a gift on a string

One of the first photos I took at Fairview PS, my new school. The possibilities of this beautiful space, with its natural climbers and magnificent willow tree, made me excited for the new year to come.

It's been a long while since I've sat down to write in depth about my teaching and learning in Kindergarten. This past year was filled with new challenges and new opportunities as it was my first year at Fairview Public School. I must acknowledge that although the year brought many challenges (including the largest class I've taught to date, at 33 students by spring), I feel like I won the lottery in terms of my amazing teaching partner, Katie. I plan to introduce her here, some time soon. Today, though, I was thinking about the year we had together with our wonderful students and families, and trying to distill what it was that made it such a rich learning experience overall. In part it was the warm welcome from the families; being an outdoor and inquiry-focused educator requires some early outreach (documentation, back up with research in the form of articles and the Kindergarten document) to allay fears around risks, discomfort with being wet or dirty, plus concerns about the academic value of such learning. In late fall we invited our families to join us for a community walk through our beautiful neighbouring park. This turned out to be such a popular and successful experience, in which our students highlighted just how much they knew about their living environment, that it turned into a highly-anticipated monthly event for the rest of the year. This, too, deserves its own post. For now, when I try to distill the biggest overall impact of the outdoors, I know that much learning occurred over the year by individual student passion projects and small group inquiries. Larger studies were documented and shared with the whole class such that every student had a story sometime in the year in our bird or tree inquiry documentation books, for example. But to choose a moment that touched the whole class, I have to think of times when emotions ran high and students were compelled to communicate their distress or amazement with the larger community. There were several such occasions over the year, all in response to something witnessed while outdoors. These moments happen every day, all around us. The magic is in the noticing, and that's the skill I work the hardest to instill.

A view of the school as seen from Kariya Park: just beyond our fence exists this magnificent oasis with ducks, turtles, many birds, beautiful ponds and gardens, all surrounded by walking paths. Part of what made leaving a school and team I loved was knowing my new class would have this wonderful place to explore.

Being in a new school meant learning the affordances of the outdoor space along with our students. New to me was a yard small enough to necessitate a plan for sharing with other classes. Due to our large classes and overall proportion of the school population (six classes of more than 30 students each), we were unable to use the school yard during e-breaks (2 40-minute periods) when the older grades were outside. This presented a welcome challenge: how could we maximize our outdoor time over the day? Before finding creative ways to extend our time in unused spaces, however, there was another new challenge for me. In order to have equitable access to the limited outdoor tools and equipment, the Kindergarten team had a structure in place to rotate classes each day through 4 distinct spaces around the yard: a hard-top area with wheeled toys, a fenced-in "pen" with balls, building toys and games, a playground structure with some shade provided by pines, and an area known as "the meadow" in which the log and stump remains of an enormous ash tree provided an inviting climber. My first thought upon learning we had to follow a schedule was along the lines of mutiny, but I was eager to make a good impression on my new team, and trusted my new partner's thoughts about how well it can work. Of course, she was right: the rotating schedule wound up providing opportunities to get to know each of these spaces intimately, and as such children began to make good predictions based on their knowledge of these mini-eco-zones. As in past years, our class participated in the #KindergartenBioBlitz weeks in fall, winter, and spring, helping to form a culture of looking closely and noticing nature in our class.

Larger inquiries emerged in response to what we noticed while outside in our different spaces:

• the play of light and shadow (noticing evaporation differences in shade and sunlight, building shade structures, bending and bouncing light with reflective materials or the surface of water)
• water movement as seen in rivers forming under gushing gutters, the sometimes dry creek bed in the park next door, rain and snow
• balance and trajectory schema play in the meadow where the large logs and stumps provided various heights for climbing, throwing, stacking
• bird inquiry around the different species we saw in different areas of the school ground (woodpeckers and jays in the pines by the playground, swallows zipping over the field, robins on the hardtop after rain, ducks and gulls wading in the puddles forming beside the field after rain or snowmelt, orioles by the park in spring, many species of songbirds visiting our window and tree feeders)
• plant and tree identification, particularly in fall using fallen leaves, and in spring using the emerging flowers and leaves
• gardening in our window boxes, transplanting to the front raised beds
• insect and invertibrate behaviour 

Students drawing pillbugs we'd collected outdoors (in our "catch and release" glass house); this "looking closely at nature" area from the first day of school gave students a place to collect and observe interesting nature artifacts.

