How to Believe

For even the most spiritual among us (and I am one of them), believing in what we cannot see, touch, measure or mark on a calendar can be pretty challenging—especially when we’re faced with a seemingly insurmountable problem or when we’re asked to understand a concept so abstract that our brains shut down and announce, “Sorry, no template found.” But to be able to believe is to be able to hope, and hope is one of our greatest allies in life.

So how do we even begin to teach our children how to believe?

Last week Henry lost the teeny-tiny key to a very special bank he’d received from his grandfather at Thanksgiving. Every night Henry’s been pouring the change from the bank onto his bed, counting it and placing it coin-by-coin back inside the bank. It’s been a soothing and important activity for him. So in some respects, his reaction to the lost key was understandable. You see, before he even looked for the key, he burst into tears: “What if I never find it? What if I can never open the bank again?” He was so paralyzed with grief he was unable to believe—even when logic might have told him that the key was probably still right in his bedroom.

I sat down on the floor with him and hugged him and I told him that we would find the key, but that he had to believe we would find it, too. Finally, he nodded and stood to help me look. We found it within a few minutes nestled deep in a bin of Hot Wheels cars. “See,” I said. “I knew we would find it.” His response: “But, how did you know?”

“Faith” is coupled with the word “practice” for good reason: to believe in the face of hardship takes work. It takes patience and a positive attitude. It takes the repeated daily action of squelching worry and releasing the mind to a healthy dose of magical thinking. It also takes trusting in the goodness of the world and the people we’re sharing it with. Some days we just need to pull on our invisible t-shirts that say “Everything is Possible” in big bold letters, and face the day. Of course, what’s possible might take a different or unexpected form from what we originally envisioned, but if we don’t purposely widen our eyes, the possible might never come into view.

That’s why I think teaching our children how to believe starts by cultivating their capacity for awe—exposing them to wonder as much as possible and teaching them to not only take time to marvel at something, but to appreciate the feeling they get when they witness the impossible. Out in the woods, down by the pond and in your own backyard—this is where awesome is happening all the time. You don’t need to go far to find something in nature that defies logic … from the ant carrying a load five times her size over unimaginable distances to the seed that pushes through a clump of dirt to become a beautiful flower. It’s the way a snowflake looks through a microscope, and then the way it unites with other snowflakes to beautify and quiet whatever it falls upon. Or, how Venus dazzles even on a cloudy winter night.

But, it takes more than just pointing out these miracles. We also need to demonstrate our own amaze-ability in front of our children. Maybe that means shutting off the radio in the car to enjoy the full moon in silence, or going on a special trip after dinner just to watch a blue summer sky melt into orange and pink and purple over the horizon. Maybe it simply means saying “Wow!” a little more often, and, “Can you even believe that?!”

Because moment by moment, wonder by wonder, they just might. And when they do, everything really is possible. That’s what I think, anyway.

Merry Christmas!

Moss Grows Fat on Our Countertop

One recent, gently overcast fall afternoon (after kindergarten let out and before dinner needed to be on the stove) we decided to take a stroll through the Little River Nature Trail, a short but richly diverse trail that runs between Hale Street and Storey Avenue in Newburyport—a project maintained by the good people of the Parker River Clean Water Association.

With a bag of Goldfish crackers in hand and boots on our feet, Henry, Sadie and I padded down a thin, sloping and softly muddied trail that led to an expanse of worn blacktop, which used to be part of the old I-95. Sadie took a few stuntman-like tumble-rolls over tree roots hidden by fallen leaves before we reached the blacktop, but when we did, both children went running down the “trail.” They were very excited. We had come to Little River trail in the hopes of seeing the “Happy Beaver Family” that is said to inhabit the marshes, in a dam about a quarter mile down the path.

When we reached the vantage point with the green sign pointing to the beavers’ dam, we sat and ate crackers and waited. And waited. And waited some more. We talked about the work it must have taken to build the sturdy dam, and told stories about how we thought the beavers spent their time (Henry suggested they played board games). When our stories were spent, we tried to tempt the beaver family out of hiding with Goldfish crackers, but the tiny colored fish just made rings on the still water, spinning and drifting in solitude. Finally, we decided to head back. It was nearing 5 o’clock, the clouds were thickening and the air was turning cold. 

Our heads hung low because the adventure we’d planned did not happen as we had hoped. Henry dragged his chosen walking stick through the mud and leaves and along the bountiful strips of moss that grew so heavily on patches of dirt all along the old highway, up the trees and over the rocks. He noticed that the tiny green plants gave way easily under the point of his branch, and he stopped to write his name in a bed of cushion moss. Sadie mimicked him. I tucked my icy fingers into my coat pockets and sat down beside them as they played in the moss.

Moss is magical after all (not just because it had the awesome power to siren in my two young children) ... it's actually a tough little plant that predates the dinosaurs. Its allure has given it major garden cred, too, especially in Japanese gardens. Personally, moss has always been a central character in the archetypal forest of my childhood imagination, growing where fairies and nymphs hide behind ferns and painting every surface of the shadowy woods in bright green Rorschach shapes. I also read that during World War I moss was used to dress wounds due to its absorbency—and long before then, pre-industrial people used it for building, clothing and more (even diapers). Today, moss, a component of peat, is mined for fuel. Some varieties of moss take on even loftier roles, like smoking the malt for Scotch Whiskey. Who knew? (Wikipedia. That’s who.) But the moss at Little River has a simple, humble purpose—to lie around and just be beautiful.

To our untrained eyes, we could discern two different types of moss growing along the trail: cushion moss (named for the way it grows in a circular pattern and has a puffed pillow appearance) and hair cap moss (which grows in sandy soil and has tiny starburst leaves that reach up and out like upside down tree roots).

I particularly “liched” the hair cap moss because it was so intricate and yet so soft to the touch. It looks hard and spiky, but feels like feathers. I wouldn’t even let Henry disturb it. The cushion moss did not fare as well. We turned over its underlying dirt and broke it apart, built tiny dirt roads for passing ants and we poked gaping holes in its landscape. When at last the trail began to get dark, Henry pocketed two clumps of cushion moss—one in each side of his jeans.

At home, we gave the two green clumps a small bowl to share and some fresh water. They looked like two scoops of chocolate ice cream with lots of green sprinkles. We still care for them lovingly every day—and, for now any way, our pet moss works better for us than a new puppy.

The Once and Future Playground

If you’ve been reading The Mud Pie Mission since its inception, you know I am a believer in fate. The concept of the Nature Movement, especially in regard to helping alleviate symptoms and provide alternative coping methods for children with ADHD, was introduced to me at a time when I was very much seeking answers for my five-year-old son, who was diagnosed in spring 2011. Now that we’re a few months into our mission, I can tell you with certainty that the purposeful reintroduction of nature into my son’s daily life, and more importantly the commitment to unstructured time in nature has impacted Henry in so many positive ways. On our outdoor adventures, I’ve watched with a full heart as all the beautiful parts of him shine forth easily and comfortably. He is not overwhelmed; he is calm and focused. The anxiety and pressure I sometimes see him struggle with in structured situations is a faint memory. In the quiet of the outdoors, he is confident and bold—he is in his element. Like love, Nature empowers us to be and embrace our true selves. And there is nothing quite like Henry being Henry.

I think fate was at work again in August when, coincidentally, during our visit to my childhood home (West Chester, Ohio), the Cincinnati Nature Center was unveiling its new Nature PlayScape—one of the nation’s largest pioneer efforts to provide a safe area of natural playing ground for children. How fortunate that we would have the opportunity to experience what will surely become a model for families, communities, schools and churches across the country that subscribe to the Nature Movement and all it has to offer our children at this particular time in history—when technology’s impossible pace and hyper-yet-sometimes-vapid connectedness is, in some ways, stealing away our essential selves and our innate abilities to connect, heal, renew and, well, be human ... Because now, I get to share it with you.

