I beat Meg in the dirt department tonight. I realize that might not mean anything to many of you, but those of you who know my little sprite, must realize the importance of this achievement!

Meg is an outside girl. She is a different person entirely when she’s outside. Completely charming and darling. Indoors, well, she’s completely…sprite – a bit mischievious and temperamental. And being such a charming girl while outside, Meg is outside as much as is appropriate, at my command.

Following this logic, being outside a lot means a lot of the outside comes in with her. Sometimes it can be rinsed off in the shower with a good scrubbing. Sometimes I find it spread throughout the house in the form of rocks that look like phone receivers, sticks that have been peeled and notched to make archery bows, dandelion bouquets in cups artfully arranged on the library table. Still, charming.

The dirt, however, is less than charming.

Those of you who know me know I used to be somewhat like Meg…eons ago. However, somewhere along the way I began to appreciate, well, being a girl. And along with that, I learned to appreciate cleanliness. Clean clothes, clean house, clean dishes, clean me! I like to look clean and smell clean. Which doesn’t mean I have a problem with dirt. I just appreciate clean more. Especially in my house.

So at the end of the day, when Meg comes in to get ready for bed, I often find myself gasping in astonishment and (yes, I admit) disapproval at the amount of dirt that comes in with her.

Until today.

When we got home, Meg and I both chose to spend our evening outside. (Kate is suffering from really bad allergies so she opted for the safety of the house and Benedryl.) We both got greasy fixing our bikes up for the season. We both got dusty messing around in the garage. We both got grass stains running about the yard. Then Meg went to boss the neighborhood kids around and I went to work on the yard.

It’s Earth Day you know. And what better way to pay homage to nature than by being out in it and taking care of my tiny piece of it. So I mowed the grass, picked up trash, raked leaves out of the mint patch, pulled dead morning glory vines off the fence, trimmed the climbing rose and hydrangeas, and cleaned out the compost pile. Then I christened the yard by refreshing the bird bath and setting out the bird house over the mint patch.

When it was time to come in, Meg and I stood side by side at the sink to wash our hands. Meg noticed it first. And it was her disappointment that cued me in to the significance of my dirtiness. She was actually disappointed that I had dirt under my nails, caked up my arm and smudged on my face, grass stains on my elbow and knee, cuts on my fingers and forearms and grass in my hair. She wasn’t nearly as dirty.

I was appalled. Then Meg, in usual sprite fashion, shared her insight. “Mommy, God made dirt and dirt doesn’t hurt.”

She was right. I felt wonderful.

My daughters and I are starting the first of our 2008 curriculum today. The curriculum is a set of thoughts we master throughout the year through “unconventional” learning. That means we will read, watch movies, discuss, go to museums, take field trips and other adventurous actions to learn something useful, but interesting.

We’re starting with pirates code. Perhaps I should say that we learn something interesting, but useful then.

Yes, I think that we ladies, in the landlocked midwest in the year 2008, should learn about pirate’s code. Pirates Code, also called Articles of Agreement, set expectations for behavior, rewards and punishment of a voyage. Setting expectations for behavior, rewards and punishment is a necessary lesson for any family to learn. Ask Super Nanny. She would definitely agree with me.

It is also a great way to learn about labels. Specifically pirate versus privateer. And right versus wrong. But which is which? The answer might surprise you?

Interestingly we start with the labels lesson right away as we learn about how pirates code came about. It seems that pirates code is a copy of earlier privateering articles. Privateering articles also set expectations for behavior, rewards and punishment for a voyage. The difference between pirates code and privateering articles? Pirates code were usually more fair and equitable than privateering articles. Interesting! The thieves were fairer than the pawns of organized organizations…

Pirates code also gave value to people who were truly valuable. For example, carpenters, navigators and musicians were usually given a greater share of treasure because they were necessary to the success of the voyage. Any man could be taught to heave and ho, to light a cannon fuse, to swab the deck. Not every man could be taught to see and fix structural damage to the ship, to set and keep course by the stars or compass, or to entertain. These are skills we might also have to pick up along our curriculum. You know, in case we’re ever pressed into service aboard a pirate ship.

