Showing posts with label outdoors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label outdoors. Show all posts

Monday, 23 January 2017

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).








 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.









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.



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Monday, 1 August 2016

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.

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.


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.


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?

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Thursday, 16 July 2015

walking in place: footsteps in the forest

An ecological identity is driven by a sense of wonder, the sheer delight in being alive in a mysterious, beautiful world. David Orr, Ecological Literacy
A group of students crouch to inspect the large family of mushrooms that emerged since our last walk to the big stump, only days before. This tree has been a stump for years now, but the children know it as a living thing, where plant and insect life is always found tucked in around its edges.

My son's friend holds a very patient toad that we found in a dry creek bed section of nearby Etobicoke Creek.
My daughter and I splash our feet in the water beneath the waterfall on the creek, upstream from where we found the toad. A week later, after heavy rains, we can't access this spot due to the high, rushing water. Our relationship with the creek means we come to expect the changes, and also anticipate what creatures we might see: a glossy mink, a stalky night-heron, dabbling ducks.

   There are many ways to go to explore the beautiful Kortright Centre grounds, but it is this path that slopes steeply into the treed valley that always calls me first. Inviting in every season.



On May 23rd I attended an event, a day so touching and magical it seems wrong to call it by its proper title, "conference". This was a gathering of educators inspired by forest school teaching, outdoor education, Reggio-inspired pedagogy, and by the incredible author, Ann Pelo. It was in the middle of a very busy week, chalk-filled with exciting events that took me far and wide around Southern Ontario. There'd been a small dinner gathering of friends of the York Region Nature Collaborative (YRNC) on the evening before the conference, a fantastic trip with my teacher partner to visit the "Artists at the Centre" exhibit, and a delightful gathering of educators at Sunflower School's "Mystery of Materials" conference in Orangeville on the following weekend. As such it only remained a fond memory, a collection of images, tweets and videos shared once home (where the wifi is), until I was finally able to review the penciled notes I'd take that evening. My few notes brought back the sights and smells even stronger than the photos had - it was a full-bodied sensory experience of wonder, connection, and joy. Those notes begin the story as it unfolds, below.

Today was a timeless sort of day. It arrived after much anticipation, as I'd long been looking forward to this opportunity to hear Ann Pelo speak again. Last year I'd been so moved by her keynote address at the #BECS2014 "Unhurried Conference" at Charles Sturt University where she showed slides and read snippets of her beautiful book "The Goodness of Rain". Her book sold out that day, and as I was unable to obtain a copy, I decided to wait until her next visit so that I could purchase and have the book signed. Wanting to connect with her words, recently I delved back into her earlier book "The Language of Art" which is one of those transformational reads that seems to get deeper and more meaningful with every reading. I felt so connected to her message at last year's conference: teach with open heart, open ears, and open mind. Then to re-read the description of the atelier, a place to be mindful of every action and every material, to celebrate beauty and expression, it was almost too much to bear waiting.

As I arrived this morning, I drove up the long winding driveway to the Kortright Centre with the windows rolled down in spite of the chill in the air. I wanted to smell the air, feel the moisture, and hear the sounds in the hills around me. The Kortright Cente is a special place for me, a place I've been going for many years though it's not close to home, a place I love even more these last 14 years that I've had kids to share it with. Last year's event, “A Family Adventure Walk in the Forest” in October 2014, also hosted by the YRNC (which I am proud to support in any way I can) was one of the most magical days I've ever spent with children, and that's taking into account my baker's dozen years of teaching Kindergarten. I had the privilege of hosting one of the stations that day, a place to celebrate my passion for "looking closely". Mine was the pile of dirt with sticks for digging... wisely assigned because truth be told if I had been given another centre I'd had dropped what I was doing every time an interesting bird or insect came into my awareness. Allowing me to spend the afternoon looking closely around our little "mountain" of dirt was a gift. Being a supporting member of the YRNC (long distance and thus only when possible) has been a professional highlight, helping to further my own teaching practice as I collaborate with inspirational educators and ecological stewards.


Kortright splendour during the first "Family Adventure Walk in the Forest".