The Marge and Charles Schott Nature PlayScape, located inside the Cincinnati Nature Center’s preserve of land in Milford, Ohio, offers 1.6 acres of “native plants, fallen logs, boulders, rocks, water and soil … and very few man-made structures,” as described by Kristi Masterson of the CNC. What’s even more special is that the land devoted to the playscape is fenced in for safety—something parents cite as a major obstacle when it comes to letting their children fully embrace nature in the way they did when they were young (and the world was a better place, etc.). The CNC partnered with the University of Cincinnati Arlitt Center to make the playscape a reality, and even consulted with Richard Louv, author of “Last Child in the Woods,” to help guide them in this important project.

Now to tell you the experience of this magical place.

At first, as we moved our eyes over the gently sloping hills and trails, the rocky creek with its grand waterfall, and all the mysterious tree-shaded alcoves, it felt like we had simply happened upon a really great “neck of the woods”—everything that makes a forest fun all in one place, yet still wide open. Just leaves, trees, pebbles, and fallen branches. Even the benches and gathering areas were rustic and unassuming.

That said, I carefully watched the eyes of the children who entered—knowing some of them had never been to a playground such as this. Even Henry who had come to love the woods, questioned why I had even called it a playground. Where was the slide? No sandbox? No rope climb or zip line? What about the big, giant pirate ship to look out for the bad guys? This was a different kind of playground, I told him. This was a place where you get to choose your own adventures.

As we turned the corner into one of the many discovery zones along the trail (some even specially designed for the preschool set like Sadie, my littlest), we found children playing in a wide and (what seemed to them accidental) pool of pebbles. They were scooping them up and letting them run through their fingers, making pictures with sticks they’d found lying nearby, filling up hollowed out tree stumps that doubled as tiny seats. This was a sandbox! We had similar experiences throughout the playscape. Children hunted and gathered for the items they needed to create their own toys and tools—and instead of everyone fighting over a shovel or truck, they each had exactly what they wanted and needed born of their own imaginations.

Down at the edge of the creek, children didn’t even stop to ask before pulling off their shoes, peeling away their socks and tip-toeing through the shallow water. Some took leaves and made boats, others dropped in rocks to watch the rings they’d create on the surface of the water. Henry and I sat at the top of the waterfall where we could listen to its sounds and feel the heat coming up off the rock. After that, we came upon a sculpture of tree branches that had been shaped into a sky-high tee-pee; and we added to it! By then, Henry was having real fun. We raced each other up and down the trails. We lifted our noses in the air and tried to identify scents of flowers that came on rogue breezes. We discovered completely untamed sections of the playscape that we claimed as our own. And we followed the map to the great gray boulder, where Henry stood and looked out over the playscape. Who needs a pirate ship?

It was an awesome experience. And it makes me hope along with the CNC that this special place will inspire others to create similar playscapes throughout the country. Masterson said the Nature PlayScape has already welcomed visitors from far and wide, coming to Ohio specifically to experience this new way of play.

I wrote this piece today to do my part to spread the word, to plant the seed of possibility—to be part of the movement.

You can view the slideshow of our day at the Cincinnati Nature Center’s Nature PlayScape by visiting the Mud Pie Mission on Facebook. I encourage you to learn more about this project and read the rest of the story at CNC and University of Cincinnati online. Note that the Nature PlayScape is open year-round, providing children an all-seasons experience with nature in a safe, accessible environment. Check out the special events they'll be hosting throughout the fall and winter featuring stories by the bonfire, hot chocolate—and even maple-sugaring.

Beyond Boundaries

When I was a little girl, I was the type of child who’d carefully study my mom, dad and older siblings (anybody, really) in order to ascertain the exact right way of doing everything, from riding a bike to behaving in church to blowing bubblegum. I could focus my attention so pointedly during my observations that I could discern and then replicate, for example, the ideal length of chewing time, proper positioning of the mouth, exact isolation of the tongue, and optimal release of air—to achieve the perfectly rounded, perfectly nose-touching (watermelon-flavored) Bubblicious bubble. It took me about two hours one summer afternoon when I was six years old (I’m still pretty good at it).

What I’m trying to say is that I’ve always applied the watch-and-learn, never-surrender-until-it's-right model, and I’ve always found success with it. Okay, almost always.

There is but one awesome entity that has tested this heretofore tried-and-true method, one challenge so massive that it can be conquered by no single method at all, one insurmountable force so powerful that it might very well be beyond mastery. That force is Parenting. It’s unpredictable, it’s messy, it has no set rules, and if/when, after grueling research and a series of failures, you finally manage to establish rules … the game changes.  It’s a perfectionist’s [recurring] nightmare.

Only after the birth of my second child did I start to learn how to let go of the idea of perfection, or the exact right way of doing things. Quite simply, it became too defeating to live like that, and it was taking away from the joy of parenting. Releasing myself from certain standards has been a process, though. I’m still learning to let go, to go with the flow, to live in the moment—all that stuff. But I feel like I’ve come a long way. I remain a proud perfectionist in much of what I do, but as for parenting, I am now a happy (somewhat calmer) realist, and that feels great.

I was reminded of this personal journey earlier in the week when I brought the kids to one of our favorite local playgrounds—Woodman Park. This park is off the beaten path, it’s small, it’s surrounded by woods and it’s almost always empty. That’s kind of why I like it. It’s a place I can go with the kids and have real one-on-one time with them. While one or two playmates are ideal for Henry and serve to bring out the best in him, a crowd of children can sometimes be over-stimulating for him and (being his mother’s child), he gets overwhelmed trying to pay attention to everyone and everything in the very intense manner he wants to; as a result, he might shut down, melt down or go totally wild (which can be totally fun, but totally exhausting).

At Woodman, we can spend an hour sitting quietly together in the toddler play structure make-believing it’s a Delta airplane headed for Ohio. Henry pilots the plane and even stewards from time to time. We’ve gone as far as Hawaii! We’ve also learned how to shoot baskets at Woodman, how to be brave and climb the taller play structure, and how to race down the dueling side-by-side slides. But what’s even more special about this park is that it sits in the middle of a wooded area, allowing us to sometimes wander off up the nearby trail or across the field to play in the open grass. Since embarking on our mission to spend more unstructured time outdoors, I’ve noticed we’re wandering off more often than not—and having even better adventures.

On Thursday, a little girl—probably two-and-a-half years old—and her grandma came to play at Woodman while we were there. She had her dolly with her and she laughed and smiled as she pushed her dolly in the swing. She was somewhat timid about things like climbing too high, and going too fast down the slide; but she loved watching Henry and Sadie fearlessly scrambling up and through the structure. I could see the admiration in her eyes and the light of motivation going off in her head. Her grandma encouraged her, but followed close behind ready to assist and ward off accidents. Still, the little girl wasn’t quite ready yet. Neither was grandma. In that moment, I recalled being in the grandma’s shoes with Henry at this exact playground when he was almost two, and holding him back from climbing for fear he would lose his balance—all the while the rest of the playgroup kids were jumping, hanging and climbing like monkeys.

Things were different now. This particular day was proof because the kids were playing so freely and competently, and I felt secure in their abilities (and in my instinct to trust). But soon enough, Sadie tired of the slides and swings. I called her over to look at a black-and-orange flying bug—the very same type of bug we’d watched ride the waves at the beach recently. We decided to follow him. He led us beyond the boundaries of the playground and over to a tasty and shaded leaf at the bottom of a small nearby hill. We sat watching it and talking. Henry came over, too.

The little girl and her grandma were intrigued by our stillness, wondering what had instantly captivated two rambunctious children to the point of stillness and silent wonder. They, too, wandered off the playground to get a closer look. I got the sense that it was the first time they had done that.

Our bug-watching turned into races up and down the grassy hill. Henry and Sadie laughed and laughed as they tried to steady their pace and bodies on the downhill runs. Henry was happy to win most of the races. Every once in a while, they’d scoot down the hill on their bottoms, even with slides a stone’s throw away—it was just more fun this way.

The little girl still stood and watched. Her grandma encouraged her again to join the fun and run with us. Surprisingly, she started running. She felt safer in the grass, and after just one or two runs she was visibly more confident in her own abilities. She wore a proud smile as she conquered the hill. I could tell from the waving of her arms and the spinning of her skirt that she felt free and happy.

