Two birds, one scone

Convictions, version control, and prioritization

You can listen to today’s post!

Today my daughter Nora (4) and I went for a bike ride along the Mineral Belt Trail. The Mineral Belt is a 12ish-mile paved historic trail that circumnavigates Leadville, Colorado. Along the way, signage, ore carts, iridescent mine tailings piles and “merlot” ponds of acidic mine drainage tell of Leadville’s hardscrabble mining history. As the trail weaves through these human-history landmarks, it wends through tunnels of Aspen trees, lodgepole pines, and spruce. 

About this time of year, the wildflowers are off the hook. 

Prime users of the Mineral Belt include families, friends, ultra-athletes and casual recreationists, history buffs and mining aficionados. The trail is a remarkable mash-up of crusty mining culture and new-guard outdoor recreation vibe. Quintessential Leadville. I love it.

We rode “paci-bike” – a gazillion pound (which converts to half a gazillion kilo, which rounds to a gazillion again) steel cargo bike (that desperately needs an electric assist) – so named because when Clara was a pacifier-dependent baby we always had a pacifier on a leash dangling from the seat straps so we would not forget to bring one. 

As we rode up the hill, Nora and I identified wildflowers. Orange flowers. Yellow flowers. Red flowers. White flowers. Purple asters, yarrow, cinquefoil, paintbrush, fireweed, clover, strawberries, some type of daisy, delphinium, western scarlet gilia (I think…I incorrectly called it shooting star, but have now looked it up), wild roses. And lupines as far as the eye could see. 

About these last two flowers, Nora declared with strong-willed-or-willful-depending-on-my-mood-and-how-much-she-is-testing-me conviction:

“Not lupines. I call them bluepines,” and, “Wild roses aren’t roses. They are called roses, but they are just flowers.”

She went on, “Roses are like this.” 

Though I couldn’t turn around to look, I could feel her emphatic little fingers cupping up in the shape of a Valentine rose.

“They’re still roses,” I gently offered, “even though they look different.”

“No they’re not.” 

I pedaled.

“OK,” I conceded, a choice among infinite such moments about where to hold my ground and where to let my daughters hold theirs. 

Conviction

I generally admire Nora’s conviction (except when she is claiming that the in-use wood-burning stove is “not hot” and that she “could touch it and be fine” and we (mom and dad) “don’t know what we’re talking about”).

I think I even envy her a bit. How nice it might be to declare things with such certitude that even in the face of data, expertise, or knowledge gathered by others (mom and dad in this example) during decades of experience on this planet, you just stick with “bluepines.” 

It’s a fine name. And they are blueish. 

Photo by Vitolda Klein on Unsplash

As a tree-not-far-from-her-apple, I also have been described as strong willed or willful. And I have plenty of convictions. Especially about stuff I think about (and do about) a lot like nature-based learning. About the primacy of nature connections for our species’ continued survival on the planet — and for many others’ as well. The difference (I think) is that I am influenced by data, new findings, others’ wisdom, revelations, experiences, and more. 

I’m also constantly and continually asking questions, going deeper, testing, truly trying to understand, and then explaining my convictions to myself (and to you). This is a worthy exercise, and a huge part of why I write. In writing – and publishing – I am forced to work through some stuff. Also, writing is therapeutic for me, so there’s that.

Meanwhile, in my work with my non-profit, Good Natured Learning, I am tasked with a similarly existential — but lacking the life-or-death part — exercise of sharing convictions with the world of friends, family, foes, funders, partners, clients, and wider audiences in a way that is compelling enough to bring in the requisite resources and galvanize support to mainstream apple-a-day nature-based learning in schools. To help grow a world in which “students, teachers, and the planet flourish because of nature connections in schools everywhere.”

Version control 

Strong convictions coupled with insatiable efforts to think deeper and clarify my message has led to a proliferation of things. One-pagers, pitch decks, grant applications, notes, definitions, lesson plans, theories of change, outlines, emails (so.many.emails), meetings, programs…

When I started writing this Substack I had recently moved with my then 2.5 and 4.5 year old daughters (Nora and Clara) and husband (Eric) and our dog (Arty) (though he came later due to an embargo on live animal transport at the date of our departure), to a new country (Kenya) on a new continent with a new culture and so.many.changes.

Originally bereft of friends in my new geography (don’t worry, my friends tell me friend-making is my superpower, so I’m much better now), I set about putting words on screens (and sometimes paper). I started a personal blog – “WatzUp” (credit to Brenna Hearn for the name) – to keep distant family and friends updated on our family’s journey. And then I launched here on Substack – and offline too – metabolizing my ideas on (in?) my laptop and sharing them with family and friends. And then with more people too.  

When we moved, I had also recently given birth to Good Natured Learning with my co-founder Erin Allaman. We were co-facilitating the inaugural cohort of what was then called the Brains on Nature Fellowship (now called the Good Natured Learning Fellowship or Canopy Fellowship…I’m not sure!) – a year-long professional development experience in which PK-12 educators delve deeply into the theory and practice of nature-based learning, share NBL with their students & colleagues, & help grow more nature-connected schools. 

Nine months after I moved to Kenya, Erin left Good Natured Learning for an amazing opportunity with Children & Nature Network (which I 100% support, and I still miss her). I was left – an off-the-charts extrovert – feeling alone with all of my thoughts, convictions, questions, and words. Alone and lonely.

So there I was standing up a non-profit in the U.S. from my perch in Nairobi and trying to do all.the.things a new organization demands, which is A LOT of things — many of which I don’t know how to do and I learn about new ones every day. (Plus, now we’ve launched in Kenya too…more on that later).

So instead, or in addition to, doing all.the.things, I reverted back to something I know how to do.

I thought, wrote, talked, tested, explored, shaped, and shared my convictions. I made versions. I iterated. 

Make versions. Iterate.

It is compulsive.

Two birds, one scone

I recently got some advice (again) about my need to prioritize. By now, this is unsurprising to all of you. Life is a lot. Overfull. 

Right now. 

Come to think of it, when did I last NOT feel some degree of overwhelm? 

When I sat down to write today (which this same advisor suggested I discontinue for a while in a completely reasonable prioritization exercise), I had an idea. 

My idea involves you, so I will explain.

I am going to use

Learning, by Nature

to “feed two birds with one scone” (which is my favorite politically correct aphorism replacing the killing of two birds with one stone). (I picture two proper British robins taking tea, pinky feathers raised, enjoying some crumpets and scones…). (N.B. I also like “feed a fed horse” in lieu of beating a dead one). 

AI generated image for “two robins drinking tea while eating scones”

Practically speaking this means I’m going to write here more explicitly for Good Natured Learning. At least sometimes. I don’t know exactly what this will entail, but I look forward to figuring it out. Thanks for coming with me. 

Prairie Dogs

When I relayed the story of the bluepines and roses, Eric reminded me that last week when he and Nora biked the Mineral Belt, they saw a chipmunk which Nora declared was a prairie dog.

Eric (foolishly) attempted to correct her. “That’s actually a chipmunk, Nora. Do you see its stripes and its longer tail?” 

“No dad. It’s a prairie dog with a mask.”

Photo by Chelsey Faucher on Unsplash

AI-generated prairie dog wearing a mask

Here’s to convictions, version control, prioritization, and feeding two birds with one scone!

❤️, B