Some Things Never Change

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Photo: Peter Weiss

Summer. The beach. Sisters.

These photos were taken forty years apart. My sister and I at Barnegat in 1976, and my nieces at the same beach in 2016.

They could practically be the same girls.

Photo: Peter Weiss

Photo: Peter Weiss

Playing in the waves with your sister. Perhaps you didn’t spend much time together at other times. Perhaps your sister was the younger, irritating type. Or perhaps she was the older, bossy type. But you went to the beach, and there, with the waves rolling in, and the sand stretching on forever, you were kindred spirits. You laughed and played stupid games with the waves and sand. You collected shells together. You built sand castles.

And maybe you went back home and ignored one another, or maybe you yelled at each other, or maybe you enjoyed each other’s company at home, too. But the beach was a special bond. A place where your irritations with one another were set aside, and you were sisters—real sisters—braving the ocean together.

 

Creative Combinations

2016-07-08 13.14.04 smOne of the cool things about having teenaged children is their increasing ability to combine ideas and skills in new and exciting ways.

Last weekend, my daughter was weaving flax fronds. I noted she had the Fun with Flax book out, and assumed she was making one of the projects in that book.

Some time later, I saw her with a wide cylinder of woven flax and a stick. She was using the stick to spin and toss the flax cylinder into the air.

I thought the idea must have come from the book, but no–she’d used weaving techniques in the book to create a unique shape, then used new skills in plate spinning (learned in PE in their circus arts unit) to manipulate the woven shape at the end of a stick.

How awesome is that?

Playing with Fire

2016-06-25 11.56.06There is nothing better calculated to get my teenage son outside than the prospect of fire.

Most weekends, he spends the day indoors reading books or playing computer games. He’ll come out to help in the yard or garden if we ask him to, but as soon as he’s released, he’ll be back inside.

Tell him we’re going to burn off the brush pile, though, and he’s out the door like a shot, and will spend all day pottering around the fire—tossing sticks in, raking coals together, hosing down the grass around the fire to keep it from spreading.

What makes fire so compelling, especially for teenage boys?

Believe it or not, scientists have actually tried to answer this question. Researchers at the University of Alabama found that gazing at even a video of a fire reduced subjects’ blood pressure. The longer they watched the fire, the more relaxed they became. The researchers suggest that the multisensory aspect of a fire focuses our attention and reduces anxiety.

Whether that is simply an outcome of meditation associated with this sensory focus, or an evolutionary response to the social and physical security that a fire was to our ancestors is a matter of speculation.

Fire is, in fact, essential to humans. Our power-hungry brains need the extra nutrition provided by cooked food (about one-fifth of our calories are used by our brain). We can’t grow and develop properly on a raw diet, and human culture never would have evolved without it, so it stands to reason it would be important to us.

So, why are kids so interested in fire—more so than adults?

Researchers at UCLA have studied fire play among children in various cultures, and have concluded that the desire to master the control of fire is common among cultures. This makes sense from an evolutionary standpoint—we need fire to survive, so those able to control it historically did better and produced more children.

In westernised cultures, where open fires aren’t used on a daily basis, children’s interest in fire lasts longer than in cultures where fire is a daily necessity for cooking or heating. They remain fascinated by fire until they’ve learned to master it.

This doesn’t fully explain my teen—he mastered fire years ago, learning to light and maintain a fire in our log burner. But I do think there is an aspect of control that keeps us coming back to fire, especially when we’re young. Fire has incredible destructive power. To ignite that power, then hold it in check to achieve a goal (heating the house, cooking dinner, or disposing of brushwood), is a heady thing, particularly for teens who have so little control over their own lives.

All of which leads me to believe that it’s important for us to teach our kids to safely light and control fires. Research indicates they will play around with it until they learn—it’s an innate need. Better they learn safely than by burning down the house.

I also think that giving kids safe ways to exert control is important for their growing sense of accomplishment and self-worth. There is so much we can’t let them control—they can’t drive, they have to go to school, they can’t leave home—I remember all those restrictions eating away at me when I was a teen, eager to exert myself on the world.

So, yeah, we let our kids play with fire. It’s good for them.