By then, Henry had run past the field all the way out to the tree line to collect sticks (and possibly use the bathroom, sorry to say). Sadie had taken to curtseying to each of the white button-top mushrooms dotting the field right before lopping them off by the neck and tossing them in the air. I got up off the grass and followed after her. When I looked back across the field, I saw the grandma and the girl still playing on the hill. I felt happy that we had helped them have a new, spontaneous adventure that day. And I was grateful to recognize that I had finally arrived at a point where I not only welcomed spontaneous adventures, but enjoyed the heck out of them. The perfectionist in me felt satisfied, too, because in the imperfect world of parenting, I had managed to shift my definition of perfection and be happy with who I am as a parent (for now).

Seagulls Don’t Like Lettuce

In an alternative reality, this blog post would have been about the awesome experience I had with my children watching the sun set over the beach … how we’d all lounged together peacefully atop the quilt Granny Solomon had stitched for Henry when he was born … eaten freshly-picked strawberries and Trader Joe’s snacks … watched the sky turn from blue to orange to night … all while humming Kumbaya. But the real story of what unfolded the day we sought the sunset is slightly different, and more bird-brained.

For one thing, we’d picked up “freshly made” Subway sandwiches and Doritos for our picnic dinner. And for another, the tune we’d been rocking out to on our drive was “Sunglasses at Night” (we’re in a collective Corey Hart phase right now).

In fact, the song was still running through my head as we laid down Granny’s blanket (that part is true), because I remember being surprised at how blindingly bright and high the sun still was at 6:15 p.m. It was scheduled to set at 8:11 p.m. A lot of earthly rotation needed to happen in two hours, I thought to myself.

We sat down and unwrapped our sandwiches. Henry and Sadie split a foot-long tuna sub, as always, and, it was a complete and immediate mess, as always: mayonnaised tuna fish smeared on cheeks and fingers, strands of shredded lettuce falling to the blanket like confetti, flimsy pickles stuck in the sand. The good news is that while moms do not love messes, seagulls live for them.

Within seconds, a gang of five silver-backed gulls inched toward us, led by a particularly hungry-looking elder with red eyes and ruffled feathers. We were easy targets because the crowd of beach-goers had dissipated substantially by that time. When Sadie, the bird lady, saw the gulls, she dropped her sandwich, stood up and started dancing and clapping. Her convulsions did nothing to faze the scavengers. The pack separated, but only in order to surround the blanket on all sides. They stood at a safe but still intimidating two feet from us, tamping their gray toes in the sand and periodically squawking their demands for food. Sadie and Henry squawked back, and I could see in their eyes how much they wanted to share their dinner with the birds.

“Don’t feed them,” I said. “If you feed them, more will come.”

As soon as I spoke those words, I regretted it. What I should have said was, “If you feed them, they will go away and never come back, and won’t that be sad?” But it was too late.

Henry started throwing food to the gulls … but the boy loves a Subway tuna sub, so what he threw to the gulls was … lettuce. He just scooped up all he could off the bread and tossed it at them. The birds nearly collided heads darting for the shreds of lettuce, each one greedily grabbing a mouthful.

To my surprise, just as quickly as they’d gobbled them up, they’d spit them back out. Seagulls don’t like lettuce! Mother Nature’s trash collectors don’t like lettuce. They’re not big fans of pickle either. The birds waddled backward in the sand, disappointed.

Suddenly, I felt bad we’d let them down.

I looked at Sadie who had taken three bites out of her sandwich. I knew she wouldn’t finish it. I also knew the kids wanted to see the birds happy (or maybe I did). So, I broke my own rule. I opened up her sandwich and scooped out some seriously generous portions of tuna and flung them toward the gulls, divvying up the food as fairly as I could: first to the elder, then to each of the younger birds.

“What seagulls really like is tuna,” I said.

“Yeah,” Henry said. “Seagulls love tuna!”

We all joined in, feeding the seagulls probably more than what any of us actually ate. (Seagulls like Doritos, too.) Luckily, we did not draw a huge flock of other seagulls. As you know, seagulls can be aggressive and downright dangerous sometimes. A Jersey Shore gull once stole a whole funnel cake right out of my sister-in-law’s hands in Atlantic City. They aren't the cleanest birds around either. But, these twilight gulls of ours were pretty friendly, all things considered. Sadie, of course, was over-the-moon with the experience.

Speaking of the moon, we never made it long enough to see the moon rest over the beach that night. After dinner, the kids played in the surf a little, but eventually Sadie became too tired to tolerate the beach. She hung on my leg crying. She laid herself in the low tide and moaned. She dipped her pacifier in the sand and stuck it back in her mouth, then cried more. I had no choice but to abort the sunset mission.

Still, we enjoyed our dinner with the gulls. When we got home, I was able to sneak in one book with sleepy Sadie: “Salty Seagull: A Tale of an Old Salt,” by Suzanne Tate. Sadie closed her eyes before the last page, but she still had a smile on her face.

Make Outdoor Time Outstanding

I love Todd Christopher’s book, “The Green Hour.” It’s a helpful go-to guide for getting the most out of being outdoors with your kids, and it’s broken down into useful chapters based on location, too: backyard, trails, meadows, shore, etc. What I want to share with you today are a few quick tips he gives for making those experiences enjoyable, rewarding and memorable every time … mixed in with a few points of my own to support Christopher’s wisdom.

Simple and Flexible

“Wonder unfolds at a child’s scale and pace, which are necessarily smaller and slower than an adult’s.” – T.C.

Generally speaking, I try not to do too much or expect too much during our outings. I don’t count on the kids to last very long, and I don’t set my standards high. As Christopher says, there will be frequent stops and even more frequent questions. With one of my children firmly planted in the why stage at 5 1/2, and the other teetering between timid and needing to be tamed at 21 months; I never know what our adventures will bring. Sometimes I am running back and forth between them, shouting answers to one, and just plain shouting at the other (DON’T EAT THAT!). There are days we might walk a mile, and there are days we might walk only a yard or two. That’s why I very rarely “plan” the adventures. Things run more smoothly when I slow down and go at their pace. The kids are my compass. I read their interests and supplement our experiences based on what is happening in the moment. That becomes part of the adventure. Because we go into it blind, we can't help but come out with something surprising and special—whether it’s a new discovery, a renewed sense of spirit, or the memory of being wildly silly together.

Positive and Powerful

“… knowledge isn’t a prerequisite for exploration. There’s nothing at all wrong with saying, ‘I don’t know.’” – T.C.

Reading this, I’m pretty sure I exhaled. I mean, I’m no walking encyclopedia. I know some obscure things and some general scientific explanations, but overall, ask me something about nature and I’m more inclined to tell you a good story about it without actually answering your question in a useful way. So when I'm out and about exploring with the King of Why, I like to turn his questions back on him. When he asks me why bugs bite, for example, I ask him what he thinks first. Okay, for one thing that buys me time. But, I always love his guesses. I like to watch the wheels turning behind his brown eyes. My mind takes a snapshot of his imagination at its finest. Then, I might take a stab at an answer, or I might admit I don’t know. Christopher says this connecting moment of "I don't know" is a powerful and positive one, because it puts child and parent on even ground when we can say, “But, let’s find out, together.”

On this note, he suggests never showing fear. Children so easily mimic and internalize the reactions we put forth, and worse, they might take them on for themselves, which is the last thing we want. We all have stories about where our deepest nature fears stem from: "this one time, at ____ camp ..." Why not do what we can to put on a brave face? Fake it a little. I admit I have some work to do in the bat-and-bug department on this one (their ninja-like qualities freak me out), but it is kind of fun pretending to be the super heroes they think we are. For Sadie, I know this has had a positive impact. Just the other day we had the chance to experience a park interpreter's "pond aquarium" at a nature seminar. Sadie just stuck her hand right into the murky, smelly water and helped look for the elusive turtle we were after. Impressive stuff.

Pure

“Remember that while childhood takes time, it is precious and fleeting.” – T.C.

