This Writer’s Life—My Mini Writing (who-don’t-know-how-to-write-yet) Group

by Melissa Corliss DeLorenzo

Photo by S. Schleicher

I started homeschooling my kids last fall. It began as a practical consideration and has flourished into a philosophy of education about which I’ve grown passionate. And although I believe in what I’m doing, it’s yet another thing about which to freak out. (I don’t want to be this way. I really don’t.) Am I doing it “right”? Are they learning enough? The right things? All the things? There is so much to consider. Half the time, what I plan—thoughtfully, mindfully—falls flat. No one is interested and the more I push, the more I dig in, the more their frustration or outright hostility builds. If what I am putting forth smells even a little “schoolish,” off they run.

I’ve thought about this a lot, and I’ve concluded that they run from my ideas of learning because those ideas are being forced on them. Because the moment itself is being forced. Their freedom is being taken from them. They react with raw turbulence to the loss of their ideas of freedom. They care not what others think about their loud and stormy reactions—it is what they feel in that moment and so it is. (That in and of itself is a form of freedom.) But when they are freely engaged, there is no struggle—they enjoy the moment and contribute their own discoveries. Freedom breeds creativity and happiness. No one likes their freedom squelched—we resist such suppression from birth.

And in spite of possessing this knowledge, I am compelled to control.

But when I’m in a quiet-mind kind of place, I permit the children to be. I observe, quietly, and I allow them to do whatever it is that catches their attention, that excites and enlarges them. Which for them is play, or what I’m sure they think of, simply, as being alive. I listen: they make up words, they play with the sounds of their words and their voices, they take great joy in nonsensical ideas. They laugh hysterically, finding the hilarity of incongruous words and ideas. They rhyme, they play with sound, they take great pleasure and playful joy in language. Their imaginative play is full and rich and complex. And there are stories there. They talk and talk to one another. And although they don’t offer any feedback on my writing (they can’t read much yet) and their insights are not particularly deep or complex (yet, but I have hope for the future) they do offer inspiration through their freedom of expression. They give no thought or consideration to results nor process. The movement of time is meaningless. There is much to learn from them.

My little mini writing group.

And when I pay attention and stop thinking and tap into the sweet rawness of their run-away, wide-open imaginations, their lack of self-imposed limitations, I recognize that they help me with my creativity. They make me remember to tap into that same sense of freedom; you know the one that makes your stomach flip a little, makes you feel as though anything is possible, gets you excited and motivated and simply and plainly HAPPY. Those are the sensations I feel when energized by new ideas and projects that are flowing, neck-deep in the waters of creative work. My kids help me remember to get lost in the freedom of pure expression. They make me grab the moment. I forget this all the time, on a constant basis. But they help me remember. For this mom whose schedule is too full to attend a regular writing group, I’ve got these guys: my little mini writing group.

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