by susantara | Dec 4, 2022 | Death, Dying, & Birth, Teach Our Children Well |
“You are the bows from which your children
As living arrows are sent forth
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite
And he bends you with his might
That his arrows may go swift and far.”
-Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet
If she were still in physical form, my mom would have turned 85 today. Throughout the day, I’ve been reflecting on how I can continue her essence and influence in this world through the qualities we shared and the inner work I do that helps to complete or extend what she was able to do and be in her lifetime.
My mom was exceptionally sweet and caring, often putting others first. She was the one everyone went to – the listening ear who always was there for you and had your back. Just like her mother (my grandmother).
But I get the sense that other people’s issues ultimately were too much for her. She absorbed a lot of other people’s pain and suppressed her true feelings. She didn’t express them, to please and keep the peace.
I come from a lineage of exceptionally sweet and caring women who would bend over backwards for you. And I’ve inherited that trait. There have been times in my life when I fought against my wiring and rebelled against my mom. I didn’t want to be like her.
But in some ways, I was. Most of the inner work I’ve done so far in this lifetime has been around developing healthier boundaries. At times, my empathy has been weaponized by others and has caused (me) a lot of suffering. Like my mom, I often kept my feelings to myself, to avoid hurting others or making waves.
My mom was the one everyone turned to – the go-between when people couldn’t talk to each other directly. Since she passed away, it seems I’ve taken over that role, although I don’t want it. I’ve often thought that if this is the position my mother was in and the way she felt, no wonder she got sick.
Several years ago, a relative had a session with a psychic medium who emphasized that my mom is watching out for me and doesn’t want me to follow in her footsteps. She wants me to express what I’m feeling and not hold things inside so much, like she did.
Years after my mother and grandmother died, I’ve come to the realization that all the work I do to communicate more honestly and develop a stronger backbone benefits them, as well. It’s as if they’re standing behind me, rooting me on: “Maybe she’ll be the one to do what we weren’t able to do” and heal the dysfunctional patterns. I feel I’m carrying them with me (like carrying an unborn baby, except kind of in reverse, if that makes any sense) in all the healing work I do, and I find courage to speak my truth instead of holding it in for our sake, not mine alone. Our inner work generates ripples of healing that touch both future and past generations.
I can’t pick up the phone and call them like I used to be able to, but I can express love and relate to them in new ways. This has been one of the great revelations of grieving.
People are often surprised to learn my mom and I didn’t have an easy relationship. When she was alive, I experienced her as sweetly controlling and was busy pushing back against her and trying to be different than her. I didn’t make it particularly easy for her. We were caught in a dynamic. It’s amazing how a relationship can evolve even after one party dies. I feel so close to her now and have tremendous compassion and respect for her.
This morning when I thought about it being my mom’s birthday and how I’d celebrate, a voice in my heart told me to look at today’s card. I have a thick stack of inspirational cards, and at the beginning of every month, I count out enough cards for each day of the month. I don’t look at the cards ahead of time. So after hearing the voice speaking through the telephone of my heart, I went to my card display and moved yesterday’s card to the back of the stack, to reveal today’s card.
It was a cartoon with a speech bubble that read, “I am always here for you,” captioned with the words, “Listen to your inner guide.” I had some music playing in another room, and when I entered that room, the lyrics being sung were, “…words my mother said to me.”
We still celebrate my mom’s birthday – though this year we’re postponing it a couple of days, to include my almost seven-year-old granddaughter. She loves to celebrate my mom’s birthday – not just because of the cake but also to hear the stories. She seems genuinely curious about her great-grandmother and seems to feel connected to her. We’re always telling her how much my mom would have loved her, and it’s so true. It’s uncanny how alike they are! I can’t believe they never knew each other. They would have been like two peas in a pod!
My granddaughter is the kid in school who asks other children if they’re okay and comforts them. She notices and appreciates something about everyone she meets and is highly empathic. She explained to me that one of the “bullies” in school is bullied by his father. One day, his father came to school, and she heard him speak disrespectfully about his son. So she understands why the boy bullies classmates and has compassion for that. We’ve had many conversations about having healthy boundaries with people who don’t treat you right. My deep wish is for her to develop wise (rather than foolish) compassion, sooner than I did.
