Yesterday I walked through the woods in Ohio where I grew up, holding my 8-year-old’s hand. These are the same paths where my father used to hike with us, always stooping to point out Dutchman’s breeches in the spring, cut leaf toothwort or bloodroot. Ever the teacher, he was always teaching the names of things: paw paw, shagbark hickory, sugar maple.
I admit I mostly glazed over. At that age, I didn’t have a head for species names and I didn’t care about compound or serrated leaves. But I did love the hikes, my dad’s company, and the sense of wonder he conveyed. After years of teaching me the species names, I still didn’t know which was which, but I knew he loved them. And I did, too.
For he didn’t just lecture. We examined enormous osage orange seed balls that looked like alien tennis balls, we squeezed the swollen seedpods of the ballistic touch-me-not plant. We swung on grapevines and giggled. The names he taught me became a litany in my mind: Dutchman’sbreeches-shagbarkhickory-cutleaftoothwort-sugarmaple.
Much of the woods where my father and I had walked has been torn down, converted into a freeway. This happened when I was 12. Partly spurred by that, I took some jobs doing environmental education in the my twenties. One job was up in Ely, Minnesota in January. With the zeal of the young, I was bent on saving the world. I intended to drum in every environmental fact I could think of so these 7th and 8th graders would see logic and save the world before it was too late.
Instead, the director of the program told us this: the most important thing is for these kids is to experience having fun in the woods. Simply that. Have fun.
He encouraged us to slide down steep snowy slopes on our bottoms (doing the “otter slide”) and play as many games as possible. I was aghast. How could we save the world if we were just playing? If we weren’t serious? But now, of course, I see he was right. Our job was to make these kids CARE. We care when we have a stock of good memories. We fight to save what we care about.
Recently I’ve been thinking about this as I watch my 3rd grader’s school go about teaching kids to write. They focus on style and technique and study non-fiction writing heavily for three years; there’s very little fiction writing. My son rebels and frets. He loves to write, but not this kind of writing. “It’s important for them to learn technique,” I hear people say.
I wonder about this. Yes, technique. But the love has to come first. The love and motivation.
At the same age, I was always writing in school, but I don’t remember any lessons in technique. I was writing stories. Stories about castles and lions and princesses with tall spiky hats and lizards who read newspapers in the desert. My spelling was atrocious. My stories were frequently confusing. When I look at them now I can see they were truly awful. But these were my own stories – expressing whatever I wanted. I cared about my writing. Just as we filled those middle school kids in Ely with a love of nature, I’d been allowed to fill my head with a love of words and writing.
What’s more important in the early years? Names, facts and technique? Or uncovering passion? To teach it or love it? Sure, they’re not mutually exclusive, but…
If we don’t care, we don’t save. If we don’t care we don’t strive. What do you think?
