At the old moon

Comes back nightly.

She points her finger

To the far silent yellow thing

Shining through the branches

Filtering on the leaves a golden sand,

Crying with her little tongue, "See the moon!"

And in her bed fading to sleep

With babblings of the moon on her little mouth.

- Carl Sandburg

The jet stream over the United States has dipped south and brought a cool spell to the eastern half of the country. On this July morning, I stepped outside and shivered. But it was delightful, all the same.

Every mid-summer, there is a day when I can smell the fall that has not yet arrived. The next season is far off, like a distant cruise ship that wanders before pulling into the bay. Today, the air smells like fall. Tomorrow, we will return to summer again. This harbinger of the season to come reminds me of the transient nature of all things on the earth. We are like the grass, as the Psalms sing, with a glory like the grass. We have our day, and then it is gone.

Nevertheless, at this moment, in this midsummer, the sky is a deep Robin's egg blue and the sun is a golden dandelion that rolls across the sky. The green leaves of the trees bow in the brisk, cool wind. The songbirds hop and skip and chatter their delight. The earth calls to me, Come and play.

So I did.

This morning my husband and I hiked some of the five miles of trails around Carl Sandburg's home in Western North Carolina. This beloved American poet, winner of two Pulizer prizes, moved here and established a small farm in 1945. He was world-famous, and at the height of his influence, at the time. This place was his choice for a sanctuary.

The trails wind around the house and pond in front, through woods filled with pines, oaks, maples, hemlocks, and rhododendron. Behind the house is a little mountain called "Glassy" because the open granite face looks like glass when wet. We hiked up to Glassy, through the woods, and around the pond, until we were as fresh as the morning air and our spirits as light as the golden sun.

Isn't it beautiful? I asked my husband.

Yes, it is, he answered.

We need to eyes of a child to see it all, to drink it in. We need a child's wonder to gaze upon the beauties that appear before us -- at the moon and at the earth and the people on it -- and say amen to them all, and amen to the Love that made them.

Doing What I Can

Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.

- Teddy Roosevelt

I nearly had a meltdown yesterday. I don't know exactly why. Probably, it was just a case of exhaustion, and a little too much of everything. In the midst of a conversation, I lost my composure. My husband was with me at the time. I was trying to explain why I felt so much pressure to do way too much, and suddenly I felt dizzy. He turned off the lights and left the room to let me rest and calm down. That seemed like the best thing to do with me.

Honestly, I don't know what would have been best. But after a few minutes, I decided that if I could accomplish my original goals for the day, I could eliminate some of the pressure. So I went back to work. This was definitely a personal victory for me. Instead of sitting and crying about how hard my life has been lately, I focused on doing something positive and productive. Rather than concentrating on the things I could not change -- like my situation and my emotions, I put my energy toward the one thing I could do: the next urgent task.

Amazingly, it helped. I found I was able to do the next little job, then the next one, then the next one, and so on, until the necessary tasks were complete. After that, I felt much calmer. It wasn't a pretty way to climb out of a near-breakdown, but it was effective. Doing what I could was empowering and gave me a focus that kept me from coming apart.

At eight o'clock in the evening, after my work was done, I left the house. I drove a few minutes to a nearby grocery, which is unlike any other I have ever known. The Fresh Market sits unassumingly on a busy road at the edge of town. When I stepped in the door, the classical music swirled around me, along with delightful smells of flowers by the door, fine coffee and tea, pungent spices, fresh peaches, and strawberries. I sampled the gourmet coffee in one of the little cups provided. I ground two scoops of Columbian and Kona beans and put them in brown and gold bags to carry home with me. I gazed upon and sniffed deeply of the fruits and vegetables. I picked up some things on sale -- snow peas, green leaf lettuce, green beans. I found a dark German bread made with whole grain rye and molasses. I collected some spices I had been missing lately which are packaged in little bags for $2 or less. I lingered over the freshly made cheeses, granola, and baked delights. I lost myself in the aisles full of whole grains and dried beans and teas. I really felt, for a few minutes, as though I had stepped into another world. I lost track of the clock. Suddenly, it was near closing time, and one of the cashiers kindly offered to check me out. Ah, yes. Time to go back. I drove back through the summer twilight with a apricot sky overhead.

The stress of the day had melted off. Does that mean I am shallow? I hope not. I'm banking on the idea that it means nothing was really wrong with me or with my life. The recent weeks have been very hard, and I am human -- with all of the wonder, all of the weaknesses and limitations, all of the strength and resilience that implies. I had a bad moment, but then I recovered. Like grass that has been trampled and flattened, but under the sun, and with a little time, springs back up for another day, I awoke this morning to the towhee singing about drinking tea and the oak leaves dancing in a cool breeze, and now I am writing for you again.