All this is preamble to share a very small moment in time: a gift that came to us on an invisible string. This beautiful day at the end of May, we headed out to the meadow lugging the "wonder wagon" (our cart with various tools for investigating and recording nature observations). Late in the fall we had adopted a tree in the meadow as our own; it was a newly-planted maple with slim trunk. It won out over other favourites, including the magnificent weeping willow that towers overhead. Each time we walked the path into this space, several students would run to greet their favourite tree in the space. This time, there was a gift awaiting us. It dangled, bobbing and twirling, on its invisible thread. A small, green caterpillar cradling a white ball of silk, dancing in the breeze as it hung from the willow tree.

This was the first thing we encountered when we went out to the meadow yesterday. AP: “A caterpillar is flying!” AZ: “It’s hanging on a string.” A big group of us gathered to watch it swing around and around as it hung from the willow tree. #lookclosely #noticingnature pic.twitter.com/sSJn8k7stG

— Beyond 4walls (@Rm19FairviewKs) May 31, 2018

The caterpillar swung from a swaying branch. We gathered in a circle to observe.

I managed to capture a tiny snippet of the action without also capturing student faces or identifying features. Instead of embedding I've included these videos as links below, to open in a separate window ( a friendlier format for those reading on various devices).

The caterpillar dances over our heads.

So many wonders arise as we observe this caterpillar overhead. NS: I hope it turns into a butterfly soon.” AK: I like butterflies, (they’re) so cute.”

What happened next surprised us all. Both teachers turned away for a moment, each of us to talk to different students. When we turned back, the caterpillar was gone. We looked all around, but saw only stunned faces, and a few hands pointing to where the caterpillar had been.

"What happened?" "Where is it?" asked those of us who'd looked away.

The answers tumbled out of several students all at once. As it turns out, a bird had swooped down and grabbed the thing right out of the air, flying away without stopping. I did my best to capture their explanations, and then because I was delighted by the turn of events but horrified that I'd missed it, I asked if any of them could draw a picture or diagram to show me how it happened. The clipboards and drawing materials were sorted out in a hurry. Students asked to tweet our friend and favourite "nature expert", Rob Ridley. This is the story, illustrated and described by the witnesses.

What truly shone in this moment was the intimate knowledge of our environment, and the communication skills of these different learners. Each picture captures important details of that split-second moment in time. By focusing on drawing, equally or perhaps even more than writing, our students became quite skilled at expressing events, opinions, desires, and other ideas. I should note that several students later added words to their initial drawings, from simple one-word labels to titles and short sentences describing the action. It is the drawing, however, that told us so much about what they noticed. This dramatic scene was over in the blink of an eye. What students chose to share, and how they expressed it, demonstrated some amazing creativity and knowledge of text conventions.

Paraphrased explanation: the "string" is blue because like water, it was invisible but can also look blue in drawings.

  

An extreme close-up detailed the size difference of the two creatures, as well as allowing room to add the pertinent detail R noticed about the caterpillar: faint lines along the body and the white ball of silk near its head.

"I drew a map of where the bird was going."

"The bird flew up and the caterpillar was spinning, spinning..."

AK (whose description is included in the collage above) was quite affected by witnessing the suprising event. The next day in class he suggested, "We should put something in the tree so everyone knows what the bird wants. The bird wants a caterpillar. I think the bird is hungry for the caterpillar. They have babies and they want to eat them and bring them to their nest."

Later, while holding a tiny beetle in his hand, AK remembered the event again, "I don't want it on my hand. The bird is going to get on my hand because he wants the bug."

This gift of a surprise turning into study is the best demonstration of a curiosity-driven curriculum I can think of. The thinking behind their illustrations, also the connections students made in order to identify the bird, and to why he swooped down like that... all tie into the importance of slowing down, noticing nature, and wondering together.

