Seasons

The seasons speak to me. It is in observing the seasons that I become more aware of God and myself and the intertwining of the two.

The other day, I visited a trail near my house. It’s a popular trail that I have primarily visited in the winter. As I headed up the trail, I noticed the blooming flowers and the fresh green of the trees and the singing birds.

And I got to this section of the trail that, in winter, is intimidating. It’s at a section that gets direct sunlight, melting the top layer of snow during the day. But quickly refreezing overnight. The result is an icy, treacherous section of trail. I typically bushwhack my way around to a place where I can gently slide down, a few feet at a time (for whatever reason, I always go counter-clockwise and set myself up for a slide down the ice, rather than a climb up it).

But in the summer…with no snow to melt and no melted snow to refreeze, this section wasn’t a concern. I scrambled up and over the grippy rocks without any concern. No spikes, poles, or helmet necessary.

And it made me consider how each season of life comes at us with different expectations and different requirements. I prepare for a hike in the summer differently than I prepare for a hike in the winter…or even a hike in the spring or fall! Each season requires different gear and a different sort of preparation.

Can life be like that, too?

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven. Ecclesiastes 3:1

Signs of Spring

It’s the first day of spring. A joyful, hopeful day that encourages us to step outside and stretch our creaky bones. A day that reminds us that new is right around the corner. New growth, new creepy crawl friends, new adventures, new recipes!

For the past year, the changing seasons have struck me with a little more oomph. When I moved to Vermont, there were so many hopes and dreams and plans. I wanted to find “my people” and I wanted to climb all of the mountains in Vermont, New Hampshire and New York and I wanted to spend time in Maine and I wanted to take naps outside and I wanted to bake new things and I wanted to grow as a person and as a teacher and I wanted to live a life full of love and joy and peace. And I’ve done some of that over the past 14 months…

But there are moments when I am consumed by all that has been lost over the past year. Lost opportunities, lost relationships, lost celebrations, lost lessons, lost books (the local library calls me once a month), lost lives, lost laughter.

I start to lose myself comparing the year that I wanted with the year that I had. I lose myself trying to make up the lost time by cramming a dozen different things into a weekend like studying for a Praxis while planning parent-teacher conferences and writing a grant and feeding myself and trying to stay active and burning out on snowshoeing and finding missing library books and getting jealous of people who are already vaccinated (VT was slow to make teachers eligible)…

Then I remember that spring is here. My tiny human friends have been noticing signs of spring for a couple of weeks now and we’ve begun making watercolor paintings to show off what we’ve observed. The snow is melting to reveal the strong branches of trees and little fresh sprouts of green. The birds are making themselves known and squirrels are darting around our favorite play spaces. There are puddles to splash through and mud for making pies.

The arrival of spring doesn’t mean that I automatically forget to feel sad about the things that went awry over the past year. It doesn’t mean that I find joy in all of the chaos and craziness and loss. Instead, it helps me look forward to all of the new joy and adventures that are ahead.

P.S. Winter wasn’t miserable. I’m not miserable. I’m just feeling the weight of melty snow, a year of a pandemic, the impending doom of a Praxis test, and the emotional recoil from parent-teacher conferences (all of my students and parents are lovely…but talking to adults is hard work).

A Year of Being Still

One year ago, I rolled into Vermont. I was exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. The world had opened up to me in a new and exciting way. A new state, new trails, new coffee shops, new breweries, new job, new people…all of mine for the exploring. And not just one state! Access to New Hampshire and Maine and New York trails…wild caught fish from the coast, wood fired ovens for baking pies, blueberries to be picked, Canada to explore…

For ten weeks, it was all of that. Trails, breweries, coffee shops, kiddos, people…Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine…dreams of skiing and ice fishing…making plans for “letter of the week” with preschoolers and starting nature journals. Dreaming with friends about summer adventures to Acadia.

And then everything changed. You know what I’m talking about.

This was not the year that I planned. This was not the year that any of us planned. [But you know all of this part…The moms who imagined a kid’s first day of kindergarten. The college seniors who planned the perfect graduation party. The high school seniors who had been dreaming of prom for ages. People who had jobs suddenly didn’t have them. Neighbors who were friendly suddenly couldn’t be on the sidewalk together.

There were signs about social distancing in grocery stores and libraries and on trails. Masks and hand sanitizer in my car and my pockets. Dry, cracked skin from washing my hands too much in the heat and humidity of summer. Couldn’t go out to make friends, so settled for the cats that lived in the house with me and avoided contact with a crazy roommate as much as possible.