Privateering articles, on the other hand, gave higher value to rank regardless of abillity or skill. Well, let’s hope that the money spent to secure an officer’s position aboard the ship also came with money to learn a useful trade.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I have no intention of romanticising pirates or privateering (though I make no such promise about romanticising sailing the open sea).

I do intend to help my daughters see that labels are often applied as a mask to lead judgement of right versus wrong. And it is only through removing the mask that we see the truth. Sometimes the truth changes the label. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it’s really difficult to tell. Regardless, it requires independent and critical thinking, challenging assumptions, and understanding that the world is not made up of absolutes.

I think those are very useful lessons to learn. Especially if it comes with the skill of navigating by the stars. However, they aren’t lessons people teach anymore because you can’t learn them just by being told. They come only with willingness and ability to engage in thought.

And what better way to engage in thought than through amusement of a good pirate story.

Where does a good German girl go for a Friday night with a friend? The Irish pub, of course

My local Irish pub is like Cheers—everyone knows my name, on the staff, I mean. I like that. It means I get great service with conversation, big-brotherly protection and great drinks. I’m especially well known here for my love of drinks that come with stories. It’s part of my charm. And the staff knows that about me too.

As my friend and I find a seat in the back corner, Eric shouts out from behind the bar “Darlin’, are we running drunken pony races tonight?”

“What are drunken pony races?” my friend immediately asks. Eric looks shocked that I would hang out with anyone who didn’t know about drunken ponies.

“It all started with a train in Florida…” I begin as the staff behind the bar begins laughing.

I participated in my first drunken pony race in an Irish pub in St. Augustine, Florida. The bartender, a charming, handsome young gent with “genuine” Irish accent kept me amused throughout the evening with stories of local ghosts as he mixed the local favorite drink – the drunken pony. I laughed and flirted along until he mentioned Henry Flagler.

Henry Flagler was a great industrialist and is one of my heroes. The few people who know his name remember him as the successful oil partner of J.D. Rockefeller. But Henry Flagler also built some of the earliest and most magnificent hotels along the southern Atlantic coast and is largely responsible for the development of Florida into a tourist state.

How? By building a train system. Not just any train system. A train system that developed the Everglades into the tourist haven it is today. A train system that connected Florida to the Keys.

I wasn’t able to ride the train to Key West, but thanks to Henry Flagler I can drive to Key West. And I have. Key West is where I learned to sail. Sailing requires hard work and intimate knowledge of both the boat and the sea. You must be in tune with the twists and turns of the weather, read the rise and fall of the waves, be able to tell what’s going on with your boat by the slightest know what your destination is and follow it diligently while being prepared to change course in an instant.

In all of that, it reminds me of the drunken ponies in Ireland that the charming bartender in St. Augustine told me about. Before the ponies are drunk, they are hardworking creatures with intimate knowledge of the earth. They must be in tune with the twists and turns of the weather, read the rise and fall of the fields, know their destination and follow it diligently while being prepared to change course in an instant.

And when you’re done sailing, nothing is better than breaking open a bottle of champagne and enjoying the simplicity of your work.

Ponies were also rewarded at the end of the day in Ireland as the farmers working in the field would set off for the local pub and a pint. While they were drinking, they would give their ponies some water. After a pint, they would check on their ponies and, noting that the poor animals still looked tired, they would give them a couple green apples…while they helped themselves to another pint. When it was time to go, to give their ponies a little pep, they’d feed them a sugar cube.

Science experiment 1: Drink some water, eat a couple green apples and then down a couple packets of sugar. Wait a bit and tell me how you feel. You should feel tipsy. That’s because your body (and a ponies) will turn those specific ingredients into natural alcohol. After a hard day’s work with little or no food, that tipsy won’t be insignificant.

