Forging on Quietly

Just over a year ago, our lives were positively changed by a single book: Richard Louv’s Last Child in the Woods. Louv's book, a critical read for those parenting in today’s world, is not only a practical guide to the power of the nature connection, but a spiritual one as well. We were so excited about its message that we wanted to share our experiences here, with you. Through our efforts to get back to nature and make time for it in our daily lives, we have grown as a family unit despite challenging times, and we have discovered new solutions to age-old parent-child relationship matters as well as alternative ways to ease the symptoms of Henry’s ADHD, which was a key goal of our mission.

What we discovered is that the openness and solace of nature is a non-judgment zone where Henry is free to be himself. He can direct his boundless creativity and busy mind in ways that have no limits, no rules. Yet magically, when he is outdoors, his thoughts organize with clarity, just the way he wants them to so that he's able to set and complete a goal in a single-minded, focused fashion (the regular practice of which has given him tools he can access in other settings). For him, this has been a major confidence-builder, especially when he’s had a challenging day. Nature has had an intensely calming effect on him as well. In fact, we ALL end every adventure feeling peaceful and happy. When we go home, we are again connected to one another, connected to our world/community, and connected to ourselves. Nature refuels our spirits, refills  our individual capacities for joy and again instills in us purpose. We are grateful for this and countless other wonderful results of the mission.

Our mission has been a success. And with success in mind, I’ll be taking some time off from recounting our stories here in order to make more time for new creative journeys. Our nature adventures, however, will continue! If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? Of course it does. Although we will be forging on quietly, we will still be filling the woods, lakes, meadows, streams and beaches with laughter and filling our memories and hearts with great stories. We hope you, too, will continue to make nature connection one of your missions so that we can retell our stories together around the campfire someday.

Until then, thank you for reading and for supporting us. This little project of ours has brought us new friends, new insights and new possibilities that we would not have discovered without the kind words of encouragement and the precious bits of time you have so graciously given us.

Feeling Froggy

One of the most mesmerizing wonders of nature is metamorphosis. I think it's because metamorphosis reminds us of miracles, and when we can recognize unbelievable change in our world, we can then connect with it in a personal way. This important practice starts early on, as early as preschool and kindergarten science lessons, when children are introduced to the tracking of the caterpillar as it morphs into a butterfly, the slow, reliable change of seasons, and the story of the awkward gray duckling that grows into a swan. Regardless of your age, you can't deny the attraction of such nature stories and the way they manage to restore your faith in transformation or simply remind you of events, places and people that have mirrored miraculous transformation. They’re magnetizing and universal stories—and if you need more information, there’s probably a U2 song about it.

At any rate, with this in mind, let us not forget the ugly brother of transformation: the frog. We are drawn to the frog on a fundamental level. Consider all the long-legged froggy idols that exist in your world or in your memory. Perhaps you have a stuffed animal (or five), like we do. Maybe you’ve got a green lawn buddy protecting your azalea bush, or a friendly mascot smiling from a bumper sticker on the back of your beat up Subaru, or a set of salt and pepper shakers given to you by your great aunt. Does your heart turn to mush when Kermit sings “Rainbow Connection?” (That's rhetorical.) And I, for one, still believe Frogger was the best game ever invented.

Yes, the evidence is all around us: we love frogs. We love them even though they're pretty goofy-looking, sort of icky and maybe even a tad(pole) creepy—like little lost dinosaurs trapped in the modern world. Do frogs lick their eyes? I don’t know the answer to that, but things that lick their own eyes always weird me out a bit, in a good way. Furthermore, it’s amazing that frogs are born of a gooey pile of eyeball-like eggs, then grow into furiously swimming puppy dog tails with eyes, and eventually become these murky-dwelling yet majestic things that seem to know the very deepest secrets of life. Plus, they eat flies—and that’s cool, too.

Weeks back, the three of us, in our six well-worn Target galoshes, waded through the shallow marshes and petite ponds of Maudslay in search of frogs, lily pads and all reptilian remnants we could uncover. We watched the victorious leaves of lily pads float atop unseen umbilical cord roots that secured them to land beneath the thick, green water. But there were no frogs lounging there. The water bugs hopped on the glassy surface of the pond with hardly a ripple. But, there were no bubble gum pink tongues to lasso them mid-skip like some awesome scene from Animal Planet. 