Rocks in My Attic

You know how hot an attic can get on a summer day.

We tried to plan the emptying of our attic so that the temperature up there was bearable. We picked a day that was forecast to be cool and rainy. Wouldn't you know? -- it never rained. The sun came out. The air turned sultry, heavy, damp, very warm. Still no rain.

It wasn't too bad. The attic wasn't an oven, but we didn't want to linger either. Sweat rolled down faces and trickled down skin beneath shirts, as we lugged one box after another. I handed things to my husband, who handed them to Josh, who set them on the upstairs landing. Two more sets of similar arrangements carried our stuff to the garage, into a rental truck, and finally to storage.

We were in the middle of it all, in the steamy air. I handed a box to my husband and announced it's contents, just like I had done for all the others.

"Rocks. They're heavy."

"What?" He looked at me like I must be joking.

"Rocks. For Ben."

"WHAT?"

I nodded.

"No way. You mean we're moving rocks?"

Yes, way. I explained. "Ben wants to keep them. There's another box of 'em here, too."

My dear husband, having been father and superintendent for a very creative homeschool, was used to odd things happening in our household. He learned to never throw anything away. It might look like trash, but you never know -- it could be a science experiment. This time, it took him a minute to adjust. But after staring at me and blinking, he did. Then he cheerfully shrugged and hauled the rocks with me.

A couple of weeks ago, I had called Ben to ask him if we should get rid of the rocks.

His response: "Mom, I can't even believe you are asking me that." Okay. I just smiled.

In the elementary grades, we decided to embark on a geology unit study. We studied all the types of rocks and minerals, their crystal formations and characteristics, and how they were created. We drew rocks, read about rocks, looked at pictures of rocks. But by this time, I had grown wiser. I knew that my hands-on learner would only engage by experiencing rocks in a three-dimensional way. I used an old pair of jeans to make "rock bags" and bought small hammers, chisels, and plastic goggles at the hardware store. We started going outdoors to find rocks. Ben was in a state of bliss with his little hammer and chisel and bag. He never tired of going up one more hill or around one more corner just to see what he could find. For weeks, we went out for rocks every day we could.

Some interesting things happened which spurred us on and made it all the more intriguing. A lake at a nearby state park was drained; Indian arrowheads were there. We discovered a piece of a geode in the lake bottom. Friends who lived twenty minutes away found fossils of prehistoric sea creatures in their creek bed. At their invitation, we came to find our own and carry them home. We found black obsidian on one of our hunts -- shiny, polished smooth as glass. Ben called it black gold. You can imagine the excitement.

I also started picking up sheets of rock and mineral specimens: tiny samples of rocks and minerals glued to a sheet of thin cardbord with each name printed below the corresponding specimen. I found polished stones in gift stores and museums. I added these to our growing collection. Soon Ben and Josh could name by sight an impressive list of rocks, minerals, and gems. They knew their characteristics, their unique properties, how they were used, and how they might be identified in the ground. Josh enjoyed all of this, but for Ben this was a passionate pursuit. He treasured our rocks. He often talked about how he could not wait to see real gems.

That's why we arranged to see the Gems and Minerals Collection at the Carnegie Museum of Natural History in Pittsburg. When we walked into the gems and minerals room, Ben could barely contain his excitement. There were the very gems he had only seen pictures of and had envisioned. There they were, in living reality, sparkling under the lights in their glass boxes. This was really a dream come true. The Carnegie collection is stunning, no doubt about that. Any student of geology would be impressed with the vast array and the sheer volume, size, and beauty of the specimens on display. But Ben was enthralled, transfixed, suspended in wonder.

He said, "I will never forget this day."

Years later, he still remembers the delight and the wonder of discovery. A friend recently told me that Ben, now a college student, picks up rocks when he is out for a walk and carries them back with him.

I remember, too. That's why I have rocks in my attic.

A Summer Morning Walk

On Monday, my husband and I decided to take a walk along the road leading to Dingman Falls. It's a beautiful stroll in an Appalachian ravine. The woods rise steeply on either side and fill the air with their piney scent. A bustling creek spills it's brisk waters over the rocks and winds around, following and skirting underneath the road. Birds are busy with their nests in early June and punctuate the air with their rapid calls. They sing as they work.