So what is a drunken pony? A drunken pony is part Champagne, part Hard Apple Cider and a sugar packet.

Science experiment 2: Mix those ingredients in a cognac glass sometime and watch what happens. I suggest you have a straw ready because you lose the drunken pony race if any alcohol spills on the bar.

I love to listen and observe…more than anything.

Does that surprise you, oh gentle reader? It should.

Those of you who know me know conversation is one of my favorite past times. And because I make quick decisions based on my intuition, not necessarily analysis or data.

But it’s true. I love to listen and observe.

And this morning, I’m in heaven. Heaven is actually backstage at the Schuster Center in downtown Dayton. It’s ENORMOUS! You could probably fit my entire house (basement to attic) in the backstage with room to spare. It’s also all blacked out. There are wires, switches, complicated panel boxes, pulleys, and miscellaneous equipment.

Behind the closed red, velvet curtain, the stage is set up for the Dayton Philharmonic. In fact, their scores are sitting in a stack in front of me as I type at a fold-up table in a captain’s chair. I flip through them reverently (after asking permission from the stage manager, of course). Aged paper, musty smell, penciled notes and mayhem on top of order. I love everything about it.

This all feels, surprisingly, like a natural habitat for me.

I’ve been backstage many times before, but I’ve never noticed how naturally I fit here. I’m sure it’s because this time I’m just an observer, not an active participant.

That should surprise you too, oh gentle reader. Those of you who know me know I am a very active person. By choice. I enjoy being active. I have more energy than I know what to do with. I like to be involved. I like to get things done. I even like to start things. Occassionally I even enjoy being on stage. Singing. Or talking. I can do both. And I do them well.

But backstage…well, it feels like home this morning.

Maybe it’s because the stagehands keep popping their heads in to share stories about their families, their jobs, their adventures, their dreams, their projects…their lives. I think the world of these people. They are some of my favorite people ever.

But maybe I feel at home here because it’s quiet other than the clicking of my keys while the show goes on. Maybe it’s because it’s a space just ready to be created into something…like a ship. Or a kingdom.

Whatever it is, I welcome it. It’s part of the complicated and unique dichotomy that I call “my charm.”

And this morning all I have to do is listen and observe.

Intent, not content, she sat back and studied the horizon. Nothing in sight.

“Love is a trick
Meant to trap you. You hear?
You’re better alone.
You’ll be happier, my dear.
Heed my warning.
I sing it clear.
I will sing it gently
If it’s easier to bear.”,/span>

The siren sang long into the day. And the captain stood and listened on the beach.

Then she turned and walked away, into the woods and out of the song’s reach.

It was time to build a boat.

——————-

Resources in the woods were plentiful, but the best resource of all was the captain’s resourcefulness.

Day by day she sought and moved materials necessary for building a ship from the woods to the beach. And always the siren sang on. Sometimes she would stop her work and sit listening. More often than not, however, she simply worked diligently and in silence.

Her intent on pursuing conquests, treasure and adventure grew daily with the progress of the ship. But she knew that diligent work must be balanced with some recreation. And the siren’s song inspired her recreation for on the edge of the beach was a wood, and on the edge of the wood was a town. And nothing afforded the captain more recreation than observing the townspeople.

On evenings when the Sun was long on the way to setting, the Wind was mild and playful and the Rain far out to sea, the captain would find a spot in the town square that was both conspicuous and not and quietly eat an apple watching the bustling about.

There were signs of caged spirits to be found, for sure. Yet, just as frequently were faces full of joy and warmth and kindness. The young and old could be found at any hour of the day walking about holding hands, smiling, talking, laughing and even kissing. She smiled. And when she smiled, the townspeople took note.

It did not take long for the townspeople to appear at the beach to watch her build the boat. They would stand off to the side murmurring and pointing. And she would smile. Then they would approach and tell her their stories as she worked.