In fact, finding the frogs became a real life game of “Where’s Waldo?” They blended into the water and rocks so well, I found myself doing double and triple takes at the bumps on the logs, just to be sure. Finally, we found one arrow-shaped head peeking out of the water. Then, we found another only inches away … and another. They were as still as a country night, and honestly, quite beautiful. What we discovered is that you will not—you cannot—win a staring competition against one of these water-slicked rascals, even if you hold open your eye lids and pray for mercy. They will beat you every time.

“What did the frog order at McDonald’s?” Henry asked me. I knew the joke well because he’d told it many times since learning it at school during their frog unit this past spring. “I don’t know. What did the frog order?” Henry’s sweet yet mischievous grin spread across his face, ending in a dimple and giving the impression of an exclamation point, as he said, “French flies and a diet croak.”

Frogs are the bomb, alright, especially to a six-year-old boy. Next time I promised we’d catch one. Between now and then, both Henry and Sadie are entertaining themselves pretending to be green … hopping like frogs on all fours and shouting “RIBBIT!” Yeah, that’ll be us. Sigh. And now you know why.

Postcards from West Chester

After a happily uneventful 875-mile road trip across New York’s I-90, around Cleveland and then down I-71 through middle Ohio, we arrived safely and in good spirits to my hometown of West Chester, Ohio, a mini-metropolis outside Cincinnati where super stores and chain restaurants now outnumber the cows that provided the backdrop of my youth. But some things here will never change, like the free feeling I get cruising up and down the peaks and valleys of Tylersville Road with my windows down and music blasting (special thanks to Rewind 94.9 for playing Gin Blossoms and Joan Jett at the exact right moment for my psyche).

So far, I’d describe our stay as hot. Whether it’s June or August, we always seem to bring with us a string of 90-degree days and humidity. But if it weren’t that way, it wouldn’t feel like home. These are summers I remember—skin always shining with a thin layer of sweat, and huge puffy clouds that drift across blue sky as slowly as glaciers.

Without the beach down the street, the kids will cool off under the sprinkler and in the backyard pool surrounded by spacious sun-speckled green lawns on all sides, and silent swarms of harmless muggy-weather bugs that stick to their skin as they frolic. It’s different in a delicious way, probably because these kinds of days are closer to the summer days I knew growing up. What’s even more fun, though, is coming home and discovering new pockets of nature together.

A couple days ago we scouted out a playground off Yankee Road called Dudley Park, which seemed to be newly rebuilt. From beneath the shade of full grown trees, we hardly noticed the warming day. Friendly waves of wind found us, too, and provided the peace of perfect temperature. It was really only hot in the direct sun at the swings, but the heat gave us a good reason to swing higher and harder to fan ourselves.

It was at that moment—when Henry and I were competing to see who could get high enough to look over the top of the swing-top first—that we noticed the tiny pond hidden by a hill, only yards away. We dragged our heels in the woodchips and came to a halt, then headed over to take a look.

At the edge of the pond we found about twenty dragonflies darting about, eager to include us in their game of hide and seek. Some were midnight black and as big as my fist, with wings so fast they were near invisible; others were the color of sunset and the size of my pinky finger, dancing by with a friendlier flutter and seemingly saying hello. Our favorites, though, were a threesome of iridescent blue and green mid-sized dragonflies that flew in unison as they explored the rocks and tall grass along the bank. We were fearless and so were they and we shared the space together peacefully.

Eventually, Henry bored of the show and tore out a handful of long grass then tossed it into the pond in a heap. Who doesn’t love just ripping out a bunch of grass? The wind on the water combined with the ripple-effect of a manmade current (probably to help prevent scores of mosquitoes) carried the blades in all directions. Henry started pointing out letter shapes he saw in the crisscrosses of grass. This is something I really love about Henry—he’s very visual. He can make connections between shapes and images that astound me. From the time he was two, he was able to see images in things like bathtub bubbles and oil spots in the parking lot—from guitars to car emblems. We had fun trying to find the whole alphabet.

From there, we started talking about what makes things float. Naturally, we got to talking about boats. I challenged him to find things to create a boat without any glue, tape, paper, etc. Between you and me, I was not even sure we could, but it sounded fun to try. We collected tiny pebbles, flowers, grass, sticks, twigs, leaves and more. It took a few attempts before we engineered the perfect boat for this particular pond—made of a giant green leaf and gently bent lightweight twigs. Our tiny boat, manned by a small white flower, made it all the way to the opposite bank before succumbing to the water. We cheered!

