 |
| My childhood playground |
I was fortunate enough
to have grown up before the age of helicopter parents and before the invention of
computers and smartphones. For me growing up in rural Alaska, raised by parents
forged during the Great Depression who believed that children should be not seen
and not heard, that children should be outside playing or doing chores made me
who I am today. Probably the most
frequent thing we heard from our parents was, "Go outside and play".
Our family had few
resources, and even though our neighbors were much more well off in material
goods than we were, all of us kids preferred playing and exploring outside far
above playing with indoor toys. Every day, rain, shine, snow, or cold was an
adventure. We discovered new places in the woods, tried to dig to China, climbed
trees, followed streams up the mountain, pretended we were pioneers, teachers,
and parents, cooked stews with wild plants, sledded, skied, built snow forts,
flew on the springs of pulled over young saplings. All we needed was a stream,
a mountain, dirt, and trees. All our senses were engaged as we smelled the sap
of the trees, tasted the plants, felt the roughness of stones on our bare feet,
heard the songs of birds and the howl of wind, saw every color nature could
afford. Countless were the outdoor
flights of imagination and fantasy. I remember very little of school, but my
memories of play and the fun we had are powerful and strong to this day. My direct
interaction with the texture of rocks, the smell of upturned earth, and the
joys of everything a tree can be grew in me a fierce love for the natural world
and a desire to preserve it. "We could never have loved the earth so well
if we had no childhood in it." -George Eliot
Even though our parents
did not spend loads of quality time with us or enroll us in after school
programs, most of us kids on the mountain grew up independent, self-confident,
and capable adults. The freedom to explore,
to fall down, to figure out how to climb a tree, to hike unsupervised up
mountains, gave us the opportunity to learn deeply by trial and error.
I didn't think twice
about following my dream to teach overseas after university. It never occurred to
me to question myself. I believe that confidence came from my parent's giving
me the freedom to play freely- outside.
Today, free play has
fallen into a state of disgrace. Parents are encouraged to keep their children
busy with directed afterschool activities and homework. They feel guilty when
they just let the kids play. Children "play" sports which is all
good, but still directed and structured. With the advent of smart phones and
tablets, now much of playing means engaging in a computer game. With all these
modern play options, children engage with someone else's rules or imagination,
and they don't have the chance to exercise their minds to make up their own
rules and invent their own imaginary worlds. The sensory world has been reduced
to the feel of one finger on a smooth computer screen surface.
Based on the number
of blogs and websites out in cyber-land, it seems as if a few people are
standing up and saying "no" to this destructive trend and advocating
for a back to nature and free play approach. They are, however, from my observations
of people in many different countries, in the minority.
I am encouraged by
the few young people I know who want to raise their children in a less structured,
more play-centered environment. May they live long and prosper.
Play doesn't stop as
we age, it simply becomes more targeted as a part of creating. The opportunities we had to practice learning by trial and error in our play become foundations for our adult creativity. Maslow said, “Almost all creativity
involves purposeful play” (yourtherapysource.com). As adults, we "play
around" with ingredients and come up with a new dish. We "play around"
with artistic materials or furniture to create new visually pleasing scenes. We keep playing.
Robert Frost's poem, "Birches" encapsulates the feeling of my childhood.
Birches
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