Young and old, women and men, she learned what made these people happy and sad, frustrated and hopeful. She heard about past heartaches and future plans. She heard their histories and their goals. And she pocketed these gifts as treasure. The treasure mounted as the ship’s progress continued.

Every now and again some man would ask her what she was doing. Generously, but very carefully and putting down her tools facing her questioner eye to eye, she would respond directly to the question. Occasionally one would even offer to help. Smiling and silent, she would consider the offer. But always she refused.

Then one day a group of engineers appeared to look over the building of the boat. Like the others, they stood off to the side watching the building, murmurring and pointing. And like the others, she smiled and they approached. Like the others they talked and she listened.

But one engineer merely set off and strode around the boat, looking, inspecting. The captain laid down her tools and focused on the inspection in progress. When it was complete, the engineer approached and gently, but methodically asked of the building process, the purpose of the ship, and, finally, how she managed to find her way to this shore on this island. She smiled, stepped away from the ship and sat down on the warm sand. He followed and, leaning on his elbow, looked up at her expectantly.

She spoke of the joy of living, the challenge of curiosity, the thrill of the pursuit of knowledge. She spoke of hard work, loyalty, and dedication to dreams – for conquests, treasure and adventure. The engineer listened. When she finished she asked him for his opinion of the ship, the ship-building process and his life on the island. He spoke of the joy of working, the challenge of curiosity, the thrill of the pursuit of achievement. He spoke of hard work, responsibility and ambitions – for conquests, treasure and adventure. She listened.

When he was finished speaking, he asked if he could help. Smiling and silent, she considered the offer. And consented.

The next day, he appeared. And the day after that. And the day after that. Every day the two worked side by side building the boat. Sometimes they would work silently except for consultations. Sometimes they would tell stories and laugh and discuss future plans. Sometimes they would debate the correct way to build. But together they worked daily and soon the ship was well on its way to being sea worthy.

Intent, not content, she sat back and studied the horizon. Nothing in sight.

But she realized, there never had been.

She always charted her own course using the sense that served her best—and it wasn’t sight. But now she must employ sight, with a strength of mind that she had not ever had to reach for. And it was then that the spark sprang to her eye.

She looked where she knew she must. Down. Deep into the depths of the sea. She looked hard. And then she dived in, leaving the life raft to the mercy of the waves. Alone in the sea, she moved more freely and quickly. She was no longer held back by the burden of the pseudo-safety in the life raft. Stroke by stroke she reengaged in her pursuit.

And so the Sun, the Wind and the Rain smiled with wicked delight in anticipation.

——-

She swam the sea in search of conquest. So she passed land. And on she swam.

The waves lifted her high and gave her momentum; they tossed her over and sank her under their might; they pushed her on and in the next minute pulled her down. Up and down, forward and back. She fought on always hoping for the next high, but more and more finding herself plunging down into the deep.

She was drowning. And the thought both angered and depressed her. She must decide on another course. The conquest would have to wait.

She saw shore and knew she must aim for it. As she neared, the currents threatened to drag her under. The sea did not want her out of it’s grasp. It pulled on her legs; it wrapped around her waist and it tugged her mightily. She could feel her heart about to explode; her lungs burned; tears sprang to her eyes.

Never had she felt such pain. Yet she knew she must reach shore.

The Sun, the Wind and the Rain looked on, never wavering in their faith in her.

Finally, she reached the shore. And weary though she was, she stood feeling the strength of her legs more powerfully than she had in a long time. She welcomed the strength and embraced it silently. She closed her eyes and stood alone with the Sun beating down to warm and dry her, the Wind blowing tropical breezes to hold her still and the Rain falling in the distance finally lulling her to sleep.