So all the work I do to have healthy boundaries and not intercept other people’s drama will benefit her as well. Someday when I have passed on, I will stand behind her and root for her arrow to go as far as possible. I can’t imagine wanting anything else.
When my daughter was in labor about to push out my granddaughter, I held up one of her legs. On the final push, I felt my mother behind me, as if she were hugging me from behind, and it seemed to give my daughter a blast of energy to push her out.
I sense very clearly that our ancestors are with us like that, helping us and cheering us on – and that we can call on them whenever we need them. And reciprocally dedicate the merits of our deep, inner work to them. For love continues to evolve and remains a two-way street.
Happy birthday, Mom.
© 2022 Susan Meyer. All rights reserved. You are welcome to share this post or excerpts of it as long as you give proper credit to Susan Meyer and SusanTaraMeyer.com. Susan Meyer is a photographer, writer, and spiritual teacher who lives on the Hudson River in Upstate New York.
by susantara | Sep 5, 2021 | Bereavement, Teach Our Children Well |
Over the summer, my son’s pet rabbit died. My five-year-old granddaughter loved to visit Toulouse every time she came over, and as far as I’m aware, it was her first brush with death.
We’ve had many talks about death. She loves seeing pictures of my parents and grandmother and has asked many questions about them. My daughter and I have shared stories about them with her and have told her many times that we wish they could have met her because they would have loved her. My dad was the only one who lived long enough to meet her. Their lives overlapped by about nine months.
I’ve explained to her that my parents and grandmother got old, and their bodies stopped working. But they were/are more than just their bodies. Although we can’t see their bodies anymore, we still can connect with their essence and continue to have a relationship with them, through the “telephone of the heart”.
And then there’s the telephone of the wind, which is an actual, physical phone that a Girl Scout troop installed in a local park over the summer. It’s based on an old-fashioned telephone booth placed in Otsuchi, Japan after the tsunami hit ten years ago, to stay connected with loved ones who passed away. The telephone isn’t connected to anything, but it provides a quiet space for private, heartfelt conversation and an opportunity to say the goodbyes and words that were left unsaid when the person was alive. Or to have ongoing conversations.
Ever since hearing about the telephone of the wind, my granddaughter has wanted to go there to talk to Toulouse. But rain kept getting in the way of our plans. This week, she asked again, and we finally made it happen. It was supposed to be an opportunity for her to talk to the bunny, but it ended up being much more.
The phone is an old-fashioned rotary model like I remember from my childhood. I showed my granddaughter how to find the numbers and turn the dial. Then she picked up the phone and started talking to the bunny.
When she was done talking, I taught her how to be quiet and still and to listen for any words or notice any pictures or feelings that might arise in her heart. It was easy and natural for her to do. Then she gave the phone to me so I could talk to the bunny and share memories.
After ending that call, she asked if I wanted to call my parents. Normally, I use the telephone of my heart for that purpose, and it works really well. But I decided to take her cue and try something different.
The phone looked just like the one in the corner of my grandmother’s kitchen, from which I made phone calls when I was growing up. I put my index finger into the circles that called my home phone number when I was a child – the number my parents had for the rest of their lives. I felt an unexpected sense of anticipation and a wave of emotion that brought tears to my eyes. Visceral memory. I explained to my granddaughter they were tears of gratitude because I was thankful for having such loving parents.
After dialing all the numbers, it was as if I was waiting for them to answer.
I started talking. Through thankful tears, I told them I missed them, even though I loved being able to talk with them through my heart.
Earlier that day, I discovered a baby mouse in my car. After removing the mouse, I realized I hadn’t vacuumed my car over the summer as intended. So that was something I needed to do. I remembered how my dad used to vacuum my car. If I visited my parents and went for a walk or ran an errand with my mom in her car, he would seize the opportunity to vacuum my car and fill up my gas tank. It was his language of love.
It’s been more than five years since the last time he did that, and I realized how much I miss and appreciate his car-related acts of caring. Nobody else has ever done that for me.