Mud Run

2016-06-19 13.24.31 smCould there be anything better calculated to appeal to kids than a mud run?

Today’s certainly brought them out, despite the drizzly 10-degree weather.

The question is, why?

It can’t be for the muck in your eyes, nose and ears. There were plenty of kids spitting mud throughout the course, and wiping it from their eyes with filthy hands.

It can’t be for the chance to get hypothermia. Even after a 5k run, at least a third of the kids hit the finish line shivering.

It can’t be for the smell. The reek of swamp at the finish line was enough to make me take my photos with a zoom lens, rather than get too close.

It must be for the fun of doing something they’re not ‘supposed’ to do—get so thoroughly filthy they need to be hosed off, even before a shower. Add the silly costumes most of them wore, the requirement that they enter in teams, and a chocolate bar at the end, and it’s a winning combination.

For my part, I was happy to stand on the sidelines today in my hat, scarf and gloves. Maybe a summertime mud run, ending at the beach—that I could go for.

Throwback Thursday: Tramping the Abel Tasman

100_1198 smThe Abel Tasman was our first Great Walk as a family. It was also our first family tramp longer than two nights—the kids were still at the stage where they sometimes needed a prod to get to the top of a hill (or more accurately, the promise of chocolate at the top).

The Abel Tasman was the perfect trip—long enough to give the kids a ‘real’ adventure, and easy enough that they didn’t struggle with it. The distances between huts were short enough that the kids could spend hours playing on the beaches along the way and still get to the hut by mid-afternoon.

I’ve heard that the track is miserable in bad weather—all those exposed beaches can’t be fun in the wind and rain—but we were blessed with perfect sunny days. Though it was April, the weather was warm enough for lots of swimming along the way, and the whole experience felt more like a frolic than a tramp.

For me, the best part about the trip was gaining a greater appreciation for tides. The surges of water, so different from the normal waves, that fill the estuaries, bringing schools of fish and rays with them. The rippled and exposed mud flats of low tide. The twice-daily rhythm of inundation and exposure of the coast.

It wasn’t a wilderness experience—the huts were filled to capacity, and boats stopped at most of the beaches—but it was a beautiful chance to explore a rich and dynamic coastline.

 

Racing Ahead

100_3459 smI think the best feeling as a parent is to see your children way out ahead of you.

Not just on the trail, though that’s good, too, because it means they’re having fun doing something we all enjoy.

Metaphorically, too, it’s great to see them in the distance.

It means they are developing their own interests, taking the initiative to grow in ways I can’t help them, taking risks.

It means they’re growing up.

I love the fact my son knows more about bridge engineering than I do.

I delight in the fact my daughter races around the yard on a unicycle (nothing I ever learned).

I’m thrilled that they both come to me to say they’ve arranged to participate in various extracurricular activities—on their own initiative, and having gotten all the details I need to make sure they are at the right place at the right time.

Having the kids running out ahead makes my life a scramble at times (juggling schedules to make sure everyone gets where they need to go, and can do what they want to do), but it also makes my life easy. The kids are taking control of their own lives and learning. That’s what we’ve raised them to do, and it’s a joy to watch.

Crazy Corner Farm

2016-04-17 11.13.55 sm“So, what do you grow here at Crazy Corner Farm, eh?” asked the man who delivered 500 bricks earlier this week.

I laughed.

“Well, it’s basically a subsistence farm. A little milk and cheese. A lot of vegetables.”

It was a good enough answer, and appropriate to the situation. But other things came to mind.

What do we grow here at Crazy Corner Farm?

A lifestyle. A lifestyle of hard work rewarded by the fruits and vegetables of our labour.

Kids. Kids who know where their food comes from. Kids who understand the work that goes into a simple block of cheese. Kids who can tell a bee from a syrphid fly, use a machete and an axe safely, and design and plant a garden.

Creativity. Creativity in food, garden, crafts, DIY problem-solving, circus arts…everything. By providing the space, materials, and encouragement to let it flourish.

Stories. Or, as my husband said it, “Organic hand-picked words available in convenient poem, economic story, and family-size novel packs.”

So, we grow a lot here on our tiny farm. More than you might guess at first glance.

Daylight Savings Cat

None the worse for wear.

