Ice cream.

Last week, I made up a new batch of music flash cards for my younger students. I drew cards for all the usual stuff: quavers, semibreves, crotchet rests, treble clefs, various notes on the stave. Then, on one of the cards I drew an icecream, a yellow cone with a pink scoop and blue sprinkles. I don't even really know why I did it; it was just a random moment of whimsy to surprise the kids, I guess.

This week I've been trialling the new cards and the kids have been enjoying it. Anything that's a bit new is a little surprise all of its own. But the first time I took one of my students through the new flashcards, I was the one who was surprised. "Minim," my little student said. "Bass clef. Mezzo forte. Ice cream. Middle C." She just sailed right on by the ice cream cone without skipping a beat.

She wasn't the only one. It's happened with every single student so far. Some of them grin. Some of them laugh a little as they speak the word. But not one of them blinks when the unexpected thing appears. That to me is itself unexpected, and it's delightful.

I think this probably wouldn't happen with adults. I think that, if I showed the flashcards to my friends, they'd say, "Why'd you put the ice cream in there? What's that got to do with anything?" At the very least, they might say, "Ice cream?" with their voice sliding up on the end to suggest the question. Not the emphatic and certain "Ice cream" I've heard from each of the kids.

It feels like there's a metaphor in there somewhere. Something about hope or miracles or even having the faith of a little child. Something about not yet being so programmed to think that everything must make sense, that there must be a proper order for everything.

But I'm just gonna let it sit and simmer for a while. And I'll keep grinning as the little ones go through their music terminology and without skipping a beat shout out "Icecream!" every time.

3/100 (letter to a teenage me)

Dear little seventeen-year-old Danielle,

I write to you at age seventeen because apparently that was your -- our -- favourite age. I don't even remember now why it became so, but I suspect it's something to do with being a sort of magical inbetween time: not really a child, not really an adult, and yet it's entirely possible to be one or the other or both. A good age.

The teenage years were kind to you, little beaming, optimistic Danielle. I don't mean in the sense that they blessed you with an unforced grace of movement, milky white skin, and gorgeous long tresses of wavy hair. I don't need to tell you that none of this happened; after all, why do you think there is no cheesy retrospective picture topping this letter? It's because I couldn't find a picture of teenage Danielle that I was willing to share with the internet. So no, Danielle, you will never be the beautiful, ladylike Meg of Seven Little Australians with her delightfully romantic ways and the adorable sprinkling of light freckles over her nose. Sorry about that.

But your teenage years were brilliant in altogether different respects. You lived in cool places and had cool friends and your siblings were cool companions and you got to make stuff and paint stuff and think stuff and read stuff and all those horrible things you'd heard about intense emotional and hormonal confusion and the teenage years totally being the pits? They didn't actually come true.

I'm not saying things were perfect, and I'm not saying things are going to be perfect. Life's messy and, while hormonal confusion won't dog your teenage years, emotional confusion will definitely pop its head in during your twenties. You know how you knew it all and had all the answers when you were seventeen? I'm afraid to tell you, kid, that all that dries up. By the time you hit mid-twenties, you'll be starting to realise that things are less black and white than you'd once thought. Pat answers don't actually satisfy. Also, life sometimes punches you in the stomach -- hard -- and this may dent your breezy seventeen-year-old demeanour. I have to tell you, Danielle, that far from being more confident, more interesting, and more funny, you will likely be less of all those things. In short, Danielle, you will turn into one of those people you said you never would be: a grown up. What's more, it'll come over you slowly and before you even realise it, you're there, never to return to the kingdom of the kids.

Grieve a little over all of that, if you want. I know you have big dreams and plans. But when you're done, dry your eyes and start looking ahead. Good things will happen. You'll be surprised by the doors God opens for you. You'll be startled by the amazing gifts that come in from all corners at surprising moments. You'll be in awe when some of your dreams, the ones you've had since you were little, will actually be realised. Some of the friends you're starting to get to know now -- they'll still be majorly important in your life fifteen years later, plus you'll get to know some amazing new people. You'll grin when you realise that you don't have to click with everyone straight away. Some strong and deep friendships can start off slowly, and others can burst into existence like fireworks. Have fun enjoying all of them.