A moment that brought me to tears: my daughter spent much of the afternoon with a group of friends including some she'd met at the last YRNC family gathering, the "Forest School Taster" held in the summer at Lake St. George. When the group found this beautiful tree frog, they carefully captured it, created a safe transport (a leaf-lined paper bag), and ran through the woods and up the hill to my "look closely" station. Though the park was full of hundreds of people who were there for "Family Adventures", the girls decided that I was the one that would most appreciate their find. It made me very happy.

Some of the delightful creatures and people who appeared at my station during the "Family Adventure Walk". I was intrigued by the responses to this station: some adults stood back while the children climbed the hill and dug into the soft dirt, while other adults joined in with great relish, holding up worms or centipedes to the delight or fright of their children. Initial squeamishness at seeing the contents of our "mini-museum" (pictured above in the bottle sections on lids) usually gave way to fascination and even exploration.


As I got out of the car this morning for the conference, I was immediately drawn off the path and into the woods by the familiar spring sound of a bird I like to call "the monotonous robin". It returns every year and somehow every year I remember the song (like a faster, endlessly repeating robin song) but I forget the singer. I ran into the woods in pursuit of the song, hoping to catch a glimpse and thus identify the singer. No luck, it was evasive as always, but I found myself through the trees onto the great lawn, walking in warm sunshine up to the crowd gathering at the entrance. I saw so many familiar faces, both friends I've made in recent years and those faces I knew only from our twitter PLN. I likened it to being a bride: all the beloved people in one place but really wanting to dote on the groom. It was almost too much for me, as I wanted to chat with everyone but I was also in a special place that demands my full attention... a forest vibrating with life in every corner. I needed to be quiet, to listen, to slow down to be in forest time.

My nature self won over my social self before I became exhausted. I tuned my senses to the life everywhere around me.

Before the keynote I was able to ask Ann to sign my beloved copy of "the Language of Art". I thought it proper to offer a gift in exchange, and as I'd connected deeply with her idea of the belonging to a place, a pedagogy of place, since her keynote last year, I gave her the best gift I could think of: a small jar of beach glass and a fossil-filled stone from the shore of Lake Ontario. I find these treasures the nearby beaches along the western edge of Etobicoke, the shore where time seems to lose its grip on me. To my relief and delight, she was as curious about these objects as I am.


Sharing the story of my beach while Ann signs my book. Photo by Stef.

The full name for today's event was "Walking in Place: Cultivating Ecological Identity in Young Children - And in Ourselves". The title long but reflective of the connected elements at play: by sharing a point of view, a mindful awareness of our surroundings, together with children we develop a relationship with the natural world. Ann began her keynote by describing how she was "energized and curious" by the invitation to share her story in such a unique way, "walking in place" with the conference participants. She shared observations, personal stories, and quotes. In fact, the quotes used in this post are from Ann's handout, kindly shared with participants so we might enjoy her presentation in the moment without the need to scribe.




Once the keynote began, I took some notes but was grateful that Ann had thought to include her most touching quotes in a handout so that we the audience could simply be present without needing to capture words as they flowed by. I did, nonetheless, jot down ideas and my impressions as they came to me. Ann set the tone by having us join her in reciting a traditional Haudenosaunee Thanksgiving Address (adapted by Karen Kerney). Greeting each other, the earth, all beings alive, all materials that sustain life (water, sun, air we breathe) we came together to see ourselves as part of an enormous, organic whole. From there she began with the first step of our journey, figuratively - she asked us to consider the origins of the word "foot" which connect to planting - planting one's foot in place. The quote below struck me as true, as both obvious and deeply meaningful. At that moment I realized why I had fallen in love with my neighbourhood, and why I'm torn by the idea of leaving it just because our family has outgrown our home.
We do this walk several times a week. It's a way for us to load ourselves up with the feel of the landscape. The only difference between a place to live and holy land is the number of footsteps you've put into the ground. Marc Parent, Believing it All


