My children are dandelions. They are not sturdy, resilient standbys like tulips or delicate, like orchids.
My dandelion children are wild and bright, standing out in the manicured environments that society so often shoves us into.
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Warm weather in January stirs up a lot of ambiguous feelings in me. On one hand – it’s beautiful out! On the other – it’s probably because of climate change! (It’s also called climate chaos for a reason – the up and down unpredictability is part of it.) And back to the other hand – we should enjoy it while we can! In reality, it’s probably a combination of all three.
Bringing kids out in nature and modeling enjoying it is one of the best ways to build lots of emotional and physical skills as well as environmental awareness. You don’t need to get all apocalyptic, but it’s also a chance to draw attention to how it is unseasonably warm and how the climate affects it. You can get curious, asking your kids what they think we can do to help. (It’s very possible they’ve already discussed it in school.) We don’t want to put the whole burden on them though, so be sure to talk about what adults (including yourself) are doing, like Indigenous water protectors fighting oil pipelines or Black and Hispanic activists working to close coal and natural gas plants in their neighborhoods. And of course, all of the people working to build renewable energy!
If you want somewhere to start, check out the Family Climate Justice toolkit I created with Raising Luminaries.
(I originally wrote this post on New Years’ Day and posted it to social media then.)
I always want to look up in wonder when someone says “Look, the moon!” and teach my kids to do the same.
Even if you live in an area with a lot of light pollution, we almost all share the moon. Watching it shift through its waning and waxing cycles is a beautiful way to keep in tune with and respect the cycles of nature.
Taking time to notice and truly gaze at the “everyday” things in nature – from the moon to dandelions – is both something that kids are naturally good at and provides us adults joy in rough or busy times. Slowing down doesn’t mean coming to a halt – it can just mean finding time for small pauses. It means noticing the things we wouldn’t otherwise. It can teach us to be more sustainable to both ourselves and our wider world. The more we can look beyond our individual worries, the more we can care for and accept care from those around us.
Note: This is an essay about an adventure that happened to me far, far before I had kids.
A crying girl, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and a supermarket parking lot. Not exactly the elements for an epic summit. But having missed the turn-off for our hike, we were now on the wrong side of Lake George in upstate New York, eating the lunches we were supposed to be having on the peak. By the way, I was the crying girl.
“This is your fault!” I pouted to my then-boyfriend, Chris, even though I had the map. I curled up in the passenger’s seat of his Civic, my tears falling on my bread. “If you hadn’t been speeding…”
“It’s too late now. What do you want to do?” he sighed. He got out of the car and started pacing.
A small brown haired head with flecks of blond leans down. My son’s nose is almost touching a bright orange flower, its torn pedals sprouting from a huge green stem. In the middle of the flower, there’s a fuzzy yellow and black bumblebee butt sticking out. It has its whole face immersed in the flower, guzzling down nectar. My son watches it in wonder, occasionally speaking to it.
“Hi!” my older son chirps to people walking by on the sidewalk as he pedals by on his bike. A few minutes later, he yells to me about the injustice of how short the green is on this traffic light – we’re stopped at a red light *again* – and how we have to wait for it. Honestly, of all the things he could get angry about, it’s pretty harmless. Throughout the ride, my younger son chatters away sitting behind me, telling me all the observations he held in during class.
“Look, there’s a bat!” I exclaim, my finger moving as a dark silhouette flits across the sky. My younger son and I are sitting on the back steps of our deck, looking up into the darkening night sky.
“There’s another one!” he points out.
A quiet stream with gurgling water, a spattering of rocks along the bottom. My young child plays nearby, the water just high enough for him to splash in without worrying about him getting hurt. I sit on a rock, my baby nestled in my arms.
I opened my eyes to a prenatal yoga class full of other heavily pregnant women. I struggled to stand up from where I was snuggled into a nest of yoga pillows and blankets.
“Thank you for what you did for us, tree,” I sniffed, watching my kids hug the huge pine tree in our yard. They were probably getting sap on their shirts, but it didn’t matter. The tree was going to be gone soon. We each told it that we would miss it, calling out “Goodbye.”