You’ve worked hard to provide your children the opportunity to build a personal relationship with nature, and to connect as a family unit. Don’t squander it. The best thing you can do is be in the moment—with them. Remember what it was like to be a child. Remember the wonder that comes from watching ants working. The dreams that are born in the color of a flower.  The mystery of a rustle in the brush. Experience it all again, with your children. You will not only give them the beautiful parental excitement and animation that children thrive on, but you will send joy your own way. You'll make these fleeting moments last forever in your mind and, most importantly, in the pages of your children’s childhoods.

Caverns in the Sand

Sand is like cinnamon. Come in contact with it, and you’re instantly whisked away to a content, yummy place in time. Somehow, though, our response to the feel of sand on our bare feet exists outside of time. There are many people who report experiencing this serene response even upon their first encounter with the sometimes soft, sometimes grainy but always satisfying stuff. Sand is something we connect with in an intrinsic way.

There’s a passage in Richard Louv’s “The Last Child in the Woods” where he provides an interesting nature-as-therapy “theory” that he was introduced to by perpetual nature lover Elaine Brooks. During her years on the planet, Brooks worked as a biologist, oceanographer, and eventually teacher of nature. And what she alleged is that the relaxation response to nature is in our DNA.

Primitive humans in the heat of pursuit climbed trees to escape their would-be captors, she explained. Finding refuge in the branches provided them a “rapid comedown from the adrenalin rush of being potential prey.” Brooks said “biologically, we are still the same,” and we’re still programmed for flight or fight. So amid the stressors of today—balancing work and family, information overload, the constant blue buzz of technology, and good old-fashioned noise —we find respite from the race in the quiet of nature.

Sand, for whatever specific primordial reason, triggers the relaxation response as readily as the branches of a tree. That’s why every time my little family and I arrive at Salisbury Beach Reservation, I crave the moment when the boardwalk planks give way to sand and all the thousands of miniature peaks and valleys created by all who’ve walked there. 

But, in addition to this wonderful gift of peacefulness, sand (and nature) can also serve up life lessons ... if we're paying attention.

Tuesday morning, Henry, Sadie and I made our own footprints when we arrived (early enough to enjoy an almost-empty beach). Henry and Sadie are beach kids. They can play for hours, happily. Switching easily from building sand mountains, to sifting sand for seaweed and remnants of shells, to running in the surf. Just when I think they are tired, the cycle replays. I usually have to use bribery to get their rosy cheeks and sweaty, sand-sugared/sun-kissed blonde heads back to the car.

On this particular morning there was an older boy building knee-high sand caverns at the edge of the water, each cavern complete with its own moat. At first, he did not want the kids to come near his masterful sand village, but like seagulls to Goldfish crackers, they hovered around the boy until he finally let them help.

Sadie sat in each moat, one-by-one, scooping up wet sand and letting it run through her fingers. Henry worked with the boy to build the next cavern. He listened well and studied the boy as he worked, then matched the boy's techniques and details almost exactly.

Every once in a while Sadie would stomp through a cavern accidentally, or take a shovel to the side of one, devastating the internal structure. Henry and the boy would jump up and try and save their work.

As it turned out, though, the biggest threat to the village was not Sadie Leigh and her barbaric baby ways—it was the tide. It started coming in, slow at first. But eventually it came fast and relentlessly, and with every wave a cavern was being lost.

It reminded me of gardening, and how we work so hard to maintain our yards, but in the end—a hundred years from now—whatever work we put in will be overgrown, gone, and probably forgotten. I felt sad as I watched the frustration build on the boys’ faces. Eventually they had to withdraw their efforts and walk away.

Henry was a little down and out afterward. I asked him how it felt to help his friend build the village. “Really fun,” he said. I asked him what else he liked about it. “I liked helping,” he said. “I liked making the sand super high.” Just recalling it brought the smile back to his face.

“Well, next time we come to the beach, let’s do it all over again,” I said. “But, I insist on drip castles.”

“Okay!” he said.

While I don’t know the factual reason that we connect with sand the way we do, or why it brings us so much peace; I was reminded of what we can learn from sand:

1) There are so many things in life we give our energy to, hoping they will last forever, or become something great; but sometimes the tide comes in and things get washed away. Just like that.

2) When things get washed away, for better or worse, a blank slate remains—and, fortunately, you still have all you need to rebuild, as long as you have the drive to do so.

3) Appreciate the process, find reward in the work itself. (And maybe take a picture to remember it by.)

I hope Henry connected on some level with those lessons as well.

The Bird and the Bug

Today it was hot. Just.Plain.Hot. There’s a reason the word hot has only three letters—one syllable is really all you’ve got the energy to utter under these conditions. This day felt like the kind of hot where, if it were acceptable, you’d stay in your underwear all day long and exaggerate your suffering like a modern-day Scarlett O’Hara while fanning yourself in front of an open refrigerator.

Needless to say, this family does not handle heat all that well. Our cheeks get red, we get cranky, our eyes glaze over and we get a tad bit dazed and confused—I’m pretty sure Henry and I had a long and involved discussion about the value of the Creamsicle. But neither of us is to blame. No one’s brain works properly above 90 degrees.

As I stood watering the window boxes (and periodically spraying one or the both of us with the cold water from the hose) I came to the conclusion we had to get somewhere cool—fast. We finished our work, raced upstairs and woke Sadie from her nap. The left side of her head was a mess of wet curls where she had sweated through her sleep, her sweet face pressed against her pink crib sheet like a grilled cheese sandwich. She was so hot that when I held her up to the air blowing from her window unit, she shuddered with the sudden blast of cool.

Three glasses of iced water later, we were in the car, though. We opted for the trails at Maudslay where we'd hoped the trees would shade us; and maybe trap some rogue breezes in their leafy arms just for us. But with the still intense heat, Sadie moved slowly and we made it only as far as the yellow fields just beyond the stone fence. Henry was happy to collect sticks; Sadie her rocks. And when we finally sat to rest our sorry selves in the grass, we were fortunate enough to catch sight of something kind of amazing. Over the field, there were dozens of birds darting and dipping through the air like sea gulls on the ocean. Catching bugs.

Judging by the population of friendly insects sharing time with us yards away under the trees, I assume the buzzing and bopping of the summer bugs in the tall grass was beyond plentiful. Henry and Sadie moved to the edge of the field, mesmerized by the birds and their dinner dance, their black bodies moving powerfully and with determination against the periwinkle summer sky. Although it reminded me of my first experience with bats on a twilight evening in Athens, Ohio … I eventually joined the kids, each of us hovering ourselves on the frame of this painting before us. I leaned down and sat with Sadie, who loves birds so much that every time one came near, her chest would visibly rise with excitement.

Most of the time, the birds were too far away to see in detail so Henry and I made our own sound effects. A swoosh with the capture of the bugs, and a buzz to effect the sound of the escapees. Our sounds became actions. Sadie and I were the bugs, running from Henry and his giant wings. And when he’d catch me, I’d get to be the bird and he would buzz and jump away. It was your basic game of tag, but with an extra dose of creativity. We made the game so elaborate that whether bird or bug, it was pure fun to take on the characteristics of something other than ourselves.

It was still hot out, of course. There were not nearly enough rogue breezes to provide genuine relief. But we did have a good time. And for an hour we forgot how hot we really were.

Still … next time we head out in the heat it’ll be early, and it’ll be the beach. Because today the heat was the bird, and we were the bugs. For sure.

The Nature Effect is for Grown-Ups, Too

There exists a vital characteristic of human nature that compels us to continually seek balance in our lives—an equilibrium instinct, if you will. As soon as we feel ourselves getting too immersed in work, hobby, or habit, we can sense our lives becoming slightly out of tune; and we pause to ask ourselves how we can restore harmony. We don’t always attain balance, however, and that feeling of being on the heavy side of the see-saw, unable to push up, leads to all sorts of unhealthy things: sleeplessness, moodiness, depression, and anxiety—even physical illness.

As society moves ever-faster toward a high-tech, hyper-connected, instant-gratification existence, it’s no surprise to hear the inner voice in all of us calling out for a simpler, slower way of life. The Nature Movement is part of that. And for good reason. Nature brings us peace and healing, a true respite from "the real world."

