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Slowly into the dirt
On our last visit with my grandpa, we sat in the living room of his well-kept, single-wide trailer, and listened to his stories. This was not the same house I used to visit as a child, with its collection of trophies from his car racing days, and the cupboard with poker chips and playing cards next to the dining room table. But it was the same hulk of a man, shrunken slightly in body but still large in spirit. My grandpa was a logger, a log truck driver, a mechanic by necessity, and always ironically gentle for his large size. The only injury I ever sustained in his presence was whisker burn.
He talked to us about his car, the cancer, and the likelihood that he would come up short of his 100 year goal. And then he recited poetry. It was a painting on his wall that spurred his memory of The Village Blacksmith, by Longfellow. I don’t know if he’d been assigned this poem eighty years ago as a little school boy, ragged and tall among a dozen siblings, or if he’d heard a rendition of it in a song some years later. But at ninety-one years old, it was still with him.
I’d never heard grandpa say anything in rhyme, or talk about books or art or learning. He was a salt of the earth, blue-collar guy, who’d made a life the honest way and probably learned what he needed as he went along. At eighty he was still driving log truck. At ninety, we caught him up on a ladder trying to show my husband a spot on the roof that might be leaking. And anytime anyone in the family got a new car, he would light up like a kid at Christmas to talk about what was under the hood. All the things he’d ever done or learned or been interested in or concerned about were still with him, layered in his years like strata, telling a story.
I want to live life like a student, learning what I need as I go and being surprised at ninety by the beauty of a poem—or at least, the beauty of a memory that can hold so tight. If I can make it to ninety, what will still be layered in me? What will be worth reciting?
“If I were asked what education should give, I would say it should offer breadth of view, ease of understanding, tolerance for others, and a background from which the mind can explore in any direction.” ~ Louis L’Amour, Education of a Wandering Man
I am still pursuing my education. If it were only information we needed to live life like a student, there would be no excuse for not having this breadth of view L’Amour is talking about, like a wide-angle lens on the world. The problem is rarely ever not enough information, though. It’s sorting that information into what I might need, could find useful, may be interested in, or should let go.
Sorting information is all of our jobs, everyday. Deciding what is important is part of exercising discernment, and “people without discernment are doomed,” according to Hosea 4:14. As student and Information Sorter I need the discernment of a Christ-centered mind, one trained in focus and observation. I need words to correspond to thoughts and thoughts to correspond to truth. And I need to see the beauty in the bombardment of information, because the world is full of beautiful things missed by busy people.
Being a lifelong learner is not about being busy, adding one more thing to my list. It’s maybe the opposite of that, because learning requires me to stop what I’m doing doing doing and observe. Be still. Listen to the stories. It’s a slow process, one without end but not without goals.
I am sending out a newsletter this Saturday with two goals: accountability and encouragement. I need the accountability of announcing this project and sending this monthly newsletter, as I seek to make up my mind with things that point me to Christ and a stewardship of the resources He’s given me. If I make it to ninety, I want to have something of worth to surprise my grandkids with.
The second goal is to provide encouragement for you as you sort information and make up your mind with the true, the good, and the beautiful. The newsletter will be full of links to resources; my thoughts on current reading, listening, and watching; and a look at my specific plans as I track my learning each month. In turn, I will be encouraged by your participation and suggestions.
Words are important, and the focus of my learning is on using words better—in thinking, reading, writing, and speaking. If you’ve read my other posts about what I call my "Homeschool MFA" program, this newsletter is inline with that. It’s just my way of organizing myself as a student of life, and has nothing to do with homeschooling, itself, except that homeschooling has kept me in the game as far as learning goes. It wasn’t until I started teaching my own kids that I really caught hold of the benefits of lifelong learning—pursuing knowledge, wisdom, and understanding, even after my formal schooling was finished. That’s my Homeschool MFA.
This newsletter is for anyone who is still curious about life and the language we use to live it. Nothing is wasted when we live life like a student, with all our experiences and memories layered in us for all our years. Come learn with me!
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