A world apart, birds together

Feathers, wings, empathy, hope

The faraday cage Airstream trailer parked outside our dear friend’s house – the very same house we rented when we first moved to Leadville 16 years ago – seems an apt container for this moment. Home. In motion. Symbolic of these past 2 months back in the U.S. 10 homes, 1 (soon to be 2) hotel(s), 1 retreat lodge, 3 states, 10 cities/towns, a patchwork of caregivers for our girls – and patching together care. Grandparents – all.the.grandparents, summer camp, library programs, the Fish Hatchery, Turquoise Lake, live music in the park, farmer’s markets, children’s museums, aunts, uncles, cousins, great aunts, uncles, second cousins. Second cousins once removed (Siri, “How are my cousin’s kids related to my kids?”)  Friends. Rafting. Camping. Biking. Running. Walking. 

And then there’s work. 2 conferences. 1 Wilderness First Responder recertification. A literal and figurative blueskying retreat among alumni and friends of Good Natured Learning. New collaborators. Alumni GNL fellows back in new roles. Refreshing a collaboration full of potential. Running professional development with dedicated, inspiring teachers, administrators, facilities and grounds people. Keeping the Fellowship rolling in Kenya. Full heart. Gnawing wants. 

What’s that saying – ‘The only constant is change?” Indeed, this summer’s constant is novelty. I’m over it.  

Eek…re-reading that, I feel tired. Sorry!    

Level

Eric is a good backer of trailers. His years in high school working for a landscaping company combined with his impeccable sense of direction and spacial-mechanical awareness all mean he can generally direct our camper into a precise location. 

But Monday’s landing of our Airstream trailer in our friend’s backyard – our penultimate home-away-from-home before making the pilgrimage back to Kenya – proved tricky. Despite my best efforts to guide him and several wooden boards and chocks under the tire, the little bubble in the trailer’s level just wouldn’t find its way to the center of the circle. 

I feel off kilter too. 

As I try to find level ground, my routines anchor me a bit. Writing here is one of them. Today, on the edge of our family’s migration back to Kenya, I offer you a story that spans the space-time continuum in ways that also anchor me. 

Worlds apart, birds together. 

Their eggs would never hatch. No pips or peeps or downy feathers. No hope with feathers. 

Mom and dad eagles, Jackie and Shadow, clung to the possibility of their babies arriving well after humans – over a million followers on the Friends of Big Bear Valley’s Youtube and FB channels – learned that these storied webcam eagle eggs would never be more than beautiful orbs full of unrealized promise.

Photo from Friends of Big Bear Valley’s eagle cam blog - April 10th, 2024 post “I won’t give up.”

Among the watchers of the “eagle cam” were Good Natured Learning Fellow Jodi Simpson and her Kindergarten students in Paonia, Colorado. With humans across the world, these 5 and 6 year-olds tuned in as Jackie and Shadow incubated their eggs for some technology-enabled indoor nature-based learning (N.B. Even though I sometimes rant about “edtech,” – also here – I’m not against technology when it supports amazing nature connections!). 

In late March, with a million other hopeful fans, the students learned the eggs were unlikely to hatch. 

Apparently Shadow was the last to give up – holding on until almost the middle of April. Jackie tried to get him to move on for days, mom-knowing these eggs would never become more. He flew away only after seeing one egg cracked and deteriorated, no hatchling emerging. The reality finally sank in.

In the eggs’ early days, Jodi’s students learned about American symbols, about eagles, about the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials. They made a giant nest of sticks in their “Cottonwood Kingdom” classroom.  

Giant nest in Cottonwood Kingdom; made by Kindergarten students in Paonia, Colorado.

When Jodi and her students learned the eggs would not hatch, they returned to their nest and set up a memorial.  Jodi shared,

“We placed rocks shaped like eggs. Invited birds and fairies. Now there are pinecones, snail shells, birdseed, feathers, and dried flowers left behind to return to the earth again. We were sad and we celebrated the gifts that spring brings – and that celebrating with joy and beauty can help us feel better.”

Photos by Jodi Simpson

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A month prior and almost 9000 miles away, another teacher – Liz Wavua, a Kenyan Good Natured Learning Fellow – was facilitating an outdoor lesson with her students. They looked for I-I-insects in a simple and beautiful phonics lesson. Learning outdoors had already become routine for their class – and the teacher marveled at the transformation she witnessed.

“We found butterflies and grasshoppers. And guess what? We were excited to find them. Fear of insects gone!” 

But while they searched for insects, they came upon an injured bird.

They crowded around, knit together with curiosity and sadness. What happened? Why did it fall? Would it be ok?

It wasn’t moving. Liz gently explained that the bird seemed to have broken its neck. Maybe it fell…

The students quickly realized the bird was going to die. And do you know what these 3 and 4-year olds immediately set about doing? They gathered leaves and gently placed them over her body, tending to their more-than-human relative. 

Empathy & Hope

These two micro moments – separated by time and space and infinitely close in sentiment and significance – give me hope. 

“Hope” is the thing with feathers

BY EMILY DICKINSON

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

I’ve said before and I’ll say it again,

Students will never wonder about a bird they can’t see fly by.

They will also not care for a bird that has died that they never knew about or mourn the loss of eggs that never hatch. When we raise kids disconnected from more-than-human nature, we repress their innate interspecies empathy. In so doing, we undermine hope and wonder and resilience.

Let’s teach our students hope with feathers. Let’s help them feel the wings with which they were born. 

❤️,

Becca