I liken the nature effect to traveling on an airplane by myself (bear with me on this). For me, an admitted do-it-all, yes-person (like most moms), the moment the plane takes off is very relaxing for me because suddenly there is nothing I can do on that plane but sit and stare out the window, maybe listen to some music. I can close my eyes and almost see the words on the to-do list break apart into letters and float away, because I am trapped 34,000 feet above where those tasks reside, and I can’t tackle a single one of them even if I wanted to. It’s forced down time. Of course, I don’t fly too often so this treasured bit of time is certainly not enough to restore balance.

What I’ve found on our recent journeys, however, is that being in a quiet place outdoors has this same effect on me. The difference is that I can make it happen, not by force, but whenever I need it, and wherever I am. Quite frankly, that’s the wonderful part about it. I have found a place, accessible any time, where my body and mind willingly and graciously submit to letting go. Just yesterday, I found myself trapped up in thought and worry to the point I was feeling overwhelmed. I had the luxury of alone time, so I stood up, put on my shoes, grabbed my camera and just started walking around town. I felt the sun. I breathed the air. Surveyed the summer clouds. And, then I ended up taking photos of random flowers and window boxes around town—just going street-to-street and stopping whenever I felt inspired by the colors or the arrangement or the contrast of the flowers against peeling wooden siding. It was instant-gratification and I didn’t even need a password to access it. When I came home, if my spirit could have texted me, it would have said THX : ).

We all have busy lives. And inevitably into those already hectic lives hard times will fall. Some long-lasting, some we have no real control over. Those can be highly challenging and confusing times when we will look anywhere and everywhere for answers, yet they still do not come. Logging into the computer for distraction, solution or solace is something I think we can agree is not always the answer, sometimes it’s just more chatter for an already taxed mind. But re-engaging the part of us that connects organically with the quiet and harmony of the natural world is a possible answer, and we must make time for it.

It is my hope that the nature effect will be a tool for my children, as it has proven to be for me, that they will carry with them as they grow up into a world that will be vastly different from the one we grew up in, and that our parents grew up in. The only way to do that is to commit to exposing them to nature and to allow them to cultivate their own personal relationships with it ... and to be an example of the effect in action. We need to show them that a search engine does not hold all the answers they seek, and how could it? We are individuals, and the wondrous thing about nature is that we connect with it in individual ways and we, therefore, find in it truly personalized healing and balance.

I'm about to begin reading Richard Louv's latest book, "The Nature Principle," to explore the many ways we can all benefit from what he calls Vitamin-N. I hope you will read it along with me. 

Everyday Nature: 4 Simple Ways to Get Your Daily Dose

As part of the Mud Pie Mission, we’ve been trying to fit in a minimum of 30 “nature minutes” every day. It’s summer, so this goal seems pretty attainable, right? Well, as it turns out, it’s not always so easy to come by 30 free minutes—especially if you think about preparing for an outing plus getting to and from your destination. Ask any busy mom or dad and they’ll tell you … some days the idea of scheduling an additional 30 minutes of anything is near impossible. Even with the break from school, there are still hours spent at work, medical appointments, the gym, errands, play dates, church, family dinner, reading time, summer classes/camps, organized sports, transportation, baths—the list is endless. Every once in a while, all of the above happen in a single day and it’s a small miracle if the dishes get clean. Knowing this all too well, I had to get creative. Here are four ways we’ve managed to meet our goal:

1. Garden Together

This summer, I made it a priority to involve the kids in caring for the yard. Henry is five, so it’s easy for him to take on tasks like weeding and watering. Sadie, who is far too young for real responsibility, still enjoys filling her playhouse pots with water and dumping them on the plants, plucking flowers and playing in the landscaping rocks while we work. It’s important that they witness the commitment to and routine of yard work, but the value of this particular daily chore is much greater. When we head out to deadhead the flowers, water, and weed, it gives us a chance to connect with nature directly, to watch the changes that occur, to see how our actions affect the success or failure of the garden, and to talk about what we see. We’ve watched our bushes go from naked to green to flowering, met new bugs, and tasted our own herbs all in just minutes a day.

2. Dine Among the Elements

Kids thrill at the idea of doing something outside that they normally do inside. When the weather cooperates, it’s actually convenient to throw together a quick picnic dinner out of fridge leftovers or pick up take out, and then lay a blanket down at a favorite park, the beach or right in the back yard. There’s no hot stove adding to the oppressive summer heat, no floors or countertops to clean, no constant reminders to sit still or mind manners … just time to enjoy being under a blue sky with the people you love most and sharing a meal. It’s almost like the food tastes better outside, too. The kids eat more, they laugh more, and they run around and get some exercise afterward. One time, we ended a very busy day with a twilight picnic dinner at Maudslay under a giant tree. Sadie tried to feed grapes to the ants and Henry used a stick to pick up our trash. Thirty minutes became an hour. And as we headed back to the car, bellies full and spirits calmed after a hectic day, we said hello to a family of six (four teens), with their own picnic basket in tow. I hoped that would be us some day; and I knew in that moment a tradition was born.

3. Spy the Sky from Inside

Sometimes nature itself prevents us from getting outside. One afternoon, right as we were about to go on a walk, a thunderstorm hit. It was already 4:30 p.m. and I knew we would miss our window of nature-time for the day. While I was feeling discouraged, the kids had glued themselves to the front window, watching the yellowing sky, the shuddering trees and the leaves and branches that raced down our brick sidewalk in the wind. Instead of flipping on PBS or playing a board game, we pulled up chairs, drank chocolate milk and watched the show from the window. The yellow sky turned dark as night, thunder roared, rain drove against the window like nails. It was awesome. Better than TV. We even turned off the lights in the dining room so everything beyond the window illuminated in the flashes of lightning. We were with nature, but dry and safe, too. The best part? It’s a perfect excuse to snuggle together. Even without a storm, it’s fun to pull open the blinds, turn out the lights and watch the moon or the stars before bed; or greet a new day by letting in the light of the sun, surveying the clouds and guessing the weather for the day.

4. Get Crafty, Naturally

Here’s one final tip I’ve incorporated throughout the Mission. Every time we’ve walked the trails or combed the beach, we’ve collected things. We have everything in the house right now from sticks and dried flowers, to pine cones and shells. I keep them in a box in the kitchen. Sometimes while I’m cooking dinner or cleaning up from breakfast, I’ll pull out the box along with some glue, paper, scissors, markers, paint, etc. While Sadie plays with the treasures, rediscovering their textures or pushing them in her doll stroller, Henry will create collages, paint rocks, build gadgets or retell the story of a particular item and how/where we’d found it. What I like about this activity is that it brings creativity and nature together in a totally unstructured way. I try not to suggest what to do or not do with the treasures because it’s more fun to watch what they’ll do. Henry once got out the Play-Doh and made imprints by rolling the pine cones and poking the sticks in the dough, creating all sort of cool designs. Sadie followed suit. I just stood by watching from the corner of my eye, chopping a green pepper and smiling … while Mother Nature provided a canvas for their imaginations.

If you’ve got quick and easy ways to achieve 30 minutes of nature each day, please comment and share your ideas. We’d love to hear them!

When I Grow Up, I Want to Be a Tree

The truth is … we totally got lost. We started off with the intention to visit the trails inside the Georgetown-Rowley State Forest, but we ended up in a place called Camp Denison, which is 36 acres of conservation land (formerly an inner-city youth campground) within the Baldpate Pond State Forest in Georgetown, Mass.

I’m so glad it found us.

I was able to tuck the car away just past a crooked sign that read “Additional Parking,” though no other cars were to be found. We were under the canopy of forest, complete with cloud-tickling trees, an endless bed of low-lying, bright green ground cover, and quiet. Pure, delicious absence of sound.

It was half-past eleven and the kids had started to lose steam on the drive from Newburyport so I wasn’t sure what to expect at first. But, as soon as their feet hit the wide rocky path, Henry and Sadie both came alive. Sadie looked up with a smile at the tops of the trees and pointed at something only she could see, and I knew if she’d had the words, they would have been: “Let’s do this thing.”