You will have friends all around the world. Your book collection will continue to grow -- alarmingly. The internet will only get cooler. You'll be less of an extrovert than you once were; try not to think about it too much. In fact, try not to think about most things too much. That's always been your downfall. Stop beating up on yourself; you're not fat. One day you'll look back and wish you'd appreciated your size now, because you sure won't stay that away. Again, sorry to have to put it so bluntly.

Chill out about the whole driving thing. You're a late (late late!) bloomer, but you work it out eventually -- you even figure out how to read maps and get yourself to strange places. As I said, your skin will never be porcelain, but the horrid teen-face days will eventually disappear. And here's something cool: you finally, eventually, actually work out how to style your hair in a way you like. After years of experimentation and grief, you WILL settle on some styles and cuts that work for you. The frizz shall be tamed! I mean, to a degree. Pantene-ad-perfection will probably elude you all your days.

I know, I know -- you want me to cut to the chase already and tell you who you end up with. But here's the thing, little hopeful-faced Danielle: there is no who-you-end-up-with, at least not yet. I know you secretly think you could get married by eighteen or twenty-one. After all, it's what your Mum did, and you really just want to have babies and stuff. But you're so not ready for that. I mean, you would've muddled through, joyfully and optimistically, and grown up next to whoever you married (don't worry; it's not him. He eventually finds someone else, so you can breathe a sigh of relief). I've seen other baby brides do that, and life is lovely for them. But I'm glad for your sake that it won't pan out this way. I hesitate to even tell you any of that. What seventeen-year-old wants to know that she still won't be married at the age of thirty-two? It's the truth, though, and there's no way you'll really get this, but while it's definitely rough at times, life is good.

Thanks for spending all that time in reading and study and soaking up the word of God. It'll come in extra handy in the future, especially when you no longer have time to sit for hours and digest good meaty stuff. It will be so helpful, particularly when you realise that there's so much you don't know. Eventually you will turn into your mother, Danielle, and cry during movies. That's payback for all the times you laughed at Mum. Actually, you'll cry a lot, sometimes even in front of people. I know you worry sometimes that you're an emotionless robot, but seriously. Quit worrying about that. It's so not true.

You will keep secrets, little-version-of-me, that you can't imagine having to keep. You will see things broken down and built up again. You will develop a rich and thankful appreciation for your amazing family. That's all I can really tell you. I'll leave the rest for you to figure out on your own.

I wish I could have some of your starry-eyed optimism to keep me company nowadays, but I don't really think I'd trade that for what these years have shown me -- will show you -- of grace. God keeps His promises, Danielle. You don't need to be scared to grow up.

With you all the way,

Danielle

Little Women, and growing up.

When I think of Christmas movies, Little Women is one of the first that comes to mind. I know it's not strictly a Christmas film, but many of its major moments are nestled within Christmas celebrations; also, there is snow and carols and wintryness, all of which lends to the Christmas feel, even if it isn't a strictly antipodean interpretation of the season.

I watched it again on Monday afternoon with my mum and little brother, and I was amazed by how much power this film has to pull me back into my childhood. It's like a massive rush of memories. Not only can I quote virtually every line, but I recall all the thoughts and feelings and emotions this film and the book (which I have read at least a dozen times) have ever evoked.

I remember where I was when I started reading Little Women that first time, and I also remember who I was. I remember recognising my graceful sister Andrea in Meg, my sweet sister Lauren in Beth. My brother Nick -- though he never liked the comparison -- was definitely Amy, hilarious and quirky and confident and impetuous (and a little dissatisfied with his nose). I remember feeling that first spark of kinship with Jo, wanting to be great and do great things but being hampered by an abundance of flaws. We share so many of the same dreams, Jo and I, and so many of the same failings -- even down to the too-large hands and a hatred of posh parties. Of course, I never turned down the proposal of a creative, handsome neighbour who was once my best friend. But I'll forgive Jo that.