So that’s what I said into the telephone of the wind. I told him how much I appreciate that he did that.
I also told my parents I had my granddaughter with me, and they would love her so much. I asked her if she wanted to talk with them, and she said yes. So she got on the phone and introduced herself and told them the things she thought they would love about her.
When she handed the phone back to me, I told them I’d say bye for now, but I always love talking with them through my heart and in dreams.
Before making another call, I told my granddaughter about the time I was really missing my mom, and then a flurry of heart-shaped cottonwood leaves rained down from the sky. That, too, was a response, I explained.
Then I picked up the phone to call my grandmother. I told her how much I miss her and how I appreciate her coming to me in a dream one time and giving me a present – all wrapped up and tied with a bow. I didn’t open the present in the dream, but when I woke up, I knew it was a camera. My parents had just given me a little money from the sale of her house, and I used it to buy my first entry-level DSLR camera.
It was arguably the best purchase I ever made.
I went on to describe how much photography means to me and to express my gratitude for the camera, which changed my life.
I also thanked my grandmother for being such a wonderful grandmother and said that by being so kind and loving to me, she taught me how to be a wonderful grandmother for my granddaughter.
I told her about my granddaughter and what she would love about her, and then my granddaughter got on the phone to introduce herself.
She ended with a question, and I actually heard the answer in my heart: my grandmother’s friendly voice, loud and clear. She loved children.
After we ended that call, we moved on to the next thing: the swings in another part of the park.
“Race ya!” my granddaughter exclaimed before taking off like a rocket. Naturally, she won. She always does.
Making those calls with her on the telephone of the wind was really gratifying. It was an opportunity to model out-loud a process you can go through when someone you love has passed away, to stay connected with them. With their essence, which is pure, unconditional love.
It felt like a very important thing to do. Someday when I have outgrown my body, I hope my granddaughter will talk to me like that and know how to listen with her heart and through synchronicity, to receive all the love that seeks her. I hope that will be many years from now so we can make many more beautiful memories together that will become part of her, and a way I will live on through her.
It’s such a beautiful thing to connect with your loved one’s essence, which is love. The love that always was there at the core, beneath the personality patterns that offer us the conflict and contrast we need to awaken and evolve and to expand the universe.
That’s how I’ve come to see it, anyway.
The telephone of the heart allows us to give and receive love. When we focus loving awareness on something or someone, we are attuned to the vibration of love and receptive to it. In this sense, anyone who has loved us or whom we have loved really and truly is part of us. With love, there is no distance or separation whatsoever.
I had no idea about this until after I lost my parents. It is one of the great blessings our deepest losses can reveal to us.
Postscript
I dictated this whole story into my phone while taking a walk outdoors. When I got back in the car to drive home, I turned on the radio. The song playing was Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time”:
If you’re lost you can look and you will find me
Time after time
If you fall, I will catch you, I will be waiting
Time after time
I kid you not.
It was another response that resulted in another round of grateful tears.
Isn’t it amazing? Each and every one of us is part of a great, mysterious legacy of love. A web of love. I don’t know how it works, only that it exists.
© 2021 Susan Meyer. All rights reserved. You are welcome to share this post or excerpts of it as long as you give proper credit to Susan Meyer and SusanTaraMeyer.com. Susan Meyer is a photographer, writer, and spiritual teacher who lives on the Hudson River in Upstate New York.
by susantara | May 8, 2019 | Spiritual Journey, Teach Our Children Well |
Today was a great day for a field trip to our local park. It’s been rainy lately, but we lucked out.
We had a guided tour led by one of the park educators, followed by time for free play and exploration of a couple of learning stations set up in the pavilion. One of the learning stations was simply a plastic bin filled with soil and lots of worms. Want to know how to keep preschoolers focused and engaged for long stretches of time? Give them a bin of dirt and worms! It works wonders.
During the free play time, one of my preschoolers came up to me to give me a tiny treasure that at first glance appeared to be a gray stone. Then I realized it was a painted turtle hatchling about the size of a dandelion flower! It was early in the year for hatchlings, but there it was.
