The Squirrel

As an environmental educator, being outside with children is always a bit like stepping into the unknown. When I take groups of children outside, I generally have an idea of what I’d like to teach or what learning opportunities I’d like to provide. But with nature as a catalyst for learning, I never quite know where the path will lead. Nature, even in our urban ecosystem, is always changing, often unpredictable, and never disappointing. 

Much of my teaching time and students’ learning time these days takes place indoors. They are often immersed in technology and disconnected from nature. So when I have the opportunity to take children outside I am always reminded of why it is such important work.

My goals for outdoor work with children:

• children will make a connection with the natural world
• they will engage in physical challenges that help develop gross and fine motor skills and body confidence 
• they will engage in social emotional experiences with peers
• their wonder and curiosity will lead them to learn something more about ecosystems, animals, and plants
• children will direct their own learning and have fun

 

One day last week I took fourth graders outside to play in the fresh snow. I was hoping to find some interesting animal tracks so we could talk about animals that share our space. One student wondered if we might find bugs anywhere, or where they go when there’s snow on the ground. We talked about potential hiding places and decided to investigate the bark on a large boxelder tree. As a few students walked with me toward the tree, one student told me they’d seen a dead squirrel under that tree. What happened next is a beautiful example of emergent nature curriculum at its best. In the children’s words…

Oh, look! There’s a dead squirrel.

I wonder what happened.

Look, there’s blood under its head and on its neck.

(Students look around the area)

Maybe it fell out of the tree.

Maybe another squirrel fought with it.

Maybe a predator got it. A raptor.

We’re by the street. Maybe it got hit by a car.

There’s a piece of bread over here. Maybe it was poisoned.

Or maybe another squirrel tried to get the bread from it.

 

After discussing possible causes of death, the children turned their attention to other things they know about death – rituals surrounding burial and funerals.

 

We should bury it and have a funeral.

We can’t dig, the ground is frozen.

We can just cover it with snow and make a tombstone.

Yeah, then people won’t disturb it.

 

The children made a snow mound on top of the squirrel, found a piece of cardboard to make a tombstone, and wrote “RIP” in the snow on top of the mound.

 

We should play some music and say some words. Do you have music on your phone?

(I took out my phone and searched for funeral music. “Amazing Grace” began playing.)

Let’s say some things about the squirrel.

He was a troublemaker, always digging in trash cans.

He stole food and lit a forest fire.

Let’s pray.

We hope you go to squirrel heaven.

We are sorry you got hit by a car.

Rest in peace.

We will miss you.

The somber and curious mood somehow turned light and cheerful during the course of their ceremony. Children who were initially concerned and sad ended up smiling and laughing together. They gave each other hugs. They left the squirrel’s grave and went on to play in the snow.

 

As adults, we are so often afraid to expose children to death in nature or to talk about death at all with them. We rush them past dead animals. We tell them not to look or touch. We try to control their environments and keep them from experiencing sadness or hardship. But what if we take a different approach?

 

I didn’t avoid the topic of death with these children. I didn’t tell them about my spiritual beliefs or what I think happens after we die. I held space for them to consider an animal’s death, to process their feelings, to participate in rituals they created together for this squirrel, and to be a community of children in a way that is different from their classroom communities. I was a supportive presence while they talked about their ideas. I followed their lead. I connected with those children. 

 

So what do children learn when you take them outside? On that day, this group of children learned that death is a natural part of every living creature’s life cycle. They learned from each other potential causes of this squirrel’s death. They learned that we all have different ideas about death and funerals. They communicated their ideas respectfully and listened to each other. They worked together to bury the squirrel. They felt sadness and worked through that sadness. They laughed and they hugged. I got out of the way and let their learning unfold. 

Romeo and the Teenager

When my daughter was little, she looked up to me. She looked at me with those sparkling blue eyes and I saw curiosity and wonder, respect, and love. She's fifteen now and most of the looks I get make me wonder if I've suddenly sprouted antlers or a second head. 

Last night we went for a short hike to return a snail to its natural habitat (where we found it) after hosting it in a terrarium during the pandemic. Romeo, said snail, provided us with hours of entertainment and education. Did you know that snails love carrots and will leave an orange poop trail on the glass? Or that they sometimes pull themselves into their shells and seem dried up and dead, until one day they emerge and are sliding slowly across the glass and you are SO grateful you didn’t dump them out with the compost? This dormant state during hot, dry periods is called estivation. With the pandemic restrictions loosening and people getting back out into the world it kind of feels like we’ve all been estivating for months. I’m grateful I wasn’t thrown out with the compost, which is what my daughter would most likely do with me if she could.