As I was writing, I paused to find more tweets from that day. I noticed a tweet from a friend who teaches older students, but none-the-less often inspires me in my own practice due to her use of an environmental education lens. This was exactly what I was writing about, without realizing what made that moment so illustrative of the year: it was the way children pulled their knowledge from our year together to make a whole story to share with our families and friends. The student who identified the bird as a red-winged blackbird, remembering details he'd learn in his many hours (overall) spent watching visitors to our window feeders and reading field guides. The student who used her knowledge of motion lines. The student who inspired others to use arrows to indicate "mapping". The student who surprised us with the unique perspective in the close-up drawing of the bird. The student who included herself and her friend in her picture, to describe how shocked they were as they witnessed the event, and also added the fluffy snowflake-like seeds of the cottonwood tree which blew over us later that same morning. These were seeds planted over the year of joyous curiosity in the outdoors. Thank you Emily for helping me see that.

A2: I really love the moment of shared discovery, when the seeds I’ve planted in ten different directions come together into something new that I’ve never imagined #2PencilChat

— Emily Kissner (@ELKissner) August 7, 2018

If you wish, leave a comment about a moment that has left an impact on your class.

saplings

 There are few trees more iconic that the graceful weeping willow tree. It is immortalized in art, poetry and music, used to symbolize emotion (longing, grief) and ideals (strength in flexibility). It has long been a symbol of survival: unlike the mighty oak which may snap in two in a windstorm, the weeping willow bends, yields and thus remains unbroken.

 For me, the weeping willow has more personal meaning, tied to early memories. When I was three years old, my family moved to the property my parents live still. It was one of many ten-acre plots, once part of a larger farm that spread a few concessions long. Most of the mature trees were found along the fence rows: a huge cherry on the south fence where a snowy owl once perched when I was a kid, maples along the east, a grand old pine near the road, and a number of old apple trees. The house my parents helped design was build in the middle of the property, high up on a hill overlooking the road and facing west with a fantastic view of sunsets (before the trees grew in and obscured much of the view). My parents had a pond dug on the land down below the house, where a creek and plentiful, fragrant balm of gilead trees alerted us to water. I spent summers swimming in that goldfish-filled pond, and winters skating on it. Over the next few years we planted some 2000 trees, so that a forest now spreads on three sides of the house. When I walk the trails through those woods, I often spot evidence of wildlife who share the space: turkeys, deer, rabbits, songbirds and raptors, mushrooms and flowering plants. What stands out, though, is the magnificent weeping willow that droops over the pond. My mom stuck a willow switch in the ground after the pond was dug out, marking the spot where she wished to plant a tree. Being a willow, it quickly rooted and my mom's wish came true, with no more work needed. Every summer from that tree, the red-wing blackbirds scolded us and kingfishers dazzled us with their acrobatic fishing skills. We hid beneath the drooping boughs, swung from the thicker branches like Tarzan on vines, and used the fallen switches for bending bracelets or weaving. It was, and is, a most beloved tree.

The trailing boughs of one of many weeping willows that line a lakefront park nearby. This beautiful tree is so ubiquitous, it's hard to imagine a time when they weren't growing everywhere in Ontario.

I don't know how it was that I came across the story of how the famous willow first arrived in England. There are various versions of the story, all differing with regards to who brought the original tree, but all placing the arrival of the tree in the range of 1730-1740. If I'd read the particular fact of its origin another year, perhaps, it wouldn't have meant anything to me. But this year, with so many news stories showing the terrifying attacks and the destruction of the beautiful ancient city of Aleppo, now this resonated. The very symbol of survival came to us from a place now struggling to stay alive...

