When one of my kids was around four years old, I was summoned to his room. With just the right amount of panic for a young child whose play space had been invaded by an unwelcome guest, he pointed at his ceiling and urgently requested the situation be remedied. A quick swipe with a tissue and flush of the toilet later, a daddy longlegs was dispatched into the waste water system, and all was well once again in his world.
Later that night after he was in bed, I was summoned to his room again. Unable to sleep, he was pacing in circles on top of his bed, near the point of despair. When he’d gathered himself well enough to explain, he asked, with no small measure of accusation, why I was not more gentle with nature. He loudly mourned the demise of the innocent arachnid, reenacting an arm and a leg at a time the desperate movements of each of the creature’s eight appendages as it swirled in the water before plunging to its now apparent death.
I discovered, a few hours too late, that my son wanted the spider out of his room, but not necessarily out of the world. This, with my heartfelt apologies to some of you (and my son), is not the way I normally interact with insects lacking the good sense not to take up residence in my home. I rarely trouble over insects outside (unless they happen to be mosquitoes seeking nourishment from my personal supply), but if they come inside, I dispatch them. I don’t capture them and release them outdoors to live another day. (Those of you who do have my undying respect.)
My childhood was spent mostly in an urban area. When we went sledding in the winter, if we got just the right momentum under our toboggans, we could whiz down the hill all the way to the chain link fence that separated this little wooded oasis down the street from my house in the middle of the city from the also whizzing-by traffic on Interstate 35W. Clearly, it’s not as though I grew up in a pristine national forest. Even so, I spent a lot of time in those woods, climbing trees and building forts. I watched cartoons in which w’ascally w’abbits were hunted on a daily basis, in which birds were swallowed up by cats, feathers and all, and mice ran free (only because they were chased) throughout the house.
That night with my son I recognized we were growing up in different worlds. He was not watching w’ascally w’abbits escape the hunter. He was watching cartoons (and being taught in classrooms) that had messages embedded encouraging him to care for the planet. To recycle. To watch his water usage. To be gentle with nature: Yes, apparently, to let the spider in your bedroom go on living.
His world was a small, rural community. There was no woods nearby, but when he was older, he’d be able to freely ride his bike to the library, to the park, to anywhere he wanted. Even so, when he and his friend wanted to create a secret hideout where they could make their plans for a little business venture (or world domination), they set themselves up not in some field or tree grove, but in the small storeroom under our basement steps.
In Last Child in the Woods, Richard Louv discusses the phenomena of “ecophobia.” He notes that David Sobel, co-director of the Center for Place-based Education at Antioch New England Graduate School, defines ecophobia as a fear of nature, while the more familiar meaning is a fear of home, pointing out that both are true. He relays Sobel’s idea that as children are being taught that they can help preserve the planet by recycling, they will, in theory, grow up with a consciousness of the need to steward the earth and her resources well. Or, Sobel, notes, they could go the other way. “If we fill our classrooms with environmental abuse, we may be engendering a subtle form of dissociation. In our zest for making them aware of and responsible for the world’s problems, we cut our children off from their roots.” The result, Louv goes on to explain, is that “lacking direct experience with nature, children begin to associate it with fear and apocalypse, not joy and wonder.”
This way of thinking about teaching kids to love and care for nature is not the only counter-intuitive idea Louv discusses in this week’s reading related to a fear of the outdoors. He also considers that despite the growth in interest in physical fitness and organized sports activities, we’re still “raising a generation of physical weaklings.” According to the President’s Council on Physical Fitness and Sports, “40 percent of boys and 70 percent of girls ages six to seventeen can’t manage more than one pull-up; and 40 percent show early signs of heart and circulation problems.” Our physical activity largely takes place indoors or within the confines of athletic playing fields, with time to play freely in nature next to none. He sees one cause (and also effect) is the growing fear of the outdoors itself, from human predators and wildlife alike. “Fear,” Louv says, “is the most potent force that prevents parents from allowing their children the freedom they themselves enjoyed when they were young. Fear is the emotion that separates a developing child from the full, essential benefits of nature. Fear of traffic, of crime, of stranger-danger — and of nature itself.”
Louv goes on to wonder if there aren’t greater dangers inside our homes, not least from the indoor air quality. “So where is the greatest danger?” he asks. “Outdoors, in the woods and fields? Or on the couch in front of the TV? A blanket wrapped too tightly has its own consequences. One is that we may end up teaching our children, in the same breath, that life is too risky but also not real — that there is a medical (or if that fails, a legal) remedy for every mistake.”
What I can assure you, however, is that there is neither medical nor legal remedy that will soothe the pain of having your parent usher an innocent spider into its afterlife. But when nature and home come together in that special eight-legged way, my own sort of ecophobia takes over and I’ll wrap that blanket awfully tight.
***
We’re reading Last Child in the Woods together this month. Whether you’re reading along with us or just picking up the highlights, share your thoughts on this week’s reading and the question of relationship with nature in the comments. Have a favorite quote or excerpt? Let us know, and read with us again in the coming week as we conclude with Parts V, VI and VII.
Reading Schedule:
Announcement Post
May 17: Introduction, Parts I & II
May 24: Parts III & IV
May 31: Parts V, VI & VII
Photo by 白士 李, Creative Commons license via Flickr. Post by LW Lindquist.
