by Kirk Mona
I recently went on vacation to Arizona and had the pleasure of the company of my 16-month-old son. He’s been cooped up all winter long, wrapped up in cozy layers of fleece jackets and flannel-lined overalls. Any explorations outside have been short, cold, and mostly about snow. He’d never really had the chance to do any exploring outside, as he was just starting to walk as autumn approached. He had been out in a stroller, but he had never truly interacted with nature. Going to Arizona in 80-degree heat wearing his new, brightly colored, wide-brimmed hat and shorts, free to walk and run—compared to passive summertime “walks” in a stroller—was the difference between watching TV and stepping into the picture. He was enchanted.
When we would bring him back inside, he would stand at the door and cry. He wanted to be exploring outside as much as possible, every minute of the day. He touched and smelled every flower he could find. He picked up leaves from bauhinia orchid trees as we walked and handed them to me. Every leaf was picked up. Everything was touched, explored, studied. He found hidden treasures. He somehow avoided the cactus. He followed a duck down a path, between tight bushes and around corners and then was surprised when it suddenly took flight. Children are naturally naturalists. They love to explore the natural world.
I found myself wanting at times to push him on. This was mainly because I knew of things I wanted to see just ahead, or because I was frankly getting tired of sitting in one spot while he played in pea gravel, letting it slip through his fingers. He was content to take it slowly. There was no point in seeing something new when he did not yet fully understand what was before him. My family likely felt the same way when they went bird watching with me a few days later. They don’t have the patience I do for looking at and studying a single, far-off, nondescript brown bird until I am sure of the identification. My son and I are a lot alike.
Life is always pushing us ahead. How often do we have time to slow down to a natural pace and study things? How often do we sit in a field of flowers as long as we wish or brush leaves against our skin just to see what they feel like? How many petals are on a daisy? What color is the iris of a garter snake? There is so much to absorb around us, yet we are given by others—and we give ourselves—so little time.
We all, I hope, interpret a resource we love. We make it part of ourselves and we want visitors to understand it on a deep, universal level. In order to be successful, we need to be sure we provide a space where people can slow down, shed the constraints and restraints that push them ever onward, while personally holding back their deep, childlike desire to simply understand. At the center where I work, participants in programs arrive by car and bus, but all must come down our driveway. They pull off the paved road and onto a long, curving, crushed-limestone driveway lined with paper birch. A small speed limit sign hints that they should slow down; it usually goes unnoticed, but the unpaved driveway forces them to slow down. Take the corner too fast and the loose gravel will gently glide you off the road. They slow down.
They park, walk down a long path to the building, and we hope that by the time they enter our doors, they have slowed down to at least a walk. You must go on a walk through the woods to come into the building. Our site is structured to slow people down to a natural human pace.
So, too, in programs can we create a space where people can slow down and simply be in nature. We’re creating emotional bookmarks for participants and remembering the scientific name Ardea herodias is not nearly as important as remembering the feeling of awe as you hide in the tall lakeside grasses watching a great blue heron silently hunt for food.
It is bitter cold out as I write this. Spring is trying to come, but cold, arctic air masses keep finding their way out of Canada. What I remember, though, on days like today was a moment I created last summer on a beautiful day. I had all the kids in my summer camp lie back in the prairie and watch the little white cumulous clouds float past the impossibly blue sky of summer. We all let the image sink in and we soaked up the heat of the sun so that we could remember this moment in the cold of the winter.
Back in Arizona, I let my son play in the gravel and pick up leaves as long as he was content. He was building emotional bookmarks that will serve him well.
Kirk Mona is the outreach coordinator for the Lee and Rose Warner Nature Center in Marine on St. Croix, Minnesota. He has been an NAI member since 1996. Kirk welcomes your comments at kmona@smm.org.