The little boy, with binoculars dangling from his neck, told me he found it in a spot where it was in danger of being trampled by our active group. Then he went back to exploring the park’s play garden. I was amazed he was able to notice the turtle in the first place because it was so small. All its appendages were tucked inside its shell, and it was an excellent camouflager.
At first glance, the turtle seemed rather lifeless. But as I held it in my hand and studied its eyes, I reconsidered that assessment. Poor little thing was probably terrified of the giant beholding it with awe.
Eventually, I felt some movement tickle my palm, and the tiny turtle pushed out a leg. Seeing it was alive, I decided to move it to a safer location closer to the pocket wetland. A group of children followed me, and I released the turtle on the ground. We watched it make its way to the pond, climbing over every obstacle in its path with fixed determination.
I captured the image below a split second before it plunged in.
I’m fascinated by how baby turtles find their way to water. It seems they just KNOW. I think we all have an inner guidance system that calls us in the direction of our true nature. An internal GPS that’s hardwired into us. Do we feel it and follow it? That’s the question.
Or do our thoughts and conditioning get in the way and prevent us from moving toward what feels most deeply right and diving into new territory?
The guidance is there, whether we tap into it or not.
Then with a silent plop!, the baby turtle was in the water – I’m guessing for the first time. And it was a natural swimmer. This little turtle was made for the water and was in its element. Yay! Every move it made sent ripples into its watery environment.
The image below makes my heart happy. It speaks to me of a goal attained and the sweet satisfaction of following your inner knowing and being in your element.
My son, who’s finishing his junior year of college, has been downhearted this week. He’s been questioning some of the choices he’s made and the path he’s on. We had a conversation in which I explained how life works, based on my own experience. I told him that new possibilities unfold with every step you take – possibilities you can’t see when you start out or encounter challenges. Or end-of-the-semester stress. You hold a vision and work to make it a reality, and some days you might wonder or even doubt whether you can pull it off.
Then all of a sudden, it dawns on you that you hold a key that will open a door that won’t open for anyone else. Because they don’t have the key; you do. You just have to find the door. And then your son comes home from elementary school that day, and when you greet him at the door, he announces, “Look what I found today on the playground!” Then he produces a rusty, old-fashioned KEY from his pocket. True story.
Or maybe one of your preschool students walks up to you and hands you a baby turtle that offers a metaphor that awakens you from the trance of self-doubt and affirms your inner GPS is working just fine.
And you keep going in the direction of your soul. Maybe you’ll even encounter a friendly giant who will have your back.
Needless to say, the dandelion-sized turtle provided my daily dose of inspiration.
Then the observant little boy who found it took my hand and asked me to look for more animals with him. After a little more exploring, guess where we ended up?
The worm bin, of course.
© 2019 Susan Meyer. All rights reserved. To use any or all of this article, include this exactly: Susan Meyer (SusanTaraMeyer.com) is a photographer, writer, clutter coach, Reiki practitioner, feng shui consultant, and mindfulness teacher whose work is infused with a deep interest in the nature of mind and appreciation of the natural world. She lives on the Hudson River in Upstate New York.
by susantara | Apr 17, 2019 | Bereavement, Teach Our Children Well |
It’s quiet in the house now except for the sound of the last load of laundry tossing around in the dryer. I still find it a little hard to believe that I’m the one with the washer and dryer and the adult children who bring their laundry home when they visit. Was it really that long ago when I brought my laundry basket to my parents’ house with young children in tow?
My three-year-old granddaughter and I had a really fun afternoon and evening together. I introduced her to watercolor painting and my old ViewMasters. She had her usual bubble bath with rubber ducks and measuring cups. She built with magnet blocks, counted “1…2…3!” and jumped with gusto from one futon mattress to another at least 30 times in a row, giggling in between. We made popcorn and ice cream with sprinkles and snuggled on the couch to watch a Harold and the Purple Crayon video before bedtime. We did lots of other activities together, too. It was an active day.
Young children don’t need fancy things to hold their attention. Ava noticed a tray of sand and small stones from the beach and became immersed in burying the stones in the sand until they couldn’t be seen. Then she imagined the stones were little people and acted out a whole new scenario. The sand and stones intrigued her long enough for her mom to run a solo shopping errand.