 Early Chinese cultivar selections include the original weeping willow, Salix babylonica 'Pendula', in which the branches and twigs are strongly pendulous, which was presumably spread along ancient trade routes. These distinctive trees were subsequently introduced into England from Aleppo in northern Syria in 1730. (source)

Many moments and memories tangled when I first thought to write this story. It was a powerful metaphor that struck me: the history of one of our most iconic trees was tied to the silk road and the very area of the world that many of our refugee students and their families had recently fled. I thought about the ugly backlash some communities saw when even small numbers of newcomers moved into the neighbourhood and the schools. I was grateful to work in a school where the opposite was true: where the community rallied to support our new families with translators, services, orientation sessions and invitations to local events. Our class had been diverse before, with speakers of varieties of Arabic, Urdu, Hindu, Tamil, Vietnamese, Marathi, Mandarin and more. For many years I've used inclusive practices in my teaching, from creating multi-lingual class books each year and using students' languages in our meeting times (while counting, greeting each other) to inviting students to learn about each others' celebrations and traditions that share similarities with their own (such as the use of light in many winter ceremonies). This year, however, it felt necessary to do more, to go beyond sharing our differences. These families had been living through a series of months, even years, "on hold". They were facing challenges greater than most families at our school. Since last winter, our community grew as many newcomers from Syria began to move into the valley around Cooksville Creek. Our school grew by 100+ students who were "uprooted" along with their families, and this year in our class there are five students whose long journeys from Syria have brought them here to Ontario. It was important to me to ensure they felt a sense of belonging in our school. When I read the story of the tree a few months ago, it stuck with me. That Monday back at school, I looked at EA, the first of the newly arrived students to join our class as a junior student last year, back in January. I thought of how far she'd come, and how much she'd grown in the months since her first day. She'd arrived on a very snowy day, and I was grateful for the beautiful weather. We spent quite a long time outdoors that day, introducing her to the joys of playing in the snow with new friends. We explored the snow forts build by older students at recess, and took our sleds to the hill behind the school where we all took turns riding with her or pushing her sled from the top of the hill. We rolled down snowbanks and stomped fresh tracks into the untouched field by the park. It was the perfect way to welcome a student whose language most of us didn't share. I remember her rosy cheeks and brilliant smile on that day.

It didn't take long before she was conversing with us in a mixture of Arabic and English. She taught me many words (including the names for our shared snack foods, but that will be another post). Soon after her arrival, two more students joined us from Syria, and she was an excellent support. She translated for her new friends and her teachers, all while her command of English grew. I was delighted to see her grow in confidence. So the story of the willow was my gift to her. She had drawn a Syrian flag a few weeks before, and it inspired another student to make one as well. It inspired others in class, and resulted in a space on the bulletin board under the banner "Our Flags" where first a few countries were represented (as in the photo below, taken in December) but where now many more flags are shown. She later painted a Canada flag, again from memory (not from looking at a sample, thus the red bars along the top as well as the sides). It was then that I remembered what I'd read about weeping willow trees. I took her to the window and gave her a step stool so she could see the towering tree across the road beside the driveway to our school. I told her how I'd just learned how those amazing trees weren't native to Canada, but instead a transplant from far away. I told her how one of those very trees was brought from Syria to make its new home beautiful, and that she was just like that tree - brought here while small, growing somewhere new to become part of our rich and varied forest. I said that she and her family would make Canada more beautiful too. She didn't say much, then. In the months since that day, however, she has pointed at it, the pale golden giant that blows in the breeze, and asked me to tell her the story again.

EA's Syrian flag, top right, inspired others to make flags representing their families' home countries. I didn't realize at first why the Syrian students drew the flags differently (black with red, green with red) but later discovered that the design is contested and thus several versions are currently in use. EA also painted the flag of Canada, seen at the bottom. An interest in flags continues in class, with more added each week as more students add their own.

EA's story is what caused me to, for the nth time, look at the breadth of tree inquiry in my class over time. Every year we adopt a tree it becomes more meaningful, as younger siblings remember past trees adopted and visited by their older siblings over the summer. The sheer amount of stories tied to these inquiries has kept me from starting to write about them - every time I think I have the beginning or the end, I realize I'm wrong, that there's much more learning involved. It feels like roots, all tangled beneath the soil and purported to amount to more biomass than the huge tree above the ground. So I won't attempt to pull it all up, untangle and make sense of it. Well, maybe just a bit of it.