My relatively comfortable (if “new”) boat was rocked, like everyone else. But I am quick to realize just how minor my rocking was…and just how comfortable my bubble has been (I’ve struggled to be okay with that comfort…Nashville – I love you and want to hug every last one of you). I remained employed. I stayed connected with vital members of my community (in Tennessee and North Carolina and Pennsylvania). I had access to trails that were new and exciting. I was able to leave the crazy roommate and settle into my own space with my own cat.

We all thought it would be over by the beginning of summer…well, by the end of summer…by fall…by the holidays? It’s still not “over,” but I’m closing the chapter on this first year. And, in my typical fashion, I reflect on a closing chapter by the trails I took.]

A year ago, I thought I would have hiked two dozen different 4000 footers by this time. Instead, I hiked five of them over and over and over and over again – winter, spring, summer and fall. Camel’s Hump, Abraham, Ellen, Mansfield, Killington. With each ascent, I noticed something different about the trail and about the summit. There was a new plant to appreciate or a new rock revealed. Light reflected through the trees differently than it reflected off of snow and ice. There were bunny tracks left in the snow instead of chipmunk scampering through the trees. The birds’ wings rustled differently through fresh green leaves than through the crisp leaves of fall.

But it wasn’t just a change in nature that caught my eye. I was changing. With each trip up to a familiar summit, I found myself anticipating something. The rise and fall of the trail, branches forming an archway at a certain point in the trail, a hollowed out trail perfect for goofy pictures, the perfect sitting rock at a summit…I developed a level of familiarity with these trails that I haven’t had before. I’ve always been focused on moving on to something new. That’s why I hit all 56 state parks in Tennessee in a year…I didn’t want to do the same thing over and over. But this year has taught me the value in repetition, in taking the time to know something well.

Please don’t misunderstand – I will not be settling down to hike only the trails in Vermont for the rest of my life. No, no.

But, I will have more willingness to be content in stillness…enjoying the space and the community around me, celebrating, mourning, immersing. Stepping away from the chaos of the world to a favorite spot in the woods. Finding comfort in familiarity. And savoring quiet moments outside with my cat (even though he refuses to enjoy the snow).

Cat or tiny human?

Having a cat. Teaching tiny humans. You might think these are two VERY different experiences. But they’re not all that different. To demonstrate, I present to you a game of “Guess the audience – cat or tiny human?”

Please don’t bite my elbow.
It’s time to rest, not time to play.
Do you have everything you need to go outside?
If you want to talk, please come over here. I’m not going to talk to you if you’re yelling.
Why did you lick my elbow?
I know you always want food, but it’s not time.
I didn’t like that very much.
You can be all done.
Please don’t touch my feet. We’re about to eat.
Be gentle with the books.
You have to wear your coat. It’s cold outside.
We can’t do that right now. But here are your choices…

To continue the very necessary amusement of this seasons, I offer you a selection of my favorite Sylvan photos from the past few months.

And then there was light

The world seems a little dark right now.

Literally and figuratively.

The Winter Solstice is on December 21st. It is the shortest day of the year, meaning that it has the least amount of light and the most darkness.

And then, there’s just a lot going on in the world right now. Between election kerfuffles and protests and a pandemic and…everything else. It’s a lot of hurt. And hate.

Like I said, the world seems a little dark right now.

That’s going to change, though. After the Winter Solstice, the days will gradually get longer. The light will grow. It will get stronger. And before we know it, the sun will stream through our windows to wake us up in the morning and we’ll bask in the light long into the night. Darkness won’t seem so strong or powerful or scary.

I don’t know how the rest of the world will respond. There’s no promise that change in sunlight will get rid of hurt or hate. In fact, it probably won’t have much of an effect.

But if we focus on the permeating darkness of the world, then we’ll miss the light that is being revealed through nature. We’ll miss the kindness that this season brings out in our neighbors. We’ll miss laughter over snowflakes and we’ll miss the spark of joy in a child’s eyes as they stare at twinkling icicle lights. We’ll miss the anticipation that comes with opening gifts and giving gifts…and the hope that comes with knowing that something new is ahead.

This darkness has been dark. But it can’t last forever.

The light shines out of the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. John 1:5

Normal

I’m stuck between a place where life feels very normal…and at the same time, life feels like some sort of alternate reality.