None the worse for wear.

The cat has been particularly annoying lately. Usually he meows at my bedroom window around five am to be let in.

But when we came off daylight savings time last week, he refused to change his schedule. And out of spite, he even started meowing earlier, which means he’s been waking me up before four am for a week.

Ignoring him only makes it worse. If I don’t get up and start my day when the cat calls, he hurls himself at the front door until I do.

I can ignore a meowing cat, and even fall back asleep if I try. I can’t ignore seven kilos of fury rattling the front door for an hour.

So this morning when my eyes opened at 4.30 am I was surprised it was so late. All was quiet, and for ten minutes I lay blissfully thinking the cat had finally gotten the message about daylight savings time. I was just drifting back to sleep when I remembered…

About 4.30 pm yesterday, I was balanced on the top of a ladder, hanging a sack of pumpkins on a rafter in the shed. The cat was slinking around in the shed, and the wind blew the door shut. I remember seeing his tail slip in, just before the bang.

I never let him out.

Darn cat. Even locked in a shed forty metres from the house, he was able to get me out of bed early.

Because, once you realise your daughter’s cat has been locked in a shed for twelve hours, you can’t lounge around in bed enjoying the quiet.

Unicycle

2016-04-08 15.50.22 smThe girl was saving up her money.

I should have known she was aiming for something like this. Metre-and-a-half high stilts weren’t enough, nor juggling balls, nor devil’s stick, nor diabolo, nor feats of strength and flexibility.

It arrived in the mail today, and in spite of a looming piano recital, she assembled it after school and spent her potential practice time repeatedly throwing herself off the seat and onto her backside, laughing the whole time.

She’s clearly preparing for the day she’ll run away to the circus.

If she keeps it up, she’ll be able to start her own one-person circus.

Step on a Hedgehog

2016-01-26 18.07.41 smMy daughter came to me frustrated yesterday evening.

“What is fear?”

Knowing she had just been out in the dark, I asked her if she was frustrated because she was afraid of the dark.

“No, I’ve gotten over my fear of the dark. Now I’m afraid of hedgehogs.”

“Ah. You’re afraid of stepping on them in the dark.”

She nodded.

“Well, you learned that from your father, who worries about stepping on hedgehogs in the dark. But I’ve actually stepped on hedgehogs in the dark.” I shrugged. “It’s not so bad—for me or for the hedgie. You tend to feel it before you put all your weight on it, and you pull back before you hurt it.”

She looked relieved.

It got me thinking about the nature of fear, how easily it is taught, and how difficult it can be to overcome.

Teaching children about insects, I see fear all the time. The fear that another living thing might harm us (and sometimes the fear that we might harm another living thing). Much of my teaching is aimed at overcoming those fears.

And in saying ‘overcoming,’ I don’t mean eliminating those fears—that’s the work of decades, not of an hour.

I know that, because I experience those fears, myself—they are deeply rooted in our culture, and I was taught them just like everyone else was. But I have confidence in spite of the fear. Part of that comes from knowing that the worst that can happen is really not all that bad (for most things). I have been bitten, clawed, and stung by songbirds, parrots, raptors, rabbits, rodents, snakes and all manner of insects and spiders, and have survived it all. More importantly, I’ve learned that if I understand the animal and move with confidence and care, I am unlikely to be hurt (or to hurt the animal).

So I don’t try to make children unafraid of insects; instead, I teach them how to move with confidence and care, even if they don’t feel the confidence yet. I teach them how to hold an insect safely. If I think they’re ready for it, I give them an insect that is likely to bite them—a tiny nip they might actually feel, if they’re paying attention. They might cry out, “Oh! It bit me!” They might fling the insect off their hand. But chances are good, they’ll pick it up again, because the worst has happened, and it wasn’t so bad. The act of taking the risk once makes it easier to do it again. Confidence grows. The fear may still be there, but it is diminished by understanding and experience.

I hope my daughter does step on a hedgehog in the dark. She will stumble in her effort to not squash it. She’ll cry out in surprise, and then laugh as the offended hedgehog lumbers away. When she goes out in the dark next, she’ll walk with more confidence. And because the fear will probably still be there, she’ll feel incredibly brave in doing so.