Homeschool // Spirit Tending

I had a bunch of plans today, but I kept noticing that Max’s spirit was in a glass half-empty kind of a mood. He was easily upset to the point of tears and face grimaces. For his 4-year-old sister – who’s spirit is full-on hell-raiser – such outbursts are part of the daily rhythm. But Max has more of an I’m-ready-to-play spirit. I was curious.

“Max it seems like your glass has been half-empty,” I said. “I think you need a reset.” Privately, I also felt like he needed some math and had been prepping some lessons. But I detoured my lesson plans to tend to something bigger.

Lucky for us, we live minutes from Asilomar Beach, a rocky, moody coastline in central California. We jumped out of the car with warm jackets on and walked down to an enclave of rocks and sand. Our wander was pretty aimless and purposeless, kicking at the mussels, shuffling through seaweed. Finally focus began to take hold and I spotted a beautiful white egret on some rocks.

“Max,” I whisper-motioned, “Look! Let’s see how close we can get to it. What color are its legs? What color is its beak?”

People playing on the rocks a little further out took no notice of us, but the egret slowly turned around as we crept nearer. I knew it had it’s eye on us. Off it flew.

“Whoa! It’s wingspan must be 50 feet,” exclaimed Max.

“Fifty-feet?” I pondered. I used foot-steps to demonstrate what a foot might look like. We counted off fifty of them and examined the distance. Did that seem about right? Then I used my thumb to demonstrate and approximate an inch. We laid out 50 thumb prints side by side in the sand. That seemed a lot closer. Max laid down with his arms open to compare.

Max wanted to know how well I could do a cartwheel. So we experimented with that for a while. There were two-handed cartwheels and one-handed cartwheels. Again, our bodies and minds wandered. After about 20 or so cartwheels we noticed a washed-up cormorant in the sand right next to where we were doing our exertions. It seemed like it was recently washed up. There were not a lot of flies and its feathers and body were still very much in tact. We were able to kneel down and examine it. The length of its fish-eating beak. The leatheriness of its feet. The curve of it’s neck, which looked crushed from the waves. Next we built a circle of seaweed around it, singing. We had a moment.

And then, segueing as only a 6-year-old can, Max said “Let’s make one of those rock towers.” We quickly got engaged. He wanted to make it biggest to smallest, and the biggest rock he wanted to use was quite a bit larger than I had originally imagined. Soon we got into a discussion of infinite to infinitesimal. With Buzz Lightyear’s famous line (“to infinity and beyond”), most kids these days are familiar with the word “infinity.” But infinitesimal… Pixar hasn’t gotten to that one yet. The grains of sand on the beach approach the size infinitesimal, so we got a good visual aid.

As each rock went upon the next, the new game was on.

“Can we find one smaller than that one but bigger than this one?” I would ask and off we would set on our collective task.

“This is fun,” said Max. “We should do this every time we come to the beach.” I agreed. Getting out of my head and into my body is fun. Getting into a cooperative spirit with my son did wonders for my spirit too.

I felt a wash of gratitude inside of me, echoed by the big swells of waves. “Maybe we aren’t separate at all,” it seemed to say. I savored the the taste connection while it lasted. It felt big and briny, like waves lapping happily at my heart strings.

“What’s going to happen to our rock tower,” Max wondered aloud. “Do you think it will be here tomorrow? Let’s come check on it.”

“Great idea,” I say.

“Perfect,” I think. “Insert lesson on Andy Goldsworthy.”