It’s interesting where the course of a day will take you.
This morning, I dreamed I was in my parents’ house and came downstairs and saw my dad sitting in his chair in the living room. He had just returned from a trip to England. And then my mom was there, too. In the dream, I realized something wonderful: They hadn’t really died! They’d just been away on a trip and were back now. All that time I spent grieving, and they didn’t die after all!
I spent most of the dream crying really hard because I was overjoyed to see my parents again. Then I woke up from the dream, still elated for a split second…until I realized it was only a dream.
My nose was already all stuffed up from crying in the dream. Then I cried for another half hour because it was one of those dreams that unleashed a wave of intense emotion.
It felt so good sitting in my parents’ living room next to them with good news to share. They were still alive and living in their home. In addition to feeling overjoyed because they were back, I felt like I mattered again and was supported in a way that was unique to my relationship with my parents.
It was like jumping back in time. For a little while in my dream, nothing had changed. I could still pull into my parents’ driveway, walk through the front door, and find them in their living room. They hadn’t died, and the house hadn’t been sold.
The ordinary things you don’t appreciate fully until they’re gone.
And now, here I am hearing a sweet, little voice call out, “Grandma?” before going to bed. She’s looking for me. How is it possible that my mom never even got to meet her?
She’s fascinated with all the moms and grandmas and how her grandma is her mommy’s mom – and enjoys trying to explain it when we’re all together. She likes to see pictures of the other grandmas, too – my mom and grandmother – and hear stories about them. How they would have adored her!
As we snuggled on the couch, she exclaimed, “I like this house!” And it hit me again how times have changed, and now I am the one with the house in which loving memories are made for a little girl. A house where she feels safe and supported and loved, like I did in my grandparents’ house.
My parents and grandmother spent 40-something years sowing seeds in the garden of my heart. Since they died, the seeds of their love have taken on a life of their own. When we tend to these heirloom seeds with faithful care and compassion, the blooms are more beautiful than we ever could have imagined we were capable of growing.
Now I know what a grandmother’s love feels like, from the inside out. How strong and unconditional it is. A mother’s love, too, though I think you worry less about outcomes as a grandma.
Experiencing a grandmother’s love as the grandmother is magical. It’s like having a superpower. When you can love someone like that, you also can love yourself, including everything you haven’t loved about yourself in the past. Because now you can see through Grandmother’s eyes and heart, which changes everything. It plugs you into a bigger, more universal kind of love that transcends personal losses and heartache.
The secret gift of all these years of living, loving, and losing dear ones is: Eventually, you become love. Through our personal journeys, we connect with the Universal. If I could offer my children and grandchildren any words of advice for when I’m gone, it would be: Practice daily loving yourself as I have always loved you. Because it makes a huge, positive difference in your quality of life and also helps you to love others better.
I started today grieving the loss of my parents and ended it snuggling with my granddaughter on the couch, my heart abloom, marveling at the realization that it’s my turn to sow heirloom seeds in tender, young hearts.
And the importance of that.
© 2019 Susan Meyer. All rights reserved. To use any or all of this article, include this exactly: Susan Meyer (SusanTaraMeyer.com) is a photographer, writer, clutter coach, Reiki practitioner, feng shui consultant, and mindfulness teacher whose work is infused with a deep interest in the nature of mind and appreciation of the natural world. She lives on the Hudson River in Upstate New York.
by susantara | Jan 15, 2019 | Spiritual Journey, Teach Our Children Well |
Last weekend was different from most, even as Hidden Treasure weekends go. For starters, we did trust falls.
So there I was, standing up on the edge of a massage table with my arms crossed in front of my chest. I repeated a surrender prayer one line at a time, then leaned back and released the full weight of my body to gravity. I experienced nervous anticipation, the moment of letting go, and the unsettling sensation of moving backward through the air supported by absolutely nothing, followed by the thump of landing straight on a cushion lowered gently to the ground by several of my classmates.