I’m not sure if it’s the oxygen, or the sense of freedom that comes with being in a new, wide open natural space, but this turnaround in them is something I’ve witnessed time and again over the past month whenever the kids collide with the woods. 

Where we stopped inside Baldpate was all forest aside from a couple of trail markers and a posted trail map, hand-drawn in Crayola marker, under a piece of nailed down plastic (that had also trapped a few bugs, sorry to say), but I hope to return someday soon and visit the stomping grounds of the old camp and lodge. For today, however, we had our hearts set on a little hike.

I read that most of the forest inside Camp Denison is “a mixture of mature white pine, oak, maple, hickory, locust and other commonly occurring hardwood and softwood trees.” What it felt like, more simply, was being in the presence of greatness—all the trees towering overhead, all the years they’d seen long before any of us had come to be. A forest has a way of making you feel protected in that way, a feeling I personally associate with looking up to my own parents when I was young. It’s as if they’re whispering, “You’re with us, you’re safe here.”

We paused often to investigate the bark of the trees. Some were moss-covered and damp from the recent days of rain; some were crusty and dry, with legs of sun casting warmth upon them through the lace of the treetops. There were many stumps around, too, which provided resting points for Sadie along the walk, and gave Henry and me the opportunity to talk about the age of trees by counting the rings atop the stumps.

While Sadie collected pine cones and talked to ants, Henry and I tried to match our ages to the living trees. There were lots of Sadie’s making their first uncertain debuts to the forest landscape at the foot of their elders, and just as many Henry’s that had survived the early years of growth and were now well on their way to reaching the sky. We even found some Alyson’s in there, reaching up-and-out with a mixture of semi-confident and hopeful limbs.

I told Henry about Camp Campbell Gard back in Ohio and how every time I visited with school or scouts, my friends and I had to pick a camp name. Mine was usually Alyson Ant, which made him laugh. I asked him what his name would be and he matter-of-factly answered Henry Stick Finder (all the while hoisting two sticks before him and crossing them like dueling lightsabers). Sadie’s name, I told him, should be Sadie Stump Sitter. “Yeah,” she chirped in, clueless to our having a laugh at her expense.

“What should my name be?” I asked him, just as the Baldpate mosquitoes had found and begun to welcome us to the forest. I was, in familiar fashion, jumping and swatting at them and telling them to “shoo” (who needs the age of the trees to remind you you’re nearing middle-age when you can just shout it out?). Henry promptly decided my name for the day would be “Mommy Mosquito Shoo-er.”

We lasted about fifteen more minutes, Henry addressing us by only our new camp names and Sadie finding the few blooming flowers on the forest floor and beheading them. If you can say “beheading” and “peaceful” in the same paragraph, I will … because it was really peaceful. We came home with two new big sticks. It was another great day outside.

A Comedy of Berries

I admit it. Today when I woke up, I was full of negative energy. I knew it right away. My body felt tired, I could sense the lingering stress in my shoulders, and I was still battling this perpetual runny nose. But I turned to find Henry tucked into the covers beside me (where he'd climbed in during the wee hours of the morning) and as I watched the sleepy intermittent flicker of his long eyelashes—I was reminded to put on a smile. It was berry-picking day after all.

We got going slowly, in true summer style, and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast followed by a marathon Play-Doh party. Sadie proudly sat in her booster seat (not without some token daredevil moves) and Henry made blue Play-Doh carrots that were quite life-like (aside from the color). I actually finished a full hot cup of coffee! Finally, though, we had to get dressed. It was after 10 a.m. and I feared the noon o’clock meltdown if we did not make it to the farm soon.

Of course, when I tried to organize everyone, things fell apart. Sadie ran around naked for fifteen minutes, slithering from my grasp like a snake every time I tried to dress her. [She’s unnaturally strong.] During our chase, Henry chose to lounge (also naked) on his bed and stare up at the ceiling, just contemplating life I suppose (or thinking about Cars 2, one or the other). Eventually, I had to nudge Socrates to get a move on … Once both Aiello children were clean, clothed and coiffed—and I was sufficiently exhausted—we got in the car and were on our way to Cider Hill Farm in Amesbury.

Cider Hill Farm is a special place. It sits on 145 acres of hills and valleys, 70 acres of which are used for growing fruits and vegetables. The family-owned-and-operated farm offers a Community Supported Agriculture program as well as an abundance of seasonal pick-your own produce, and a general store complete with the best cider donuts in/the/world. The Cider Hill crew also raises livestock and bees. It’s a place that’s always moving forward, always getting better and always working to provide the ideal family experience no matter the season.

As soon as you turn down the gravel road to Cider Hill, you see healthy, active farmland from all vantage points. It's texture for your eyes as they dart from symmetrical ground-level gardens to mid-level apple orchards to the tall trees that line the horizon. All in every shade of green imaginable. It’s like entering Oz … if Oz were located off Route 150 in Amesbury. Right in the center of the land is the general store, always bustling and artfully landscaped with the season’s best and most bountiful flowers. Today was no different. We parked the car, gathered ourselves and headed in to pick up our green strawberry cartons.

From the second we stepped into the store, though, chaos ensued. Henry went one way, following his nose to the cider donut bakery. Sadie went the other and was soon shoplifting already-picked strawberries from a display and trying to shove them in her mouth. So with one screaming child under my left arm, and one complaining child under my right, I did my best to get them to the counter, wait in line and pleasantly/calmly collect our cartons.

The strawberry fields at Cider Hill are a bit of hike, uphill no less. Truly, the Beatles were playing in my head. Okay, more like taunting me in my head. The walk is lovely, of course, but on this particular day it was somewhat grueling. The temperature was climbing. I had foolishly neglected to bring the stroller, or pull one of the farm’s wagons along for support. Henry wanted to stop at every small wonder of nature. Sadie for the first time in her life … wanted to be carried.

After what felt like a half-mile walk in the blazing sun, we arrived at the strawberries. The bright red berries poked out from under the lush green leaves and delicate white flowers, row after row between hay-laden foot paths. I showed Sadie how to pick a berry. She squealed with delight. Henry, an old pro at five, was already half-way down a row, picking at a good clip and announcing every berry he found as “the best berry ever.” I tried to get Sadie to leave the edge of the patch with me, but she was set on picking all the green and white berries she could to fill her carton.

Suddenly, I lost focus on the baby, the berries and the whole bit … because without even a warning buzz, I was being attacked by what I can only guess was a not-so-distant cousin of the greenhead fly—the bossy little species that show up on the beaches around mid-July. And bite. These fellas are not small, so you very clearly see them attach themselves to your body and just sink their teeth in. I was swatting, running, cursing. My pony tail was in disarray, I had dropped the berry carton. But the fly was relentless. (I’ve actually been scratching the bites on my arms and neck the entire time I’ve been typing.)

To escape, I had to rush-relocate our fun to the far reaches of the field, where, just as a friend had pointed out to me down at the general store, the best, brightest and biggest berries were hiding. I was able to forget the fly. Henry and I got pretty excited, lifting up leaf after leaf to find berries so red and enormous that they sometimes looked the size of three berries in one.

We’d gotten so caught up in fact that I neglected to keep a careful eye on Sadie. So when I finally skipped back to where she was sitting trading bites of berries for bites of the pretzels she’d brought—I discovered she was sampling all kinds of berries. Young tasteless green berries. Dirt-covered berries. Bug-ravaged berries. Berry hulls. Even the really unappealing berries (read: not even the bugs would eat these multi-colored treats). I dropped to my knees and pulled the carton away from her. She screamed at me in her usual furious babble while I sorted out the bruised and bitten berries. Then, I scooped her up once again and carried her along as we quickly filled the rest of our cartons with the berry boon we’d found.

When it came time to head back down and pay for the berries, I narrowed my eyes and stared down the long path to the store, wondering just how long it would take (and how painful it would be) to carry a baby, two full cartons of berries, a camera, a purse and a diaper bag all the way back. Then something amazing happened.  Another mom noticed the worried look on my face and offered Henry and Sadie a ride back in her wagon with her daughter. I could have hugged her—in a really dramatic, tackling kind of way, too. All the negative energy that had been haunting me turned positive (even as I could feel and then see red strawberry guts and mud splayed in a circle on the knee of my pants). I was dirty, sweaty, tired, hungry, itchy but grateful—mostly grateful.