Over the five years I've taught at Thornwood PS, the trees have been a part of our curriculum in different ways. We have adopted trees, studying them daily, noting the amazing changes that occur all through the year. We have explored felled trees beyond the park, posing for pictures and challenging ourselves to balance along their length. We have smelled blossoms and tasted wild apples that grew along the edge of the creek that borders our school beyond the driveway. We have gathered pine cones, acorns, catkins and "shaker" seed pods. We sprouted seeds from a broken seed pod that came from the tree our class adopted last year, and those seedlings now overwinter in my parents' garden until I can take them back to school in the spring. Those seedlings are most important this year, because of the reconstruction project along the creek that resulted in the removal of 100 of small trees, including the apples we watched grow every year. Those students who reveled in the shade of those trees at the end of the year last summer were as stunned as I was to return to school to see them gone. Small, perhaps, in comparison to the loss of whole forests or entire neighbourhoods (as some of my students have witnessed) but a poignant loss none-the-less. In encouraging students to look closely and know their local environment, I hope to grow a pedagogy of place: an ever-deepening connection to the life overhead and underfoot.

A view of the no-mow zone at the beginning of fall. A group of students carry clipboards as we go for a walk one day two years ago, gathering images and samples (bark rubbings, leaves, needles, acorns) for our list of favourite local trees. We narrowed the list down to ten for closer inspection and research before finally choosing our tree to adopt for the year.

A student reaches to grab the apple and bring it close to smell. This tree was a favourite to visit in spring because of its fragrant, showy blossoms, but only a few fruit grew to ripen. We managed to pick one apple that we washed and tasted that day a few years ago.

A question first, to inspire us to look closely at the trees in our area. This was fall last year. In the middle-left is pictured the path on the opposite side of the creek (our school is on the left, out of view). This path is now off-limits while the creek is revitalized. The pictures around it represent trees that still stand, on the far side of the path or in the park. We hope to visit them again before the end of the year, if the pedestrian bridge is reopened by then.

A deep connection made to the maple trees in our nearby park.

One of our proud "tree experts" hard at work last summer, identifying trees all around our adopted tree that he had identified back in the fall. He had delighted me by proving me wrong: I'd guessed black locust, but he was correct in calling it a honey locust. Back in the fall we gathered hundreds of curly seed pods under our tree, using them as shakers, ornaments, and additions to our loose parts creations. 

These seeds, gathered last April from a broken pod beneath our locust tree and lovingly carried all the way back to class by TC in a large acorn cap, were later planted by T when the rest of the class planted green beans as a part of a gardening project. To our surprise and delight, her tree seeds sprouted and grew.

TC's seedlings growing tall, in June. She left them at school on the last day, and I couldn't bring myself to leave them to die. I brought them home and transplanted them. In spring we will see if they've survived winter, and perhaps find a place to plant them on or around the school grounds.

Eco-literacy: students were concerned about these markings showing up on many trees in the area along the creek. We tweeted several experts and did a little research to reveal that different regions use different markings, but that most likely this tree was marked as "healthy, do no cut", while those marked with orange were to be removed. Their concern was for individual trees, for we didn't yet know the extent of the project that would soon fence off our creek and result in wide-spread removal.

A view of the no-mow zone last June. Behind the trees is Cooksville Creek, then a concrete-bottom waterway prone to flooding the field and our school. Little did we know that these few last weeks of school would be the last time we would enjoy this lively green wall that hid the water and houses on the other side.

Our last month of school last June was spent exploring the rich life of summer outdoors. We noticed the fence spring up in the yard, cutting us off from the trees and dividing our no-mow zone in half. None of us imagined that we'd soon see right across the creek.

It's hard to reconcile this view with the photo above, but this was taken a few months later just beyond the no-mow zone, looking across the expanse where there was once a creek (now running through the black pipe beside the fence) and trees sloping down on both sides. We were watching the bulldozer push a bundle of uprooted trees while listening to the rush of the water in the pipe.