As my heart pounded so hard in my chest that I thought everyone in the room could hear it, I felt the grounding touch of three sets of loving hands doing energy work on my body to integrate the experience. The rest of my body was calm, and I realized my heart was excited, happy, leaping in my chest because I’d just burst through another fear barrier – the first of the weekend.
The next morning while meditating in my room, some words drifted into my mind:
Rest assured, mama: Your children are not your children.
It felt like something was trying to come through, and these words were the first cars of the train. So I opened to the flow and an hour later had a new poem written in my notebook.
That was the easy part.
When I read the completed poem, my heart pounded in my chest, which is my signal to speak up and share something. To feel the fear, and do it, anyway. My Higher Self was encouraging me to share my writing with the group, rather than email it to them after our retreat weekend was over. I’ve learned (the hard way) not to dismiss that voice when it “speaks”.
It’s one thing to share my innermost self in writing. It’s another to speak it in front of an audience. I’ve been a teacher for several years and don’t have any problem speaking in front of a group, in general. But sharing my writing is different.
The last (and only?) time I recall reading one of my poems in front of an audience was during my dear friend, David’s, funeral in 2013. It was a poem I’d composed 24 years earlier and felt comfortable with. In contrast, the poem I felt compelled to share with the group over the weekend was brand new. I felt nervous.
But I read it anyway, heart thumping and voice trembling. Many people in the room were moved by it, thanked me for sharing, asked for a copy, and insisted they didn’t hear any shaking in my voice.
After our weekend together, I added a new goal to my list for 2019: Participate in poetry readings. The thought of reading my writing in front of strangers feels intimidating – scarier than publishing it on my website and sending it to my mailing list. There are benefits and challenges to both kinds of sharing, but face-to-face sharing is something I need to do to expand beyond the “I can’t…” stories I have about myself.
Expanding beyond self-imposed limitations is such an amazing feeling! That’s why we put ourselves through experiences that push the edges and take us out of our comfort zone in the Hidden Treasure program. It’s all for the purpose of going beyond the limiting stories of the false self to experience our boundless true nature.
So, the poem…
I think of it as a letter to my younger self when one of my children was going through a particularly challenging time. Back then, I was busy arguing with reality and really struggling to accept a situation I could not change. It just as easily could be written for my daughter who often feels bad about being a single mom, or any other parent whose vision of how parenting would be conflicts with reality. Although the poem is offered for mothers and fathers, grandparents, and anyone else who is closely involved in a child’s life, I left the first line as it came through because it feels more authentic that way.
Rest Assured, Mama
Rest assured, mama:
Your children are not your children.
You don’t understand their reasons
For being here.
Perhaps this time and place,
These circumstances,
And your imperfections
Are exactly what they need
To grow their soul.
Don’t drain your energy
Searching for a magic wand
To make everything
And everyone “better”.
Instead:
See their Divinity,
Love them unconditionally,
Trust their path,
Accept their personality,
Give them sensible boundaries,
And honor their free will.
Do your best to support their journey,
But don’t be so sure
You know what it is
Or which roads are best for them
To take or to avoid.
Even as you shape and mold them
For this crazy world,
Allow them to transform you
Through the vehicle of this world
To question your assumptions
And see your blindspots.
May your dance together
Through time and space
Turn you around and spin
The nonsense of conditioning
Off the surface
And out of your cells
So you may discover
Your Deeper Self
And put it in charge of your life
So you can trust more
And realize they
Are here for your growth
As much as you are for theirs
And that you are enough
Just as you are
And so are they.
© 2019 Susan Meyer. All rights reserved. To use any or all of this article, include this exactly: Susan Meyer (SusanTaraMeyer.com) is a photographer, writer, clutter coach, Reiki practitioner, feng shui consultant, and mindfulness teacher whose work is infused with a deep interest in the nature of mind and appreciation of the natural world. She lives on the Hudson River in Upstate New York.
by susantara | Oct 27, 2018 | Creativity, Teach Our Children Well |
Well, whaddaya know? I’m teaching again. Thought I’d never do it. Even vowed I’d never do it again. But over the summer, one of my oldest and dearest friends planted a seed in my mind. He insisted, “Susan, you might not think so, but you are a TEACHER.” It’s not what I wanted to hear. I argued that I’m excited about the more holistic direction I’m taking with clutter coaching, Reiki, feng shui, and mindfulness mentoring. I’m done with teaching. Then he suggested that I at least consider working with young children as a menu item. I listened to what he had to say. After we hung up, there was a funny feeling inside me that made me think he might be right, even though I convinced myself otherwise for quite some time.