As she slept, the sea decided on one more attempt to weaken the captain’s power for good. Just off shore on an outcropping of rock a siren sat waiting for her to wake. Seeing her lift her head, he began his song…

“The love you are seeking,
there is no such thing.
It’s a cage that will confine you.
Cut your flight. Feel it sting.
It’s a story to make you wander.
You’re better off to stay.
You’ll never find it
Though you search night and day.
You’re nothing but a silly girl
With dreams in your head.
You’re better off settling.
No, you’re better off dead
Than caught in the dream
You have in your head.
No man will want you
To have and to hold
Through autumn and spring
Summer and cold.
Love is a trick
Meant to trap you. You hear?
You’re better alone.
You’ll be happier, my dear.
Heed my warning.
I sing it clear.
I will sing it gently
If it’s easier to bear.”

The siren sang long into the day. And the captain stood and listened on the beach.

Then she turned and walked away, into the woods and out of the song’s reach.

It was time to build a boat.

There was a captain. She sailed her ship on the high seas in pursuit of treasure, which was her passion—the pursuit, not the treasure. She exuded unabashed health, happiness and strength. And people wanted to be near her. They wanted to be with her. They wanted to be her. They wanted her.

Even the Sun, the Wind and the Rain admired her for she batted not even one eyelash if her pursuit meant opposing the forces of Nature. She feared naught. She dared all. And she did it in the name of what she knew to be right. She did it for what she valued. She did it for what was rightfully hers. She did it with a spark in her eye.

She lived.

There was a mighty storm. One that the Sun, the Wind and the Rain sunk every ounce of energy into. Her ship took a beating, but she fought. During the melee she became distracted. She was defeated.

When the sea calmed she was alone in an inflatable life raft with nothing in sight but the choppy water. No engine. No paddles. Nothing but herself and the life raft.

For awhile she continued to fight, though her power was reduced to a mere fraction of what it had been. She grew tired in body but she continued. Occasionally she would stop and scan the horizon. Each time she resumed, her fight was less spirited. Only when it became clear that she was going nowhere did she finally grow tired in spirit.

Soon she found herself spending her days looking—instead of to the horizon—into the sea. She imagined horrible things. And so she saw them reflected there. She felt sick from the motion of the waves. She felt frightened of the images in the sea. She resigned herself to let the waves carry her wherever they wished her to go.

For the first time she just followed. Contentedly.

Soon she lost sight of the Sun, the Wind and the Rain. She forgot her treasure. She stopped her pursuit. She cared for nothing. She did nothing. And her health waned. Her happiness became paranoia. Her strength only exercised itself as a means of keeping her from jumping overboard and ending it all.

She became a ghost. She was a shipwreck.

But the Sun, the Wind and the Rain did not lose sight of her. For as she lost her will, they lost theirs. What good is an adversary that you can easily beat?

In her ghostlike existence, she heard the Sun, the Wind and the Rain conversing. The Wind suggested they bring her a new ship. The Rain wanted to show her the way to land. But the Sun…the Sun fiercely refused.

If they helped her, she would be forever weak and in their debt. She would never return to her former glory—let alone surpass it. She must fight her way back. She must know that she can overcome, not the strength of the storm that distracted and defeated her, but the contented uselessness of drifting at sea. For it was this uselessness that would destroy her.

Destroy.

The word alone shot like a thunderbolt straight to her soul. Destroy was impossible. Especially not to such an unworthy opponent as contented uselessness. As the Sun, the Wind and the Rain watched, she sat up and began paddling with her arms. She didn’t have nearly the strength she had before, but she pushed herself. Still she drifted aimlessly. Intent, not content, she sat back and studied the horizon. Nothing in sight.

But she realized, there never had been.

She always charted her own course using the sense that served her best—and it wasn’t sight. But now she must employ sight, with a strength of mind that she had not ever had to reach for. And it was then that the spark sprang to her eye.

She looked where she knew she must. Down. Deep into the depths of the sea. She looked hard. And then she dived in, leaving the life raft to the mercy of the waves. Alone in the sea, she moved more freely and quickly. She was no longer held back by the burden of the pseudo-safety in the life raft. Stroke by stroke she reengaged in her pursuit.

And so the Sun, the Wind and the Rain smiled with wicked delight in anticipation.