Even better was sitting together and watching it all, just snuggled side-by-side in silence, fingers crossed and waiting for the satisfaction of accomplishment. For Henry—and all children—small wins like this are enormously powerful. To him, we conquered something impossible, plus had a great time experimenting. Our trip to The Cone that night was well earned. Here’s hoping for a few more perfect days like this one. Wish you were here!

The Sitting Spot

If you’re a regular reader of my blog, you know that one of my recurring themes is the importance of using nature as a means to disengage from the world, exhale and reenergize the spirit—probably because it is what has been most effective for my children and me as we make our way through the ups and downs of life.

But we’re no different from anyone else. Each one of us wakes in the morning to a superhuman list of to-dos, and each one of us goes to sleep at night with a swirl of worries, thoughts and future to-dos spinning in our heads. Right now in 2012, we’re expected to be open 24 hours and ready to respond immediately to not only the priority needs of our families and friends (which is a given), but also to the needs of our jobs, communities, church families, interest groups and even Groupon deals. The impact of this way of life is that our brains are too full—sometimes of important things, yes; but often of just nonsense. If it weren’t for the excess of meaningless information I choose to expose myself to via Facebook, television and the Internet, I might never worry myself over some of the things that are likely a huge waste of energy. Of course, the more we know and understand, the better we are—but I’m not sure any part of me is benefitting from the flood of oddball studies directing me on how best to live (often proven wrong by a new study months later), or from crazy-maker websites like WebMD, or from anything related to “reality” TV or entertainment “news” for that matter, and most certainly not from the hundreds of mommy philosophies out there. There’s so much to filter through all the time, and everything presented gains support through Likes and comments or celebrity stamps of approval, which makes it even harder to discern what really matters to me as I define who I am. (And so completes my essay on why Facebook needs a Dislike button.)

Seriously, though, I find myself missing the days in the not-so-distant past when it was easier for me to quiet my personal world and regroup. It was easier partly because face-to-face was where meaningful interaction took place, because the nightly news was only 30 minutes long and was indeed mostly news, and because the work day really ended when you left the office. Newspaper was king, and books were the number one great escape. If any interpersonal conflicts occurred, they would be dealt with upon the next face-to-face interaction—or perhaps with a phone call the following day, maybe a personal visit if something needed more immediate attention. Still, time and critical distance existed, which was healthy because reasonable thought prevailed more readily, especially in the case of heated matters. Urgent meant urgent. Today, everything seems to be flagged as urgent. Matthew McConaughy getting married would not be “breaking news” in the traditional sense, or even an above the fold story. Everything seems to be important; but in reality most things are not. 

The way we communicate has changed and the way we receive information and the amount of information we receive has muddled our perceptions of what’s supposed to be important, but it’s still up to us to maintain a sense of what should and should not matter in each of our personal lives. It’s up to us to break free from the self-imposed pressure to be always available, and likewise it is up to us to say no to the impossible ideals of best self put forth by the media. Most importantly it’s up to us to unplug and take the time to know our true selves and our values so we can make educated decisions about when to tune out and when to tune in—to be able to decipher and then stand beside what aligns with our values, and what really doesn’t: what hinders you on your path, and what helps you. It sounds like common sense, but the truth is we all get caught up and confused sometimes. We’re still adapting to this new way of life, getting to know the pros and cons.

It’s not always easy to make the time to get to know ourselves and to remind ourselves of who we are and who we want to be in the lives we have been given. But it remains important. I recently discovered an idea that I’ve been wanting to share, which is the exercise of sitting in nature in the same spot for a given amount of time—if not each day, then each week—where you can invite peace and clarity back into your life as practice. It’s called a sitting spot, and I read about it following a post on a fellow nature-lover’s Facebook page no less (this was something I knew I should tune in to!). The sitting spot is something Native Americans have practiced for a long time. We don’t all have access to the view from the top of an awesome mountain as we eat we our Nature Valley bar, but the beauty of the sitting spot is that it can be anywhere. Maybe your sitting spot could be that great view of the sunrise at the end of your daily run. Or, a hidden bench in the park tucked between fragrant, flowering bushes. Maybe it could be underneath a favorite tree in your backyard. Chances are you probably already know right where it would be. In fact, you might inadvertently find yourself there quite often already. My advice is to go to that place where you feel a connection and engage in something akin to meditation. If you’re diligent, this spot will become a home, a safe place, where the sounds and smells of nature soothe you and the view gently washes away your worries and allows you to spend quality time with you.