We made our way back talking about the kids and the farm. It was nice. Once we paid, we even got a chance to eat a few cider donuts and feed the handsome Red Star chickens in the shade of the coop. Turned out pretty great in the end. But I definitely learned a couple of important things today. Namely, when it comes to nature plus two kids, sometimes you need to tag team it. Also, don’t bring a hungry baby to the strawberry patch at lunch time.

Pinwheels at the Beach

It was an overcast 50 degrees outside today, maybe even cooler—definitely cold at Salisbury Beach. But, it was also a gloriously windy day and I knew the gusts would feel even stronger seaside. So this afternoon, after preschool let out, to the beach we went to play with the wind.

Giant rain clouds crowded each other over the ocean and the water itself was a steely gray with a whole lot of chop. The sea grass on the dunes bent so deeply in the wind that the blades looked like they were trying to bury their heads in the sand. I didn’t blame them.

Sadie and Henry were brave, however. They held tightly to the flower-shaped pinwheels we’d bought for our garden but had brought with us today to test the strength of the wind. The magical spinning possessed their eyes like a Fourth of July sparkler. I was surprised Sadie could even hold hers, it was whirring so fast. Henry presented his to the sky as if it were Neptune’s scepter, challenging the wind.

For fun, we held the pinwheels in different positions to see how the changes affected the quickness and direction of the spin. And we talked about how slowly the pinwheels had turned yesterday when there had been very little breeze in our fenced-in yard. The pinwheels continued to zip and whip. We touched them to the sea grass and to the tips of our fingers. Henry got a petal to the face once, but soldiered on. And believe it or not, we lost only one pink petal from Sadie’s wildly spinning flower.

When the two finally tired of clutching the pinwheels, we stuck them in the sand and huddled together to read “Flora’s Very Windy Day” by Jeanne Birdsall, which we had checked out of the Newburyport Public Library yesterday. It’s a story about a young girl who’s forced to play outside with her little brother against her will. She’s so perturbed that she wishes him away—and like that, the wind scoops him up. Flora, who believes her special red boots had grounded and protected her in the face of the wind, steps out of the boots in order to follow after her brother. Together they ride the wind on a journey that brings her to the realization she, indeed, wants to keep her brother.

It’s a fun story with sweet artwork and both kids, even with the three-and-a-half year age difference between them, were engaged in it. I learned it’s a blast to have story time outside! Henry wondered if it were really possible to be carried up to the moon by the wind—and suggested we try it with Sadie. However, we did not.

Instead, we spent the last part of our adventure running around on the barren beach (it was freezing, remember?). Henry kicked sand into the wind and watched the dusty clouds stop mid-air, turn back toward him, then throw themselves back at his feet. Sadie just went running into the wind carrying reeds and sticks, her hair blowing.

Finally, after Henry wrote his name in the brown-sugar sand in large, SOS-quality letters; we were ready to go. Our ears and cheeks were rosy and we were spent. Up on the dunes, the pinwheels turned and turned.

If you want to check out “Flora’s Very Windy Day,” it is probably available at your library or you can purchase it at Amazon.com.

Sadie Meets the Wind

Sadie Leigh Aiello weighs 23 lbs. and measures 32 inches tall. She's 20 months old (as of last week) and still waiting for the two caramel-colored curls at the nape of her neck to grow into big girl hair. She's brave, and, honestly, she's a little bossy. Actually, I often tell people that when she gets fired up she turns those animated eyebrows of hers downward, raises her hands, and curses at me in an angry baby babble that I am thankful I cannot interpret word-for-word.

Like me when I was a child, Sadie is fearless. She is the only "baby" climbing quite ably up, down, around and through all the play structures in the greater Newburyport area. Plus, she's walked miles upon miles in her pink and gray Carter's tennis shoes, size 5. She rarely tires.

So when Sadie met the wind, I have to admit, I took a small bit of pleasure in it because I was assured some healthy fear still existed in her.

We had been on the trails for awhile, waiting for Henry, who had stopped to break up a pile of dirt by pulverizing the chunks of hardened mud into a fine powder that floated off in the breeze. Sadie had taken to picking up sticks and leaves and handing them to me as precious gifts.

Then it happened. One thin, wet brown leaf that had likely only just escaped the ground where it had fallen many months ago (and been pressed down without mercy by the mountains of winter snow), lay in wait before her. As she reached down, hovering her prominent baby belly over the leaf, it suddenly lifted and moved, as if it had come alive right before her very eyes. Then it had moved again, farther this time. But it had no legs, no wheels. Sadie's body turned to stone and her eyes were stuck wide open. Her olive skin had gone pale. Then she'd turned and come running toward me, shrieking with fear.

"It's just the wind," I'd told her. I'd chased down the leaf, then carried it back to her. "See?"

She'd refused to touch it. Instead, she'd hidden herself behind my legs, peering up at the leaf from between my knees. "Eh" she'd said. "Ehhhh!!!" She'd stomped her feet, pointing to the ground for me to release the demon leaf back into the wild. I'd done as she'd wished and let the leaf float back down to the dirt path.

And wouldn't you know it, with trepidation of course, she'd walked toward it again! And then again! She'd tiptoe to within steps of it, tempting it to fly; and by happenstance, it would. Over and over, she'd creep toward it until it would skitter away. It had become a game for her, and the carefree smile returned to her face.

Sadie had met the wind, then feared the wind, and ultimately befriended the wind. That leaf is just lucky she didn't yell at it.

Behold, the Wind!

I’m sitting here typing cross-legged with my socked feet tucked under me for warmth, sweater on, and a steaming cup of coffee on the table beside me. The sky outside is pure white, unsure of whether it wants to release rain, and the cold wind is making the delicate purple and white pansies in my window box shiver like Chihuahuas. Sure feels more like a football-and-chili Sunday in November than it does June 12 …

It’s reminding me of all the wonders there are to behold in nature, though. From large-scale phenomena, like these wild weather systems, to smaller mysteries like what determines the color of a pansy. There are far more marvels in the natural world than we could ever experience or ponder in single a lifetime, and certainly more than I could explain to my children while they’re young.

Yet some elements in nature are so significant to our lives and in our world that they beg for immediate and constant exploration, discussion and experimentation; some so varied, far-reaching, and interconnected that to not investigate the fundamental value of the thing, would be like trying to run having never learned to walk. Such elements are thematic to the human experience. And my favorite of these elements has got to be wind.

Wind is ever-present, and our connections to it are many. Wind is an invisible, powerful force. Wind is weather. It can be friend or foe. Wind can alert our fight-or-flight instinct, or soothe us—all with the same unseen strength it uses to help carry a flock of migrating birds hundreds of miles over land and sea.

We know its power on a grand scale when dangerous tornados bring great tragedy, and we subtly register the calming effect of its sound through the trees. We associate wind with memories and feelings. It's a character, a symbol, and an emotion. Wind can be universal and it can also be personal. In fact, maybe we should start typing it with a capital W, because it’s truly a prime example of how we interact and ultimately connect with nature.

That’s why this week, Henry, Sadie and I will be honoring the Wind with WIND WEEK. We’ll read stories and poems about Wind. We’ll talk about Wind—what it is and how we interact with it. We’ll see, hear and feel Wind. And, most importantly, we’ll be playing with Wind. Of course, I'll be reporting here with some useful ideas and anecdotes, peppered with as many Wind-related puns and clichés as possible, which should be a breeze.

For now, I’m going to refill my coffee cup and play a little Seals & Croft to get me through this unexpectedly chilly June afternoon … “Summer breeze, makes me feel fine ...”

The Transference of "Why"

We started venturing out into the great outdoors—as a brave unit of three, naked of sunscreen, bug spray and expectations—about a week or so ago. My internal GPS was already set to the location. I knew our first destination/adventure/experiment would be the beautiful grounds of Maudslay State Park in Newburyport, where the trails are wide and winding, rock-covered and tree-lined. The paths wrap around like dropped twine so you easily find yourself back where you started, or pretty close. But if you’re lucky, you take a wrong turn or two and end up in the garden where many couples come to be married … or on the edge of the rolling Merrimac River.

