In the beginning, success was measured in sunshine. Clear skies. Dry eyes. Dry pants! We found joy in ease. Catching frogs in the pond at the end of summer. Splashing in a pristine ocean on an unseasonably warm October day. Chasing each other through fields of gold, the autumn sun always the alchemist. But as the days and weeks went by, temperatures dropped. and dropped. The sky couldn't seem to remember anything but grey. Winter came and stayed. Relentlessly. When there was fresh snow, we were glad. And when there wasn't (and there usually wasn't), we held on until snack. lunch. home. And by home I mean warm.
But we—my fellow parent and co-teacher—had made a commitment: three mornings a week, 8:30 - 11:30. Rain or shine. And what choice did we have really? A global pandemic raged on, making the great outdoors our only viable option. We each had a preschooler of our own at home who desperately needed to be with other children—their well-being and development second only to our sanity. Even on the days that were hard, at least they were hard together. Even on the days we couldn't feel our fingers and toes, at least home felt like a gift instead of a prison.
For the six preschoolers in our charge, however, things seemed to take the opposite trajectory. In those initial weeks, they were terrified of the woods. (The trees will fall on me! Its dark in there! What's that sound?! Don't leave me!) They didn't know what to DO with themselves. (What do we play with? Where are the toys?) They tired quickly, cried for their mommies, cried about who was 'first', tripped on every tree root we passed, face planted in mud puddles, and slipped on wet bridges and boulders.
As time went on, they began to notice things they hadn't noticed before. The space between two rocks just big enough to squeeze into. The dead, low branches of a pine tree perfect for climbing. Sticks that made the perfect fishing poles. Whole worlds under a single rock. They became more curious. Where are the frogs now? Why did that baby seal die? Whose poop IS that? Can you hear plants growing? We noticed too. And wondered about what we noticed. One day at the river we found dozens of round, clear balls of jelly at the water's edge. They had been there before no doubt, but we hadn't noticed. Clear balls of jelly in water are hard to see. But now that we did see them we needed to know. Were they jellyfish? Did they used to have tentacles? Were they alive? Had they ever been alive?
The more we learned, the more we fell in love with the natural world. The more we loved, the more we needed to know. This is how relationships work, yes? We find someone beautiful. We begin to love them. Loving them makes us curious. We pay closer attention. We ask questions. We hunger to know them more deeply. The more we know them, the more we love them. Knowing. Loving. Loving. Knowing. They feed each other. They cannot be separated. And they cannot be exhausted. There is always more to know. Always more to love.
Those mornings in the woods and at the shore with my daughter and her friends over the last year were an exercise in showing up. In being present. In bearing witness to the incredible beauty around us and in the small humans we had the honor of accompanying. No dishes to do. No phone to scroll. No schedules to shuffle. In a world fixated on doing, this was our opportunity to be. Our reward? Relationships.
What happens when a child spends extended periods of unstructured time in nature? They become friends. Friends love each other. Friends treat each other with respect. Friends protect each other. If we want future generations to have a home on planet earth, we need the children of today to fall in love with her.
And what happens when a child is frequently noticed for their kindness, patience, generosity, gentleness, compassion, responsibility as they are going about their everyday lives? They learn to see themselves and the people around them as they truly are: beautiful. And to treat them accordingly.
One of my favorite picture books is Last Stop on Market Street by Matt de la Peña and Christian Robinson. CJ is on his way to volunteer at a soup kitchen with his nana. He doesn't want to be. He wants to be having fun. He wants to be with his friends. On the way, his nana keeps seeing things he doesn't see. Beautiful, normal, everyday things. And when they get off the bus in a graffiti-tagged neighborhood with crumbling sidewalks and boarded up stores, CJ asks Nana, 'How come its always so dirty over here?' Nana just points to the sky and smiles. 'Sometimes when you're surrounded by dirt, CJ, you're a better witness for what's beautiful.' And when CJ looks up, he sees too: a perfect rainbow arcing over the soup kitchen.
And their friends waving to them in the window.
He sees their friends.
I'm not sure he had realized before this moment that the eclectic group of regulars waiting in line for a warm meal were his friends. But he realizes it now.
This is what I want for my children. And yours. To recognize how unbelievably gorgeous every human being is. To love them. To be curious. To learn. To make mistakes. To love better.
To be a friend.
In a recent message from the Universal House of Justice, they said, "Ultimately, the power to transform the world is effected by love, love originating from the relationship with the divine, love ablaze among members of a community, love extended without restriction to every human being. You are channels for this divine love; let it flow through you to all who cross your path."
What is nature if not the embodiment of the Divine? The landscape in which we come to know the Unknowable. To connect with the Source of unconditional love so that we may become a channel for a world in desperate need.
This September, our little forest preschool cooperative is expanding to five mornings a week. I feel so grateful for the opportunity to join hands with a small group of families as we strengthen our relationships to the land, the community, one another, and, ultimately, our True Friend. The One who loves us the way we are meant to love. The One who ties us all together.
"What she taught me was to feel that you're part of this place. Not a visitor. That's a huge difference. "
-Craig Foster in My Octopus Teacher