A few weeks later, that seed was watered by an intriguing job post another friend sent along that made me light up when I read it. I went straight to the computer and composed a cover letter that essentially wrote itself, and sent it off the next day.
To make a long story short, I got the job and am running a preschool program at our local library! I’m glad my two friends acted on their intuition because it seems to be a perfect fit. It’s a part-time position that allows me to do what I loved most about teaching: Helping children to love learning and books and to feel good about themselves. Incorporating lots of literature-based art and nature projects that build kindergarten readiness skills across the curriculum.
The elements I disliked about public school education don’t apply to this job. I’m not the only adult in the room and have LOTS of assistance because the parents/grandparents/caregivers stay for the program! And there’s no formal assessment. As a kindergarten teacher, it broke my heart to see my students’ self-esteem suffer because they weren’t ready for the “new” kindergarten expectations. I jumped on the library position because it would allow me to: 1) prepare children for kindergarten in developmentally appropriate ways, and 2) model skills and activities to the adults in their lives, who can do so much at home to support their child’s learning.
I love that I can be a positive influence in the lives of young children and families again, in a much more supported way than when I was a public school kindergarten teacher. It’s wonderful to stick a toe back into the world of early childhood education, in a way that allows me to focus on my other interests, as well.
The moral? If your intuition nudges you to deliver a message to someone, DO IT! Don’t think it’s silly and shrug it off. The Universe might need you to help plant a seed that will make a positive difference in their life. It might be exactly what they need to hear to help a new path unfold.
In celebration of my return to working with “the littles” and my favorite season, here’s an activity inspired by the children’s picture book, Leaf Man, in which all the illustrations are made from autumn leaves. It’s also inspired by my favorite early childhood educator/blogger, Sally Haughey of Fairy Dust Teaching. A picture on one of Sally’s blog posts caught my eye, and I developed it into a literature-based art and science activity I did with my preschoolers this week. It would work with older children, too. (I even had fun with it on my own, as you might be able to tell from these pictures!)
How to Make Leaf-Man Inspired Nature Portraits
Materials:
- A few wooden frames (without glass; I used 8×10, 11×14, and 5×7)
- Pieces of cardboard, fabric, or paper in natural skin tones
- Assortments of natural objects, such as:
- A variety of autumn leaves
- Pinecones of different shapes
- Acorn tops and acorns (it’s nice to include some very tiny acorns still stuck inside their top, too)
- Short pieces of sticks (only an inch or two long)
- Feathers
- Shells
- Small stones
- Pieces of hazelnut shells
- Maple seed wings (“helicopters”)
- Indian corn kernels
- Naturally dyed wool
Procedure:
Arrange each category of natural objects into its own container, and place them so they are within reach of the children as they work.
Each child gets a frame with some kind of backing paper or fabric canvas underneath it. Simply allow them to create pictures of people, animals, trees, etc. using the natural materials in different arrangements.
This is an opportunity to use directional words (i.e. above, below, next to) and talk about body parts, colors, size, numbers of parts, etc. It’s also an invitation to observe and identify natural objects and to discuss the changes trees go through.
Allow them freedom of creativity!
They might even want to take a little break and observe how maple wings, feathers, and different kinds of leaves twirl, tumble, and otherwise make their way to the ground.
Here are some Nature Portraits my three- and four-year-old students made:
© 2018 Susan Meyer. All rights reserved. To use any or all of this article, include this exactly: Susan Meyer (SusanTaraMeyer.com) is a photographer, writer, clutter coach, feng shui consultant, and mindfulness teacher whose work is infused with a deep interest in the nature of mind and appreciation of the natural world. She lives on the Hudson River in Upstate New York.
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