Witnessing Nature

Today my oldest son will graduate from high school, if the weather cooperates. Dark clouds block the sun and drift past my window. For the last few weeks, I have been living in one of those movie collages: memories, photos, and a list of songs play in a continuous loop in my mind.

I often joke that I should write a book about the naturalist who raised three boys, each with their own aversion to the natural world - one would have a meltdown if his hands were dirty, the other couldn't bear the heat, and the third was terrified of sneak attacks from venomous creatures, especially black widows. I wonder what Richard Louv would think.

Raising children is an eye-opening experience. We learn about ourselves and what it means to be human on a deeper level. Although I had degrees and teaching experiences, motherhood enabled me to witness that relationship with the natural world grow day by day.

Over the years, I immersed my children in nature experiences. We started in the backyard with sensory gardens (a.k.a smelly gardens), toad houses, and butterfly habitat. The boys dug holes and collected roly-poly bugs. I planted window gardens, so even when we were inside, we could see lizards perched on leaves and bumble bees covered in pollen. We kept nature journals. We visited nature centers, and the boys attended nature camps. We hiked. During our summers in Maine, I showed them how to hunt for crabs beneath the seaweed and how to find starfish hidden in rocky crevices.

But in the end, given the option, they always hurried inside.

My sons preferred puzzles, LEGOS, board games, and the dreaded screens. As they grew they liked to tinker and create music. Now they are drawn to chemistry, physics, and math, not biology, like their parents. They have become their own people, as children always do.

But I know now that, despite our differences, something important grew from our time together in nature. Something so subtle, I almost missed it. There was the time a snake zipped across the driveway and the front door flew open. "Come and see Mom! Quick!" There was the time the hummingbird landed on a hibiscus flower by the kitchen window during dinner. "Look at George, Mom," a  reference to my grandfather who named all hummingbirds George. Then there was the time a busy teenager walked into the living room, stopped and stared out the window. "Look at the color of the clouds, Mom. It's beautiful."  I remember all the things I would have missed without them.

My sons stop to see the world around them. They share stories, each in their own way. And they know they are a part of something bigger. I couldn't ask for more.