Another angle, looking further along the creek near the park. We spoke to friendly workers who gladly explained what they were doing, but it was difficult for the students to see how this big mess was actually going to make the creek a healthier one. We look forward to the reconstructed, naturalized creek banks and the eventual reopening of the path we used to take when we visited our favourite trees.

One student's illustration of the work we saw as we watched the heavy machinery and hard-hatted workers one day. This picture is one of many that help explain children's thinking about our creek inquiry, an ongoing exploration of water, the creatures we once saw living in the creek, and the need to take care of our earth. That story will be another post, as it continues to grow in our class.

A group of us went for a walk while the rest of the class played back in our yard. We had stopped to watch the machinery rumble by us, then found a pile of discarded branches that we on our side of the fence. It was a memory of past trips for senior students who recalled the deep shade and places to hide that once existed here, at the edge of the park. For junior students who had no such memories, it was simply a time to explore and enjoy collaboration while we attempted to make an impromptu fort. EA was in the group, happily tossing leaves in the air and gathering sticks and branches for building. It seems poetic now, looking at this photo: the landscape changing but new life growing all around. We will continue to visit as we can, and watch for signs of new life.

 I think of how much the land around the school has been a part of our learning, and how the stories of our adventures on the grounds help students feel ownership over the place. It is my hope that it leads to lifelong stewardship, no matter where they go. I looked over the years of #treeinquiry in our class, and saw it had a greater impact than I had realized. This fall, when I saw the size of the project underway to solve the flooding of our valley, I reached out to a few local experts to see if they would be willing to come and speak to my class about what was happening with the creek and the surrounding wildlife. We had an initial response with a contact name, and hope to follow up with a visit in spring. While creek inquiry continues this year, I couldn't help but notice how much the connection to our local trees has impacted students in all of my classes, from those early half-day years, to the last three full-day classes shared with a teaching partner. Here are a few memories from the last few years. The first image is particularly poignant as it shows the area that is now fenced and bare (very close to where the "danger" sign in the photo above).

It's official: #PM class have adopted the yellow transparent apple as our tree! #treeinquiry @RangerRidley pic.twitter.com/tzS7LQBVLS

— Beyond 4walls (@109ThornKs) September 19, 2013

This is what it looks like when I say: "Okay, meet me at our tree!" #kindy #enviroEd #treeinquiry pic.twitter.com/277dVC636E

— kids connect (@KinderFynes) October 3, 2013

Can you see our favourite learning centre today? Friends #lookclosely at things from trees #treeinquiry pic.twitter.com/oPUHxltv1A

— Beyond 4walls (@109ThornKs) November 19, 2013

#PM class: we decorated our apple tree with our nature ice ornaments. #treeinquiry https://t.co/neKnKIEJQB

— Beyond 4walls (@109ThornKs) December 18, 2013

 A little history is helpful to understand the next few tweets: while the PM class had adopted the apple tree pictured above, the AM class had chosen the large silver maple right at the front steps of the school. During the winter break we were struck by a massive ice storm which caused widespread power outages and damage to trees. I went to school on the break to visit, concerned that our trees had been broken like so many others around us. After sharing the good news below, I was touched to receive a tweet from the family of one of my students, who'd asked her father to check on our tree as well. I knew then that she would be a caring steward of the world around her. Though she's since moved to a new school, I wonder if she remembers those trips to visit her tree.

Hope my K friends & families are having a safe, warm holiday. I was worried about our #treeinquiry - trees are fine! pic.twitter.com/H3WPJlyuBQ

— Beyond 4walls (@109ThornKs) December 24, 2013

@yusraamir1 that makes me happy, too. I worried about our trees, & about my friends who were away ill in Dec. Happy Holidays, see you soon!