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Megan Willome says
Megan Willome. Nice to meet you. 🙂
SPIDER WHISPERER
When we saw the spider sitting
above the doorframe, I thought it was harmless
but you knew it had to be harm-full
because it was a spider
only I knew better because I’ve known lots of spiders
and this one kind of looked like Charlotte
so I got the broom
easied it to the floor and gently
coaxed it down the hall
whispering,
this way, baby, c’mon, baby, almost there
until the spider—dazed—walked out the front door
into the dark dirt
and later
when I looked up its picture on the almighty internet
it was venomous
after all.
Will Willingham says
Love that poem, Megan. 🙂 I must admit, I don’t worry about the poison so much. I’m actually not even much afraid of them. It’s more the startle-factor when they show up unexpectedly. And I don’t prefer to be climbed upon in my sleep. 😉
Megan Willome says
Well, yes, I get that.
I think, for me, it’s years of summer camp. We had cabins, but there were lots of critters–daddy long legs in the shower, always check your bunk for scorpions, once saw a brown recluse spider on a trail.
One of the fun things about spending almost every summer vacation in Estes Park, Colorado, with our kids was the wildlife. Lots of bears, different birds than we have in Texas, elk. I grew up going to the coast, which meant jellyfish, especially Portuguese man o’war (man o’ wars? mans o’ war?).
Will Willingham says
Okay, while I do flinch a bit at the idea of scorpions and brown recluse spiders (I’m a northerner, after all), I have to say spiders in the shower are the absolute worst.
Rick Maxson says
Teaching children stewardship by “preaching” recycling and any of the other ways to preserve the resources and beauty of the earth is putting the cart before the horse.
Children have a natural capacity to love, it’s self preservation and can be directed to preservation beyond self. We don’t harm what we truly love, not intentionally. And we react when we see what we love harmed by others.
True respect and love of nature begins with early exposure, guidance, and examples of how we are not apart from the woods. Love of nature informs us, as love informs us elsewhere. The venom, teeth, claws, stealth, and watchfulness of wild creatures are not directed toward us. They are protective. Caution in our advances is a part of love. Caution preempts fear. It is the bearer of respect. Caution preserves—it is creative, even within its wildness, even within destruction. Megan’s examples exemplify caution.
Naming is essential. What makes an oak aside from acorns? What bark identifies a Sycamore? Which trees leave first in Spring and lose leaves first in Fall? What are the blues, yellows, reds, and whites appearing in the sunlight and shade? Why does the cattle farmer teach their children not to name? We associate with names. WE are named. Naming intends love.
My wife and I just bought a house in Canyon Lake, Texas. We will move sometime this summer. The people who lived there before us fed the wild deer, foxes, and turkeys, and watered them. We were told “everyone” fed the wild animals. The folks down the street fed them peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and rang a bell when they were ready. The deer would bolt for the P&J from whatever feeding back yard they were in.
We will be building a fence, not because we don’t love the wildlife, but because we do. Deer have no business eating P&J sandwiches.
Properly teaching children to love the wild carries secrets to be revealed, as they grow, about many other things in the world they will come to know. Above all it carries a place for love to grow.
L.L. Barkat says
This:
“We don’t harm what we truly love, not intentionally. And we react when we see what we love harmed by others.”
And this:
“Caution in our advances is a part of love. Caution preempts fear. It is the bearer of respect.”
Sometimes I wonder if our relationships to people could be deepened by the kind of relationship with nature you uncover here. And maybe vice versa.
And proximity is important, as you note. It is so, so hard to love from afar—requiring feats of imagination few of us have. Even that—loving from afar—would begin from some kind of close-in experience that first taught us.
Rick Maxson says
“And proximity is important, as you note. It is so, so hard to love from afar—requiring feats of imagination few of us have. Even that—loving from afar—would begin from some kind of close-in experience that first taught us.”
There has always seemed to be for me a place to go to find some proximity. Urban life is not something I have not experienced. In Columbus, growing up, there were small fields that provided proximity. In an LA garage apartment I had the branches of a neighbor’s lemon tree that hung over my small 4′ x 4′ back porch. In Durham, at the end of my street, stood a patch of vietnamese bamboo, where I would sit and listen to the large stalks bump and rub each other in a deep harmony difficult to describe; it transported me into something immensely larger and I was there happily lost for awhile.
Will Willingham says
Rick, I love what you’re saying here. Do we have to be taught to care for what we love? Or does love take care of that for us? Perhaps if kids’ love for nature was the focus, such care could be cultivated without instilling the fear.
Rick Maxson says
Love is not afraid.
pic.twitter.com/4pYYCzgMhZ
Bethany R. says
I enjoyed this post, thanks for this. I haven’t done all the reading, but I got a chance to read Chapter 13 tonight and appreciated this:
“‘Your job isn’t to hit them with another Fine Educational Opportunity, but to turn them on to what a neat world we live in,’ writes Deborah Churchman…”
I can get a bit goal-oriented/structured with approaching and scheduling play and accidentally turn it into something on my to-do list, rather than just enjoying it. (It’s a good thing I’m taking a workshop to help me with this. 😉 )
Of course it’s good to have some general parameters to keep a balance within family schedules, but it’s also nice to read an admonishment to loosen up expectations a little bit, and just simply go outside and express what you’re drawn to. The kids pick up on what tickles you.
Lately, I’ve been going back to my roots and enjoying cloud-watching. It was one of my earliest happy memories as a child, and it’s been a joy. I lay flat on my back (on a blanket and pillow) in my backyard, and just take in the grand show to the occasional low-tones of my windchimes. It’s incredibly soothing and surprisingly comforting.
I invited my little daughter to join me, and she enjoyed it too (although she sat up and started reading a book next to me after a couple minutes—but I’m not going to complain about that—#literacybeginswithlove). 😉