Actually, from that point on, the film version of Little Women always broke my heart a little. As a teenager, I wanted to stop the movie halfway through, at the Christmas scene when Father comes home from the war and though you know John Brooke is going to steal Meg away, he hasn't actually done it yet. I wanted it to stop before Laurie and Jo become something more than best friends and then (just as quickly) something infinitely less. I wanted it to stop before Beth dies and Laurie becomes a ratbag with horrible facial hair and Jo realises that she doesn't fit in anywhere and she probably never will. The second half always seemed to me to be too sober, too sad.

This time, however, I found my heart resonating more with that second half of the film. Suddenly it seemed to me to be incredibly honest. Yes, my childhood and teen years were very much like the early half of Little Women -- full of adventures and creativity and small sorrows and large joys -- but being a grown-up is so much more like the second half. People change and friendships dissolve. Life turns out differently than you expected.

You know, I always resented Professor Bhaer because he wasn't Laurie. This time round, I realised Professor Bhaer was right for Jo at the right time. She could have married Laurie and, though she refused to believe so, they could have actually been happy together. After all, she did love him; she just didn't understand that there are all different kinds of love, and she was looking for something in words she'd recognise, words she'd write herself to make the perfect happy ending. I think it took her several more years of life and learning to realise that love is not as simple as the fairytales make out, and yet in other ways it's simpler. Professor Bhaer wasn't the second choice; he was Jo's first choice, made once she knew how to recognise real love.

I used to think that the first half of Little Women is all joy, and the second half is all sorrow and a mature sort of resignation to dreams unfulfilled. Yet the second half of Little Women is the portion where the dreams actually do come true. Meg becomes the little wife and mother she was always in training for. Amy travels to Europe and marries the rich fellow she once imagined. And Jo's story and her heart both find a safe haven. But in amongst all the dreams-come-true are the dreams shattered; grief walks with the dreams, hand in hand.

This time, I finally understood that. Being a kid was super; life was chock full of joy. Being an adult is different. There is just as much joy, but it's of a deeper kind -- and it's woven in with the sorrow, too.

Sometimes you just have to look harder to see.

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Conversations:

Laura Elizabeth -- you rescued my post from a commentless death, bravo! I'm so glad you're loving the celebrations this year. I'm a big fan of celebrationishness. Tell your dad the blogging world is waiting with hald breath.

Awesome thing of the day #7

I remember spending a lot of time as a small girl gazing at a poster of a treehouse. With about a dozen rooms in individual pods branching off from, well, branches, it defied all laws of engineering and gravity. Somehow, though, it pulled me in as stories could pull me in. I wanted to be in that picture so much I almost was.

That ability to be lost in something entirely imaginary has faded a little bit -- perhaps it's reached a more healthy level now? -- but I felt a tinge of it again when I saw this incredible Camper Bike, built by Kevin Cyr. Is this or this not amazing? Your own little house, wherever you ride! *hearts*

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Conversations:

Mitanika -- ooh, link love! Going to check out that motivational rap now :).

Samantha -- ah, you don't miss anything! I saw that "late twenties" lingering there the other day and just couldn't bring myself to change it yet. Maybe I should erase all references to age? ;)

Staish -- :D Do you have the whole album?

In praise of treehouses.

When I was small, a kids' magazine I subscribed to included, in one special issue, a large fold-out poster of a treehouse. The treehouse wasn't a real one; it was just a stylised artist's concept drawing, but I remember spending ages lying on my stomach on the floor, chin propped in hands, gazing at this picture. Then, for months, I drew my own plans for treehouses with amazing multi-levels and real windows and doors. Oh, and a pulley system for lowering and lifting snacks and mail. Always there had to be a pulley system.

Nowadays, pictures of treehouses still fill me with that same sense of otherworldly enchantment. I remember being a small person and believing that it really would be possible to make a treehouse with six rooms and a shingled roof and a rope ladder which could be drawn up when intruders appeared.

And so it makes sense that I want to jump straight into these pictures, from Pete Nelson's New Treehouses of the World. Aren't they just incredibly dreamy and fairytale?

Happy Monday to you all. Long live treehouses!

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