I hope you will share your stories about your sitting spot here or on the MPM Facebook page. More than that, though, I hope the sitting spot becomes a tool in your arsenal as you battle the demands of your busy lives and develop ways to protect yourself from the bombardment of information out there. The sitting spot might just help you to simplify your world in other ways, too, even if only in perception. 

Philosophy of Puddle-Jumping

Early May brought much-needed rain to Newburyport. The grass I was trying to grow out front sprouted! Yes. The flowers perked up. And, we've delighted in the opportunity to pull on our galoshes and go stomping through puddles—especially mud puddles. Getting soaked with muck until even their hair and cheeks are dotted with mud has real appeal to Henry and Sadie, it's an attraction akin to walking barefoot in the grass or eating with your hands. It’s freeing. And we’re all at our best when we feel free.

We laugh a little easier, and we release some of the built-up pressure of daily life and all its responsibilities. For Henry, maybe it’s his effort to write his S the right direction instead of the mirror-image way his mind so stubbornly keeps telling his hand to shape. For Sadie, maybe it’s the ongoing challenge to part with her very best friends—her pacifiers. Whatever it might be, these are little personal struggles that take up real estate in our brains, and when we let them get too big, they start spreading out and doing things like keeping us up at night or making our shoulder muscles feel tense.

Racing through a mud puddle at full speed and feeling the water splash up against your arms and face—it’s a way to physically remind our bodies that all that stuff is just small stuff, and that this is the real stuff of life. The S will face forward when the time is right, and sleep will eventually come without the soothing sensation of the “ba-ba.” We’ll get there. Someday.

But in the meantime, things like this—the fun stuff, the freedom to be ourselves and accept who we are right now, as is—that’s available every day when you take the time to remind yourself. After we get home, with water still sloshing in the bottom of our boots, we’re all a little happier, kinder, more cooperative, and ready to tackle another day of life. 

Snapshots in Nature

Photo courtesy of Henry Aiello.

Thanks to new technology, taking beautiful photos is easier than it has ever been before. An iPhone, for example, can take pictures that are as high-quality as a Canon Rebel. And with an array of photo editing tools available for free online—like pixlr.com—each of us can become an expert photographer. I love taking photos of my children and of nature, just like many people do. And because it’s so simple to create something amazing these days, I am addicted to photography.

It’s also an excuse to get outside. Scanning the landscape for artistic images occurring naturally outdoors, and then snapping them in the perfect light, from the perfect angle, is a calming activity for me. Plus, it's creative. Even though each of us has the tools to produce flawless photos, it doesn't mean we're all producing the same thing. We each still see things in different ways, which means the way we take personal photos and the subjects we choose for personal photos allow us to express our unique selves and the varied ways each of us sees the world.

Children are no different. In fact, they see the world with fresh, innocent and curious eyes—through the same eyes we all once saw the world, but that time and life have changed in us. That’s why I love to hand the camera over to Henry and watch him as he walks through the woods, taking photos. I like to see what he is drawn to, and hear the way he talks about why he wants to capture a certain image in a certain way.

Henry loves to take close-up shots (another reason why I turn him toward nature and away from candid shots of mom, for example), and he has an eye for finding and photographing intricate textures found in nature like the mossy, peeling bark of an old tree, or the slick green gloss of a brand new leaf. And he loves to take pictures through the trees, where the branches become spider webs crisscrossing blue sky.

Photography is an activity that combines Henry’s love for technology with the peacefulness of the outdoors—and introduces him to the notion that art is more than just drawing or painting (something he struggles with in school). With photography, he feels free to create an image and he feels less confined by commanding his brain to tell his hand to draw the perfect set of eyes on a self-portrait, for example. Those skills are extremely important, but when something like art or music is a struggle there is the threat that a child will turn away from it completely because it’s too challenging or they feel they cannot master it. Of course, they do need to know that it’s the daily practice and, quite frankly, the struggle that helps improve any skill, but he also needs to know there are other ways to express creativity that might come more easily. For Henry, it’s pictures of nature (and making videos of himself singing “You Might Think” by the Cars, but that's a whole other blog).