The road leads to two waterfalls which are connected with a boardwalk. The first, Silver Thread, is a gossamer stream that sends it's refreshing waters down a very narrow, very straight ravine. It's hard to believe it's not man-made. The rocks split off at sharp right angles which look like they must have been cut by a machine. Further on lies Dingman Falls, the second largest in Pennsylvania. It's broad rush down a long incline that sprays mist over admirers on the boardwalk below. Adventurous tourists can climb the stairway and path that lead up the ravine and around to the top of the falls.

The woods surrounding them are filled with a wide variety of plants and animals. We have been surprised many times by what we found there. Monday was no exception. When we walk along the narrow, winding road, we find it necessary to occasionally stand by the side as a car passes. We were standing still at one of these moments when I looked down and saw columbines, very much like the picture above. Right at my feet. I would have missed them entirely, had we not stopped. Then I noticed that they danced all the way up the side of the ravine, as though they were following their own meandering path. A path of columbines. Like this. Here in the woods, growing wild. I used to plant them in my garden. Next to them were bluets, whose lavender petals served as a backdrop that made the columbines' yellow and tangerine hues glow. I was captivated.

Since then, I keep thinking of them. I thought of them yesterday as we cleared out our attic and carried dusty boxes to the garage. I thought of them as I ate supper. I remembered them as I lay in bed and listened the wind outside. I could still seeing them dancing against the dark green woods with the bluets beside them.

The Man Who Saw For Us

It was a magical moment.

In a split second, Galileo became real to me. He moved and breathed. It happened on a Wednesday when I stumbled upon a small piece of paper behind a glass box in a corner of the Franklin Science Institute in Philadelphia. The paper looked like it had been torn from a book. On it, Galileo had painted the phases of the moon as he saw them in his telescope. They looked like early black and white photos, faded, but still oddly vivid, remarkably believable. I had just seen his telescope -- the actual one he had used for his work, the one he built himself. Our guide explained how he developed a technique of heating and bending glass which enabled him to create a lens that magnified an object 30 times, instead of the usual 2. This lens let him see the universe. These pictures of the moon showed me exactly what he saw in that lens on a particular set of nights.

He was punished for seeing it. The Church labeled his truth-telling as heresy. It didn't fit their doctrine. His observations confirmed that the planets revolved around the sun, rather than around the earth. Not only was this unacceptable to them, it was simply not possible; it was a lie. They moved quickly and decisively to ban his publications and silence his message.

What would he think if he could see the extreme anxiety with which the Italians brought his telescope to the Franklin Institute? Officials from the Instituto e Museo di Storia della Scienza traveled with it and would not let anyone touch it or any of the other things from his life which all came in special, large boxes. The Italians set up the exhibit themselves and then stayed on site for a few days to watch as spectators wound their way through the artifacts. Rules are strict: no touching, no photos. So great was their concern that the exhibit almost didn't happen. The fact that Gallileo's things actually touched American soil is a tribute to the Franklin Institute's diplomacy and patience. For the Italians, this is a national treasure, Gallileo their national hero. What they have from his life is priceless and irreplaceable.

What would he think?

In an irony that is nearly too terrible to contemplate, after he published his famous Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems, his life came full circle. He was forced by the Church to recant and placed under permanent house arrest. His daughters entered the same Church as nuns, because he could no longer provide for them and because, having been born out of wedlock, they were considered by the Church to be unmarriageable. After his public disgrace, his reputation destroyed, he found his sources of income stripped from him. The strain was devastating. He lost his health. Then he lost his sight.

This man who saw for us the universe in the night sky.

It was just a story to me, something from a history book, until I saw the moons he painted. Now I can't get him off my mind. How did he feel at the end of his life? Was he bitter? Did he have any idea what he had done for the rest of us? Did he realize that we would admire and remember him, that the truth would eventually find its way to us? I want to reach across the centuries and take his old hands in mine and thank him.

In the exhibit, around the corner from Galileo's moon phases, is a portrait of him when he was old. His eyes look away and upwards, as if he is seeing the night sky again -- although it's clear he must have been blind by that time. He is looking at worlds beyond our world, gazing upon the universe within. The Church leaders may have imprisoned his body in his house, but they could never imprison that mind. What he saw blazes like a comet across time and space, its light reaching out to you and to me. His truth lives, and it lives for us.

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The Franklin Science Institute is hosting Galileo, the Medici, and the Age of Astronomy until September 7.

Their hands-on science museum is a great favorite for homeschoolers. It could be an interesting summer trip or a good way to kick off a unit study in the early fall.

You can check out what the institute offers at their website.