— Beyond 4walls (@109ThornKs) December 26, 2013

How exciting! @RangerRidley A said: "our tree has transformed!" We see pink buds & leaves. #treeinquiry https://t.co/5hbT112TGc

— Beyond 4walls (@109ThornKs) May 12, 2014

Some of us went to visit our tree from last year's #treeinquiry & we found apples! #KindergartenBioBlitz "S... https://t.co/BknuKT56mr

— kids connect (@KinderFynes) September 18, 2014

Was this tree older than the first stump? MA & EA counts rings to age the tree #lookclosely #treeinquiry https://t.co/JNECZonlUj

— Beyond 4walls (@109ThornKs) November 25, 2016

A nearly-hidden egret (the large white heron) flies over the shallow water of Etobicoke Creek. I think I startled it when I came close to the edge of the water. This quote speaks to me of the learning we gain slowly by observing, as opposed to those lightbulb "aha" moments of discovery. Both ways of learning are important, and will help us understand our world. To know a tree, to see something grow that will live long beyond our years, is to learn our place in nature.

My mom didn't have any photos of us playing in the willow tree, but my grandmother passed down many photos from my summers spent visiting her in Timmins. My grandmother is no longer alive and the house was sold long ago, but I remember eating many things from the garden that grew in the back, behind the birch, and I remember the sound of ravens in the forest further beyond. I wonder what memories my students will have of living and growing with trees.

the seven (million) wonders of the world

A photo of one of the kids (my daughter or one of the cousins) from our week with family on Cook's Bay, the shallow southern end of Lake Simcoe quite near where I grew up. A mink family was nesting in the rocks just beside the dock, and we often found evidence of their feasts such as this discarded claw.

While my daughter was happy to hold and examine the claw (as seen in the top photo) she was happy to leave this large crayfish alone to rest, perhaps moulting, in the rocks beside the dock.

Love this @nationaltrust list of #50things to do in nature - reminds me of convo with @RangerRidley & @HeatherMMcKay https://t.co/61EzwpkaiR

— kids connect (@KinderFynes) August 1, 2016

I saw this wonderful list today, posted by the National Trust in the UK. It was followed by links to apps to download, all to help families keep track of their activities as they completed the list. It occurred to me that this might have been in response to the now-ubiquitous Pokemon Go game that has kids and adults alike running about outside, trying to gather as many Pokemon as they can and earning points for mileage like a gaming fitbit.

I rather love the list, as I see many items on it I consider "must do" activities with students in class and with my own kids. I laughed to see items such as: No.25 make a grass trumpet which so delighted several students in our class this spring.

In April, after many attempts, one student managed to get a loud sound from her "grass trumpet". She was immensely proud of herself, and patiently taught her friends her strategy (which differed from mine). By the end of the week, we had a band of three. (click here to witness 3 students sharing their new-found noise-making skills).  

It reminded me of a conversation I had a few years ago, with outdoor education enthusiasts and friends Rob Ridley and Heather McKay. Rob is a treasured mentor of mine, an outdoor educator who gently prods us adults to go further, no matter where we start in our journeys outdoors with children. His visits to our class are a big hit - students who chorus "tweet the Ranger!" whenever we discover something surprising on our walks around the school, well those students greet Rob like a rockstar when he visits. Rob had shared a blog post back in August, 2014 about those priceless moments of childhood spent outside, which with the following invitation:

Go ahead, ask your kids – what do they feel every kid should experience outdoors by a certain age? Let me know! (see post here: Nature Time Before the Age of...)

 Heather did just that, and wrote her own love-letter to learning outdoors, "Where the Wild Things Are". She invited readers to ponder:

What have you been thinking about trying in your life?  Maybe it’s time to take that leap of faith….

Heather's post was particularly meaningful to me, because our families met up for an afternoon during the trip she wrote about. We had met once before, at the Hawkins-Inspired Conference in Ontario, but while it was a playful experience it was in the company of adults. This time, with our families away from home in full vacation mode, we were making discoveries about our children alongside them as we played in tidal pools and enjoyed the vastness of the ocean.

My week just got this awesome today @HeatherMMcKay #beautifulbc pic.twitter.com/FDUWd5AVmY

— kids connect (@KinderFynes) July 29, 2014

I wrote about my own aha's from that trip, mainly around self-regulation and the development of an environmental awareness that is possible when spending whole days on end outside. I hadn't responded to Rob's and Heather's queries, not in writing, but I had taken notes in my journal from the trip. Today, seeing the National Trust's #50things inspired me to go back, dig up what the kids had said when I asked them for their "must do by 12" submissions.