Anyway, we took the snail back, to live its free and wild life. During our walk, as I’ve done her entire life, I shared some of my extensive knowledge about the plants and animals we encountered. She used to appreciate this. She used to ask questions and we’d have excited conversations about what we were seeing together. No more. Now it’s exasperated looks, one word retorts (and “word” is generous), or silence as she taps away at her phone. “You might be glad one day to know that you can identify and eat plantain and lamb’s quarters. Or that wood nettle is delicious after you cook it to remove the sting. Or that you can dig up burdock and eat the root or use it medicinally to lower blood sugar and treat colds and sore throats, among other ailments.” Well, she wasn’t glad, not today. She was annoyed. Even when I told her she might need this information after the zombie apocalypse or some other worse pandemic comes along. 

She DID, however, in her own sullen teenage way, manage to notice some pretty incredible things out in nature, even while complaining about being hot and itchy. I even saw her eyes light up and detected the hint of a smile here and there. She noticed a wasp on a railing. Then watched as it raised its wings and wondered if it was protecting something. Suddenly two more wasps appeared and went into a crevice where we decided there must be a nest. She noticed, and caught, tiny toadlets in the grass. She pointed out monarch butterflies, an egg on a milkweed leaf, a slug, dragonflies, and a scorpionfly. She noticed a muskrat in the water and watched as it swam ashore and ate reeds at the water’s edge. We crossed a trail and she was the first to see a doe and her two fawns in the golden light just after sunset.

I took pictures and tried to keep my comments, my joy, to myself because what’s the use in sharing it if it only annoys your teenager? For a little while I caught glimpses of the kid she used to be. I miss that kid.

From all outward appearances, my teenager hates me. Can’t stand the sight of me, the sound of my voice, my very existence. And that’s a hard thing for a mother to take. I know I’m not alone. I’ve had many women give me hugs or share kind words or look at me with genuine understanding and empathy. 

I was feeling pretty down as we returned Romeo, not because he was going home but because it felt like I was losing another piece of her childhood, another piece of my heart. She nestled him tenderly into a hole in a log, a spot she chose because it offered some protection and perhaps comfort. Is that what she’s looking for, I wonder? Is she pulling away from me, pushing me away from her, testing my love with all her might, somehow knowing that I will always be her true home, her place of comfort and protection? That’s what I choose to believe. That’s what Romeo taught me. Well, that and to always look for signs of life before giving up entirely.

"Frogs Are My Life!"

This morning I had the privilege of taking a small group of preschool-aged children for a nature hike. They were excited to show me all of their favorite places on the grounds of the nature center. We started out at a brisk pace, that energy and excitement barely contained. We had a destination in mind, but along the way there were SO many things to stop and examine.

Children are great collectors. We often find sticks, rocks, feathers, pinecones, and other random objects in pockets, bags, and the washing machine. They love to pick things up, carry them, show them to other people, and tuck them safely away in a pocket. On our hike this morning, the children showed me black cap raspberries, burdock, feathers, snails, slugs, and toads.

The toads were especially exciting. In a grassy path, lined with jewelweed and burdock on either side, we found dozens of small toads jumping in front of our feet. The children were quite adept at spotting and catching the tiny creatures. I have to admit that I get nervous when children catch animals. I am always worried about harm to a living being. It's a fine line to walk - balancing a child's desire to learn, and need to touch, with the well-being of a much smaller creature. They were incredibly gentle with the toads and wanted to take them all the way back to school to show their classmates. After a long discussion about what would be best for the toads, we decided to carry them just a short distance to one of their favorite places in the woods and release them there. They reasoned that the habitat was similar and they would be safer in the woods than back in the classroom. The toads, which they insisted on calling "frogs," fared well. They all made it to Tipi Hill, cradled gently in small palms. As the children opened their cupped hands and the toads jumped back out into the world, one child squealed with delight. She stretched both arms to the sky, looked up into the canopy of trees, and exclaimed, "Frogs are my life!"

Indeed, in that moment "frogs" were at the center of everyone's life. It was a wonderful reminder of the power of nature in the lives of children. And why we can't be afraid to let them touch, explore, question, and seek with limited interference. That morning the children experienced freedom, connectedness with their environment, the care of living creatures, patience, confidence, negotiation, the ethics of removing an animal from its habitat, and the sheer joy of discovery. And we only used two band-aids.

The good news for urban-dwellers is you don't need to be at a nature center or deep in the woods for children to have experiences like these. Let them explore the backyard, the schoolyard, a nearby park, an alley, a lawn, or even a sidewalk crack. They will find living creatures. And who knows, your child might joyfully exclaim, "Ants are my life!"

Some nature books in urban settings:
Hey Little Ant, by Phillip and Hannah Hoose
Ladybug Girl and Bumblebee Boy, by Jacky David
The Curious Garden, by Peter Brown