It’s funny. I actually wrote a story about Maudslay for our local paper a couple of years back. I had toured the grounds with Donna Sudak, the park’s animated and adoring interpreter, and learned the history of the site. What I walked away with that evening was the sense that this great space was a protected, lovingly cared for state park whose greatest gift is the surprising natural and man-made landscaping throughout. For instance, right now, the rhododendrons are in bloom and the bushes grow like fences of purple starbursts that are bigger than your head. So to come back with a new mission was an exciting thing.

When we first set foot on the path, I was pleased Henry and Sadie moved happily and peacefully along at their own paces, with me sometimes yards behind watching them. No one complained about walking too much or about the humidity that day. No one ran scared of the dragon fly that hovered and bounced with us as we strolled, or the giant clumsy bumble bees that bumped right into us then darted away. In fact, Henry walked at a slow and steady silent stride, while Sadie stopped here and there to fill her fists with pebbles or say “hi” to a sparrow. Before long, we came upon a stretch that was pock-marked with puddles from the previous night’s rain. Fortunately, we had on our boots! I wanted to allow the children to choose their own adventures so I just walked past the puddles. Of course, they did not; and how could they?!

They stood together at the edge of the most tantalizing and deep puddle in sight and slowly touched the tips of their boots to the muddy water. Then they kind of lifted and dropped their feet just a little. I sat down in the grass and simply said, “Go ahead.” I knew this would be the stopping place for the day. Within a few minutes, Sadie had walked right through the muck and begun tossing in her rocks, talking a lot of excited baby gibberish, and desperately searching for the same exact rocks she had thrown in (and finding them!). Henry had collected sticks calling them “power” sticks and begun making swirls, splashes and figure eights in the water. Then, he’d said something only Henry could say at that moment: “Mom, how does water make electricity?”

I wasn’t surprised in the least at his leap of thought and I told him as best I could how water becomes energy. We talked for a good ten minutes about currents and about dams and about turbines, as he moved the stick through the water making sound effects I can only describe as P-SCHEW! (energy). He had one question after another. Rapid fire (as I am very accustomed to). But what I was not accustomed to was that the exchange—not unlike water—flowed somewhere. It moved into new areas of thought. A bigger picture! We didn’t get stuck discussing the “why” or “why not” one family has Comcast while another has DirectTV (which really has quite a long list of variables), or why Sony has a division dedicated solely to children’s films, or debating why he is too young to have his own password for the App store … all carousel questions for us.

No. This was a conversation we were both very much engaged in. This was a connection between the two of us, between us and nature, between lost and found. And the transference of our typical “why” to something so wonderful was a moment to remember. Not just because it had broken a pattern, but because I was reminded I was in the presence of a beautiful, capable and ready mind. A mind that I am very happy and proud to say belongs to my son.

We visited EIA Energy Kids to learn more about Hydropower before bed that night. You can, too: http://www.eia.gov/kids/energy.cfm?page=hydropower_home-basics.

Mission Impossible?

I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but sometime between my son Henry’s third and fourth birthdays we lost touch with the outdoors. I’m not talking about being outside at one of the local playgrounds, or going for a stroll through the streets of Newburyport eating candy from Richdale’s, or sitting on the waterfront spooning Gram’s ice cream into our mouths—because we have, of course, maintained that minimal level of connection with “the outside world.” I guess what I’m talking about is extensive, unstructured time in nature. The kind where time itself slips away as you watch lady bugs crawl up and down a tree trunk, or find yourself competing against yourself to see how many times you can get a rock to skip across the Frog Pond—when all you intended to do was to go for a walk.

You see, recently I was jotting down plans for summer adventures and activities to share with my children, Henry, 5, and little Sadie, now 1 ½, when I found myself recalling my own childhood summers. I thought about the days spent out in the yard sitting atop the monkey bars, watching our giant weeping willow sway in the wind and sweep the tiny hill that led down to the tiny creek (that seemed big then), where the neighborhood boys gathered to play “war” with mud-covered rocks, or where we’d all meet up to see who might be interested in a game of kick-the-can. I remember staying out way past dark and cupping fireflies in my hands, trying to feed them blades of grass and then setting them free before heading in for the night. There were so many afternoons spent lying on the grass and watching the clouds drift in the summer sky, imagining they were in a great race toward the sun, with me down below trying to guess the winner. I did these things not out of boredom or loneliness, but rather out of want. They brought me happiness and peace and the feeling that I was in my own world but also connected to something greater. I believe now that those connections with nature fed my creativity, knowledge and sensibility—and made me the person I am today.  But sadly, these memories also made me aware I had been neglecting to provide these amazing gifts to my own children.

For a time, I think I followed the lead of my Henry, so sweet and curious, who has always preferred to direct his sense of wonder toward all things technical—from pushing buttons to turning cranks to studying remote controls. Let me put it this way, when we went to the zoo with our playgroup, we spent more time with the vending machine than with the animals. It was exhausting to try and engage him in other things, especially after my daughter Sadie was born, and I finally gave in/gave up. Our walks through Atkinson Common gave way to adventures in tall buildings to ride elevators so we could compare and contrast their differences. We sat in front of the air conditioner and talked about Freon and coils, instead of breathing the fresh air just beyond. These were the things his mind was drawn to, and I felt inclined to provide the means for him to explore them. While technology is his first love and no doubt his future and while elevators, computers, thermostats and iPods are all wonderful and useful things … I know deep down they cannot engage him with the world the way nature can. As his parent, it’s my job to expose him to the basic wonders of life, those first imaginings and understandings, and give him the fundamentals to use his advanced mind in meaningful ways, technological or not.

Henry is also one of the many children today with a diagnosis of ADHD. While the diagnosis is new, the treatment of symptoms is not (he has faced challenges since infancy) and he has made huge strides with therapy, wonderful teachers and most recently, to my unease, medication. It’s been a long road for us all, but now that he has matured and is better able to follow basic safety rules and practice self-responsibility, I feel more confident taking him on adventures again, giving him the freedom of being outdoors. I’m ready to do everything I can to allow him to escape the noise of buzzing toys, television shows, video games, even the constant sound of voices in the classroom and at home telling him what to do and what not to do. I want him to know and appreciate silence and stillness on his own terms—to build his own defense against the noise in his own mind and in this fast-paced world. Of course, it’s always easier to give a child what they want and to do what works in the moment to save our sanity, but it’s not always best. I realize now, it's time to give what’s best another go.

Just as I was coming into my own reality on these matters, I happened upon a documentary called “Mother Nature’s Child.” The film was actually not intended for me, but was put in my hand at a parenting seminar to pass along to a friend. My curiosity beckoned as I looked at the image of the child dancing among the flowers, thinking it must be from the 70s. Then, I turned the case over and read the summary. It spoke about nature’s role in every part of a child’s healthy development and the importance of keeping nature in the forefront even while we live in a media-centric world. My hand went hot. My heart raced a little. I knew it was no coincidence that the film found its way to me that night. I drove home and watched it right away. The symmetry of thinking unfolded so naturally, I knew there would be no turning back.

And in the excited sleepless hours that followed, it was decided: This family is getting back to nature. Now that “baby” Sadie is running and climbing with the competency and control of a three-year-old, we can do this. And we don’t have to pay anyone to show us how to do it, or show up to class to be told how to do it. We have our own implicit sense of curiosity and creativity to lead the way. There will be trails, fields, beaches, patches of city grass, gardens, and sometimes just our backyard. There will be puddles, creeks, rivers and ponds. Bugs, flowers, rocks and trees. There will be more cuts and bruises and bug bites. And we will get dirty. Real dirty. Because this is The Mud Pie Mission. We’re jumping in with both boot-covered feet, and I can’t wait to share the adventure here with you. 

If you would like to check out “Mother Nature’s Child,” you can find out more here: http://www.mothernaturesmovie.com/. I will continue to share all the useful resources I discover along the way, from books and articles to activities and ideas for getting the most out of being OUTDOORS.