As she continued, Ann made reference to some of the stories in her latest book, The Goodness of Rain, which is an intimate story of her year with Dylan. Dylan was a toddler, speaking few words when they first began to spend each day together. I remember being mesmerized with these stories when I'd seen Ann at Charles Sturt University last year, and was eager to hear more about that magical time they'd spend walking. As Dylan grew and developed words for what was around her, Ann captured the story of their daily walks and noticings. A particularly poignant image is that of Dylan and the apples - fruit of the tree they visit daily and thus become to know in its every state, from abundant to bare. I didn't capture her exact words, but loved her description of Dylan's joy at smelling, plucking, and eventually eating the apples. Ann alluded to the biblical tale of how apples came to be a symbol for the downfall of humanity, how we were banished from paradise after one taste. She described Dylan's astonishment and delight at finding this gift (paraphrase): "not a fall from grace, but a fall into grace... knowledge of connection to earth, to our growing... attuned to call of wild earth, we know the earth, taste it, feel it." She quoted David Orr, alluding to all that naturally grows out of being happily astonished by nature.
An ecological identity is driven by a sense of wonder, the sheer delight in being alive in a mysterious, beautiful world.
An ecological identity encompasses these qualities of knowing and living in a place:
  • learning how to read a landscape;
  • coming to know a place and its local ecology;
  • strengthening and being strengthened by a feeling of kinship with the living world;
  • developing an aesthetic appreciation influenced by the patterns, textures, colors, lines, forms of the natural world. David Orr, Ecological Literacy 

Ann spoke of the importance of our role as teachers, what it means for us and what we are trying to do (paraphrase from keynote): "We teach children the languages of art, writing, reading, maths - we actively cultivate knowledge. (We) also need to cultivate ecological identity - sense of self belonging in place." She went on: "Our culture celebrates knowledge, not experience, of ecology, of nature. (It is a) commodification, an intellectualization of nature, of knowing versus being. For the urban teachers, nature isn't a forest, but spiders in the playground, puddles in the parking lot, ants in the crack of a sidewalk."

She proposed principles for pedagogy of place, those outlined in her book but offered not as commandments, instead as an invitation for beginning our own personal journeys. Ann urged us to develop "a pedagogy of play... present, in unfolding time".


It was a powerful moment, one which caused a number of us in the room to choke back tears (or brush at those that escaped our eyes). Looking at the tweets later I found examples of this.







One principle that I found deeply meaningful was that of "learning the names" of the flora and fauna all around us. In my last post, "a time to learn the names",  I related it to my own experience growing up with a strong ecological identity, though I didn't have a word for it, or recognize it as I grew up. It was simply something that separated me from most of my peers, and as such something I kept quiet about when I was young. No-one (outside of family) seemed to want to hear that the peeper frogs had begun singing that week, or that the milkweed seeds were still green, just right for eating (before turning brown and sprouting white fluff), or that the young puffball mushrooms were delicious sauteed in butter, or that the bird they thought was an owl singing in daylight was actually a dove - a lovely bird and my middle name.
Giving a name to something is a way of knowing it... People are unlikely to value what they cannot name. Elaine Brooks, in Richard Louv, Last Child in the Woods
Ann spoke about the people who "learn the names" because they fall in love with some aspect of the whole living, breathing ecosystem (birds, mushrooms, flowers, insects). She said, "I bought my first field guide and poured over it like a love letter". I identified strongly with those words. While listening to the keynote, I jotted down a note about my favourite non-translatable word, "komorebi". I wanted to share it with Ann after the keynote, though I missed the opportunity to do so. It is a word that I needed as a child, when I first fell in love with the Arctic as seen in images (National Geographic, at the McMicheal Gallery) and later on television (The Nature of Things). One day I imagined visiting the "land of the midnight sun" and talking those who lived there. I wondered what it would be like to grow up without trees. It actually pained me to think about it, life without trees: no dappled shade on a sunny day, no dazzling red fall, no sounds of leaves in a stiff breeze, no smells of pine after a rain, no boughs to climb in and hide. I wondered how on earth I could portray all this beauty and wonder with words. When, as an adult, I learned this wonderful word, it fit like a well-worn shoe.
Japanese: Komorebi This is the word the Japanese have for when sunlight filters through the trees - the interplay between the light and the leaves. Def. EF Sanders
Ann spoke of names, of the importance of knowing the names, not in a studious way in which we check off boxes and call it "done", but to discover new things and acknowledge them. She quoted Robert MacFarlane as a powerful call to action:
It’s a lexicon we need to cherish in an age when a junior dictionary finds room for ‘broadband’ but has no place for ‘bluebell’.
A place literacy is leaving us. A language in common, a language of the commons, is declining. The terrain beyond the city fringe is chiefly understood in terms of large generic units ("field," "hill," "valley," "wood").
Why should this loss matter? It matters because language deficit leads to attention deficit. As we deplete our ability to denote and figure particular aspects of our places, so our competence for understanding and imagining possible relationships with non-human nature is correspondingly depleted. Robert MacFarlane, "the word-hoard"