Lastly, in regard to nature photography, I always try and take a picture of the kids in the same place outside, but at different times of the year. For us, we tend to take shots near a favorite tree at Maudslay State Park. In some photos the tree is full of green, in others it is bare. The tree changes a little every time, and as we continue the tradition, the children will change as well. Someday, I hope we will have an album full of these photos and they will become a flip-book of all the many points in time we stood in the same spot.

When we return home from our photo excursions, we feel like true naturalists, uploading our photos and reviewing them, choosing which ones to edit and save. Family photos taken this way have become less of a practice in “Aw, Mom. Do I have to smile?” (where the result is two scrunched up faces forcing painful-looking smiles) and more of an experience that we really enjoy—where the smiles and laughs are 100% natural.

Life and Limb

Go climb a tree. I mean that in a nice way. Go climb a tree, and pay attention to what happens to your body.

From the moment you tighten your fingers around the first tree branch and attempt to pull your own weight, you send an APB to your entire body. Every muscle must prepare to work, every system must engage. Resistance would be futile. All parts must focus and communicate to protect the whole and meet a common goal. As deliberate as it sounds, something about climbing comes naturally to us as humans. It’s one of our survival instincts.

By the time we feel the gentle pressure of a tree limb pushing back against the soles of our feet, our arms already know to reach for the next branch. Our eyes move up and around taking snapshots through the web of boughs so they can send the images back to our brains, where plans are calculated to keep us safe, but ever-climbing.

The first time Henry tried to climb a tree he was just shy of five years old, and my motherly instinct told me to stop him. Safety is a great concern for any parent, of course. Young children, especially, are just beginning to learn safety rules. They hardly have the real world experience to understand the importance of being mindful. Risk-taking is more fun, anyway, and it's a typical childhood characteristic—I had a fondness for walking on monkey bars (even with a broken elbow). For a child with ADHD, their signature distractibility and impulsiveness only adds to the concern when it comes to things like bike-riding or crossing a busy parking lot. Still, I could see in Henry’s eyes that he was determined to climb that tree. Instead of playing the mom card, I walked over to the giant pine, at the edge of one his favorite playgrounds, and just kept watch. I watched him pull his 37-lb. body upward, carefully selecting the safest branches, steadying his feet from time to time to take a break and evaluate the situation. All around us children played, yet somehow Henry was able to drown out the shouts and screams and attend to the task at hand.

When he got about nine or so feet high, I felt it was high enough. Just as I was about to say so, Henry stopped climbing on his own. He sat down and wrapped his legs around a fat branch, scooted himself backward until his tailbone was touching the tree trunk. Then, he leaned forward and laid his belly down on the branch. His cheek rested there, too. He dropped his arms and let them dangle in the open air. Then, he met my eyes and smiled down at me with a sweet, prideful grin.

He stayed there in silence for about two minutes until another little boy ran up and started a climb of his own. Henry pushed himself up, turned and carefully shimmied back down the tree. When he reached the bottom, I told him I though he was a born tree climber and gave him a high five. Then, he ran off, shouting again with his friends. It had all ended just as suddenly as it had begun. But I knew he had been revitalized by his experience. You see, in the same way that we are hard-wired to know how to climb, climbing itself is deeply gratifying.

It combines a wealth of the things we need to sustain our spirit: thrill of adventure, pride of facing a new challenge, satisfaction in hard work, and of course, a sense of accomplishment. In the end, it also provides peace of mind and new perspective. For those who climb regularly—whether trees or mountain-sides—you already know the secret. Climbing is a way we can access all the enriching sensations we crave in a more immediate way than we are able to in our daily lives and challenges. To have a healthy way to feel these things whenever we want to is important. It reminds us we can feel them, and when we look at life like a big giant tree, we get the sense that if we stay the course and get to the top of our personal climbs, it will be all the more rewarding. Just like a great view from a tree top.

For a child who struggles with attention to the point he is frustrated when he cannot complete things—tree climbing is a reminder that the ability to focus exists in him and that he will find a way to access it and control it at school, just the same we he does when he climbs ... that he already has what he needs to get where he wants to go. Nowadays, Henry climbs all the time, whenever he can. And it’s one of my favorite things to watch. I imagine us climbing together one day—sweating our way up some big old mountain out West where we can hang out on the side of a cliff and talk about that very first climb of his.

But for now, climbing belongs to him.