The normal moments are when I watch kids climb trees or cuddle my cat or look out over frosty trees from a summit. Catching up with friends in faraway places and trying new recipes. Coming home to find that there’s not one, but two pencils stuffed into my messy bun. Reading books that have been on my list for far too long and talking myself out of buying a pint of ice cream at the grocery store (maybe). Reading a silly book to students or teaching them how to make pie…

But then I glance up and see masked faces. Or I have a Zoom meeting with a parent and chuckle to myself because “that’s” what they look like! I nod at strangers on trails while hanging onto a tree at the edge of a cliff, trying to give them space and take some of my own. Exchanging stories about Mo Willems with the cashier at the grocery store because I have a pigeon mask. Having the hostess at a restaurant take my temperature before seating me.

The masks and the distance have become normal…but not in a way that I can accept as reality. But this is the reality where we exist right now.

So I will continue baking and hiking and teaching and reading and cuddling my cat. I will savor all of the moments that feel normal…and be grateful that I have those.

Change

It’s a beautiful time in the northeast.

Cool mornings, warm days. Flannel and fleece are acceptable articles of clothing…but sandals are also acceptable at times. All-day hikes are less brutal and summits give you hints of color. The colors are growing and expanding. The change of the season is happening right before our eyes. And I’m trying to make the change slow down. I want to appreciate the leaves a little more. And savor the mid-day warmth and evening chill.

As much as I’m trying to hold on to this change, I know that I can’t make time stand still here. We’ll get to the point when the trees are bare and every day chills me to my bone. Snow covers the ground and my drive to work, instead of being an artist’s classic rendition of fall, is going to leave me with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel with the potential to slip or slide or get stuck.

But in the midst of that season, I’ll be motivated to stay inside and coax Otis (my sourdough starter) back into a happy place. I’ll play with pie dough in more ways than last year. I’ll make soups and soups and soups. I’ll try skiing or snowboarding. And I’ll snowshoe to the top of mountains that I’ve celebrated throughout the summer. I’ll admire the glistening of snow and ice as it clings to tree branches. And I’ll stop – mid hike – to appreciate the depths of the silence that you find in the woods on a snowy day.

This change in seasons reminds me that life works in seasons…and with each beautiful change we also see challenges. Things that worry us or make us sad. There are experiences we miss from the last season and hopes and dreams for the next. But it’s essential, if we’re to continue savoring life, to find ways to enjoy wherever we are in this moment.

Sloooooow down

Mary Elizabeth, it’s a SNAIL. Come look at the SNAIL!!!

OH MY GOSH. I found a SLUG. You have to come look. Come loooook!

Come see come see, Mary Elizabeth! It’s a SLUG. NO – there’s another one. There are SO MANY SLUGS!!!

I found a SNAIL I found a SNAIL I found a SNAIL!!!

I hear these phrases. Every. Single Day.

Multiple times.

A while back, my preschool friends got really interested in slugs and snails. We learned that they like to eat leaves and they move using their one strong foot and slime. They’re called gastropods (meaning “stomach foot”) and they like damp weather. Also, they can drown.

The “learning” that surrounds slugs and snails might have ended…but we still have a tank of snails in our classroom and we still shout and scream about them every day. I could easily get annoyed by this. It happens so frequently…students in other classes have begun noticing and pointing out snails/slugs.

And I love it. There’s something magical about appreciating your surroundings. In order to really appreciate things, you have to slooow down. On one walk this week, we only saw a few slugs and snails. We realized that we had been moving too fast!

It’s easy to get into a rhythm and just let life, trails, slugs and snails pass you by. But I don’t want to be the person that’s too busy to notice all of the details…

I want to be the person that watches a butterfly sip pollen from some pink flowers and wonder if it will fly to the white flowers next.

I want to help half a dozen baby newts cross a busy trail on my way up to a summit.

I want to watch the horns on a slug bounce in and out as it senses its’ way up a tree, down a limb and across a leaf.

I want to wonder where the inchworm is going in such a hurry and whether or not it’s hungry.

I want to smell the change in elevation and notice the sounds that birds make in different seasons.

And I want to savor this summer. Despite the chaos and the unknowns and all of the challenges…the lessons you learn in the midst of that are always worth savoring.

One Year Ago

…I drove out of Nashville. And I camped in North Carolina.

Then I visited a friend and had breakfast. Then I kept driving till I found the ocean.

And I splashed in the water and read on the beach. And I practiced being still. And I wasn’t completely sure what came next.

I drove to New York and disappeared in the Catskills for a few days. I emerged covered in bug bites (one was particularly concerning), but completely taken in by the mountains I found that were so different from the mountains that I knew.

And I kept driving.

I drove to Maine where I learned about grains and bread and natural leavening agents. For the first (and only) time in my life, I was surrounded by people who nerded out about baking more than I did. And it was magical.