There was more to the story, not simply the loss of names but the loss of life - that knowing the inhabitants of our precious world would make an enormous difference in how humans treat the flora and fauna of the earth. Ann spoke of the pang of knowing the world and also knowing about the terrible impact of our human actions upon it.

Attention: the remarkable focused convergence of our senses, our intellect, and our feeling.

Paying attention to the more-than-human world doesn't only lead to amazement; it leads also to acknowledgement of pain. Open and attentive, we see and feel equally the beauty and the wounds, the old growth and the clear-cut, the mountain and the mine. Paying attention to suffering sharpens our ability to respond. To be responsible. Robin Kimmerer, "Returning the Gift" Minding Nature, May 2014

Ann invited us to "explore new perspectives. Name help us know but also grieve the losses. Marvel and despair". With that we were ushered out into the gloriously sunny day to enjoy time in the woods before lunch. Heads full, hearts open, we scattered into the outdoors.



After the keynote we were free to wander the sun-dappled paths and flowery meadows to visit the wonderful invitations set up all around the site. Our wandering was motivated by our own fascination with the spring flora and fauna all around us, and as such we didn't get to even half of the green-signed stations.
My joyful and curious companions for the day: (me), Karen, Tanya and Kim. The company of like-minded friends sharing a walk in the magnificent rolling hills and shady forests of the Kortright Centre made this an unforgettable event.


The beauty of the foliage and the delicate flowers blooming around the forest floor gave us all a sense of overwhelming beauty. It was as exciting to make new discoveries (such as this specimin above) as it was to uncover "old friends" underfoot such as herb robert, trilliums, and blood root.

Underfoot and overhead were many reasons to go slowly and look closely: blooming jack-in-the-pulpit lily, a swallowtail butterfly landing above us amid maple leaves, a tent caterpillar along the path, delicate flowers on as-yet unknown plants. We were hungry to learn the names.

As we walked down the long, steep incline into the forest, our senses grew attuned to the life all around us. Though there were inviting activities set up for us to enjoy, we found our own rhythm following butterflies, stopping to admire caterpillars, listening to songs in the trees. Partway down to the valley floor I was stopped in my tracks by a familiar (but long unheard) sound: an ethereal, reedy song like a wooden flute. I halted our group and opened up my trustworthy iBird app, hunting the right bird. I tried veery, but no. The other forest-dwelling thrush with such a haunting voice, then: a hermit thrush. My companions were amused, and then amazed, when the song in the iPod was identical to that we were hearing overhead. I'm cautious about using the app in this way, knowing it's possible to upset nesting pairs or simply annoy the very creatures I wish to observe. Once identified, we walked on, meandering from one side of the path to the other as some new sighting caught the eye of one of us. May in southern Ontario is a spectacular time for a phenology fan; everywhere leaves are fully grown on most deciduous trees, meadow and shade flowers everywhere are in bloom, frogs and birds are singing their mating songs. No words can capture the smell of the woods at this time.


Green in so many lovely shades. Mid-spring is a time of rapid change in nature. At the campfire station, we marveled at the textures, patterns, and variety of sizes amongst the leaves on the forest floor. At the top, bloodroot and trilliums. In the bottom-middle panels, the wondrous mayapple in bloom.