My daughter (then 7) suggested:

catch (and release) a crab
eat something you helped catch
climb a big tree
see a falling star
watch "shift change" (birds to bats: sundown, when the swifts swoop down into their chimney nests while moments later the bats come out for the night)

My son (then 13) suggested:

swim "au natural" under the stars
tent in a backyard
bike a "sneaky path" (his name for the deer trails and narrow footpaths where a kid can travel unseen even while standing)

My own (2 years ago):

swim in an ocean, a pond, a river, a lake
jump off of a cliff to swim
save a bird (window strike)
call a squirrel or bird out into the open
follow a wild creature for as long as possible without disturbing it (mink, beaver, muskrat, raccoon, rabbit, chipmunk, heron)

Today I add a new fascination of mine, one that has developed over the last few years as I've rediscovered my earlier love of geography:

follow a river or creek as far as possible - discover its headwaters, its mouth, and travel its winding curves through a forest or through urban landscape

 I realize my new submission is a difficult one for younger children, but a wonderful goal to set as a group, such as a family. A few weeks ago, when we spent our time near the southern tip of Lake Simcoe, we talked about what we saw as we watched the sun go down over the bay. The kids now know much more about the larger lake that spreads northwards, our spot being like the fingernail on a large hand, pointing down towards Holland Landing, and wrist meeting Lake Couchiching in Orillia. They felt the cold waves in Kempenfelt Bay when we spent a beach day in Barrie, and compared that to the warm shallows of Cook's Bay where we were staying. We heard a loon call at night, further south than we ever thought a loon would summer. On our way home, we crossed familiar waterways marked on the roads, and sighed when we crested the last hill before home, as Lake Ontario came into view, huge and blue before us.

Getting outdoors together, whether with a class or with family, allows for kids to see things they might not see if playing alone or with friends. Being in wild or near-wild spaces helps us all slow down, notice life of all kinds around us.

Our tent being dismantled on our last day at the lake - obscured from view, the dock and rocks where the mink scampered daily. Click here to see the mink on the move, or here for a friendly visit from various local creatures.

 

The "full buck moon" seen through binoculars. Photo by my daughter. We stayed out as late as we could each night (mosquitoes being quite good at chasing us indoors or beside the smoky fire) to watch the "shift change" when swallows went to roost and the fast-flapping bats came out.

Sunrise as seen from our tent. Worth waking at 5 AM.

Me replacing a poor little catfish we found on the lawn. I thought it was dead, as I found it some 3 meters from the shore on the grass, but when I picked it up to inspect it, it gave a powerful "flip!" and I nearly dropped it in surprise. We had been watching herons, osprey and terns fishing all week; it was likely one of these fishing birds that dropped its wiggling prey.

A damselfly nymph I caught (or did it catch me? It did follow me while I swam) that was very spooky while swimming, but upon closer inspection became obvious after a blue adult damselfly landed on my arm. The kids were fascinated to discover something completely new. Truth be told, I was too.

As I'm writing, my other open tab alerted me to the fact that someone had replied to my tweet, sharing the #50things list. Heather and Rob were chiming in with new ideas for how to grow and share our lists with others.

@KinderFynes @nationaltrust @RangerRidley It would be neat to display a list like this at school and annotate with photos from the year!

— Heather McKay (@HeatherMMcKay) August 1, 2016

@HeatherMMcKay @KinderFynes @nationaltrust This week's #EnviroEd theme is Free Play in Schools ... Connections abound

— Rob Ridley (@RangerRidley) August 1, 2016

Here we are, at summer's half-way mark, and such a lovely long month ahead to try new things. Next week my daughter and I will once again spend a week at Swan Lake with the YRNC for this year's Rhythm of Learning in Nature, and I will compare notes with fellow eductors from Canada and around the world. Won't you add your own "must do" or "must see" ideas here?