I lost myself in Maine…in the food and drinks and lighthouses of Portland…in the mountains of Acadia…in the blueberries. I didn’t know what came next.

I made some weird choices and eventually found myself in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. I lived in a little cabin with other humans and spent most waking hours with other humans. But on the weekends, I found myself in those mountains and I was, again, completely taken in by mountains that were different from all of the mountains I had ever known.

For ten weeks? Eight week? I can’t keep track. It was magical. I grew in my ability to be flexible and think on my toes and I learned to work with kids who were unlike any I had ever known. And I didn’t know what came next.

So I wandered again. I went to Vermont because, well, mountains. While avoiding the freak snowstorm (from my “southern” eyes), I randomly looked up jobs in the area and tossed out a few applications. I hiked one of the 4000 footers in Vermont, then here was a quick trip to Montreal and I scheduled a job interview. In between waiting and panicking, I hiked two more 4000 footers. Then I interviewed for a job and hiked the last two 4000 footers. But I didn’t know what came next.

So I went to North Carolina. Breakfast and coffee and lunch and good company. Then to Nashville. Being in the place that I had called “home” for six years was soothing and safe. And in the midst of pouring over some nonprofit work while sitting in a coffee shop (Red Bicycle in Germantown) one morning, my phone rang and I was offered the job in Vermont. And I didn’t know what came next.

Nashville life. Holidays in Arkansas. And then a 23 hour drive to Vermont.

A job with some of the goofiest kids I’ve ever met. Days outside with those kids…in the snow, the sun, the rain and everything in between. Talking about letters and sharing my favorite books. Occasionally making up my own stories, but mostly letting kids tell me their own. And then a pandemic. A crazy roommate. Mud season. And I didn’t know what came next.

Moving into my own space. Getting a cat. Chopping off my hair. Melting snow and the end of mud season. Discovering how 4000 footers look when the snow is gone and everything is blooming. Figuring out how sourdough and I can live in harmony. Learning how to teach in the midst of a pandemic and how to offer grace to everyone I meet (including myself).

And to think that a year ago, I drove out of Nashville.

I could measure this past year in pies baked (in 6 different states??) or mountains climbed (40-50 trails) or cups of coffee (there were 10 on Moosilauke…but we really shouldn’t talk about that) or miles driven (gulp) or times I slept in my car (zero, actually) or the weird recipes I’ve tried (too many to count) or the walls I’ve climbed.

But those things don’t actually matter.

The ways I’ve grown and what I’ve learned about myself. The relationships I’ve maintained from so stinking far away and those that I’ve built along the way. The times I’ve opened myself up to opportunities that scared me and walked away knowing that I am stronger than I imagined. The figurative mountains I have climbed to come to understand my passions, my boundaries, and my priorities.

That’s how I prefer to measure a year.

What’s in a name

This week, I taught my preschool friends a new game. It’s basically Steal the Bacon? Or one of those other silly, team-building games that you do to build problem-solving and communication skills. We were having a hard time playing well together, so I thought I would toss something new in the mix.

When I worked in New Hampshire, I typically played this game using a yellow ball that my very first group of students named “Mr. Fluffernutter.” Since I didn’t have that with me, I asked someone to choose a rock out of the stream…and then we had to name it.

Flower.

They named the rock Flower.

It’s silly, I know. But by giving the rock a name, the students are more committed to following through and stealing the rock from me. They were successful in their endeavors…and Flower is currently in my backpack, waiting for the next adventure.

Names give a purpose to our actions and adventures and endeavors. I’ve heard it said that you only appreciate things once you can name them (I have a whole slew of thoughts on that…but we’ll save it for another day). And for many years, I’ve placed a special importance on students’ names.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that a lot of people used nicknames for kids. Or they just referred to them as a group. Or they called them Bud, Sis, Girl, Kid…and while I do that sometimes, it’s important for kids to know that you value them and their name. When I first meet a new kiddo, I want them to look at me and tell me their name. They might mumble. Or have a really hard name. Or maybe we’re in a loud room. But I want to work through all the noise to get to them and know their name. I want to say their name over and over to reinforce that I see them, I hear them, and I value them. In a world that might make up nicknames or just call them out when there is a problem, I want them to understand the power in their name.

I started reflecting on all of this last weekend when someone commented on “the guy who was killed.”

George Floyd.

I didn’t need that much context to identify “the guy.” And my knee-jerk reaction to spout out his name immediately clarified the value of #saytheirnames.

When you name someone, you see them and you know them and you value them. They are no longer a statistic or a number or an assessment score or a behavior.

It’s a reminder that they are a human being…just like you and me.