Down in the valley where the campfire was burning (and where every year my family goes to enjoy the maple syrup demonstration), we paused to rest a while. I spotted a flycatcher of some sort. Excited, I ran to get a better look. I couldn't get close enough, but underfoot was an amazing variety of plants that one can only see in mature, deciduous forest. I recognized some but many more were unknown to me. I thought of Ann's comment, falling in love with a field guide that gives her names, a literacy or a language with which to speak in the natural world. Nearby at the campfire was a fellow YRNC member and Kortright's Program Manager, Adrian O'Driscoll. I knew him to be a keen observer of the nature, so I invited him to help us identify some of the mystery foliage we were seeing. He pointed out several, but the one that I remember most vividly was the utterly enchanting "mayapple" (above). This intriguing plant had an umbrella-like circle of leaves nodding atop a long stem. From above, it was interesting, but from below, it was captivating: a single white flower presented like a face, peering out at us. We all knelt down for a better look. Then I remembered the song that had me mystified. I described to Adrian the "monotonous robin" that we had been hearing. "A vireo, perhaps?" Just like that - without hearing the bird, merely from a description, he solved my mystery. I shall never again forget the name of the red-eyed vireo, the singer that often makes himself heard but rarely seen.


This plant captivated us when we were out on our walk. Kim had shown me a picture of it earlier on, asking if I recognized it. I didn't, but spotted it on our walk. Such a delicate and complicated flower head, unbeknownst to us, ready to bloom. It was a new find, and we had to uncover its story.

As the stations closed and the call went out to go for lunch, we made our way back up the hill. Out in the meadow I was stopped again, this time by a bird I knew well and could call into view. I whistled a response to the singer, and sure enough, the brilliant orange oriole appeared from within a leafy hiding spot (click here for snippets: mayapple, leaves in the breeze, the song of the oriole). We felt so much in forest time, so connected.

After lunch we re-convened for Ann's summation. It was a different mood in the room, now, a place buzzing with conversations about the morning amongst friends. It was uplifting, even before she spoke. She invited us to bring the feeling we had to our daily lives, to step out with awareness and kinship with life.


It wasn't easy to leave. Many participants dawdled on their way out to the parking lot, and more still walked right back out to the paths. My companions and I took our time, stopping to chat with some chickadees and enjoy our final moments in the forest. We talked about our own teaching and learning in nature, and what we hoped to do from this day forward. We thought about how we could share this feeling. Leaving Kortright was hard that day. I was still feeling very much attuned to my outdoor surroundings when I arrived home, so I took my daughter to a nearby for an evening walk along the shore. As she ran over rocked and danced along the edge of the waves, I felt hopeful that she would grow up knowing the landscape as her natural place.

The next day, stories and images from the conference continued to be shared on twitter. I had worried, during our play amongst the trees, that my companions might regret having missed all the stations set up around the centre. As I saw the beautiful pictures later on twitter, I experienced a twinge of regret that we hadn't made it to the mandala station, for example.


The responses from friends changed my mind. The way it came together so perfectly for us, traveling together through that sacred space, made it magical. I am grateful to my companions on that day.

 Ripples were carried outward as our sheer delight left traces throughout our PLN. Many messages such as the one below made me hopeful for continuing the conversation.

"I bought my first field guide and poured over it like a love letter". I remembered those words the next day as I began to read her book, and found myself fighting back tears. Her year with Dylan was told as a story full of emotion, raw and tender and utterly reverent. I thought about it throughout the day. I thought of how the children in my class responded to scenes of injustice to their environment: litter found in the beloved "no-mow zone", plastic bags and fabric strewn along the creek's banks, park furniture broken or defaced with graffiti, trees with branches snapped in half and left dangling. I knew that they were becoming aware of the many lives with which we share the school grounds. I thought perhaps the best message I could take with me from the conference, Ann's book, and all of the wonderful experiences with children outdoors was this:

We do this walk several times a week. It's a way for us to load ourselves up with the feel of the landscape. The only difference between a place to live and holy land is the number of footsteps you've put into the ground. Marc Parent, Believing it All

A spring walk: we're peering into the gently moving water of Cooksville Creek.



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