Sure enough, the next day I’m stunned to learn that my normally shy child and her friend have read their work aloud to their entire class at school.
I was as proud of the book as Maya was, but the pride I felt was of a different sort than the kind I had felt back home when she made the honor roll in first grade. Building on academic, digital, and real-life skills, and using her creativity and imagination, she had conceptualized this project herself. She then collaborated with a friend to execute and present it, without any prompting or help from me. They owned this project from beginning to end and, moreover, they’d had fun doing it. To me this represented real, self-directed learning at its best.
So far, I’d been able to stave off Maya’s pleas for a cell phone, but some of her friends back home were starting to get them, and I knew that soon enough the day would come when she would too. Before then, I wanted to make sure I had done everything in my power to preserve her sense of wonder—that amazing feeling of curiosity and boundless possibility that we’re all born with—and keep her feet firmly rooted in the humus-clad forest floor in our backyard. Limited screen time aside, I knew that the best way to foster a love for nature and counteract a sedentary lifestyle was to give my children quality experiences outdoors as often as possible. They were off to a good start, but once Maya was introduced to the world of Snapchat, Instagram, and incessant texting, all bets would be out the window. At that point, my influence over her digital media use would be limited, and I could only hope that I had set her on a path of healthy habits. Some of that brave new world I would never understand. Some of it she would probably grow out of. Some of it would forever shape her identity in ways it had never shaped mine, simply because it was not the way of my generation. Somewhere deep inside I felt a gnawing urge that now was the time to cement her love for nature, nurture her sense of outdoor adventure, and help her to form memories that would last a lifetime.
Now was the time to take her to Lapland.
A Personal Pilgrimage
* * *
Humans have evolved in natural environments for 99.99 percent of history, so it’s not surprising that nature still affects us in profound ways. In the 1980s, the American researcher Roger Ulrich discovered that simply having a room with a view of a natural environment rather than a brick wall helped patients at a Philadelphia hospital recover more quickly from gallbladder surgery. They also reported being less depressed and having less pain. Other studies have shown that being immersed in nature can lower blood pressure, reduce stress, and lessen ADHD symptoms.
In Sweden, gardening is becoming an established form of therapy for treating mental burnout, with one project at the Swedish University of Agricultural Sciences in Alnarp successfully rehabilitating three out of four participants who had been on long-term sick leave, in some cases for as long as ten years. In Japan, shinrin-yoku, which literally means “forest bathing,” has been a part of the public health system since the 1980s and is growing in popularity. Breathing in phytoncides, volatile antimicrobial substances derived from trees, during these recreational trips to the forest can increase the activity of natural killer cells, which in turn fight tumor cells and release anticancer proteins. In the US, some physicians have started to prescribe nature time for a variety of conditions, including post-cancer fatigue, obesity, high blood pressure, and diabetes.
For children and adults with mental disorders and developmental disabilities, nature often has a soothing effect. When the girls and I meet up with Linda, a mother of three who works with people with disabilities, she tells me about an autistic man whom she took care of for several years. As part of their daily routine, they would walk to a forest near the man’s home.
“I could tell that he felt good in the woods,” she says. “At first I thought it was because of the silence, but then we found this bubbling creek and he was completely transfixed by it. He could stand there and just watch the water run through the creek for half an hour. Sometimes when I could tell that he had a lot of anxiety, I’d take him there first thing in the morning, and his anxiety would dissipate right away.” Nature is no cure-all, but there’s something about sinking your hands deep into the dirt, watching a leaf slowly make its way down a stream, or breathing in the aroma of wet soil after a light spring rain that makes us relaxed, calm, and less prone to feel anxious, angry, or depressed. Many scientists believe that these feelings are caused by what they call “soft fascination” with natural elements, which—unlike the directed attention needed to navigate through busy traffic or solve a complicated math problem—can help keep our minds at rest. A related theory holds that our sense of well-being in natural environments can be traced to a phenomenon called biophilia, our biologically innate tendency to feel affectionate toward and seek a connection with other life-forms and living systems.
I had intuitively turned often to nature as a form of therapy long before I had kids or even heard about soft fascination and biophilia. As my daughters got older, I wanted them, too, to feel that nature was a constant fixture that they could always rely on for a break from the pressures of modern life. Children may not appreciate nature for its meditative or spiritual qualities, but the habit of seeking emotional support, recreation, and inspiration from nature is established in childhood.
I’d entertained the idea of returning to Lapland for years, but when Farmor died it went from being a vague bucket-list item to a personal pilgrimage, a journey I had to undertake to find closure and honor the legacy of a life that had ended. It would also in a tangible way connect my grandparents’ lives and my own childhood with the life of my oldest daughter. For a while (actually, about a second) I considered bringing Nora as well, as her appetite for outdoor play seemed to have grown, thanks to the routines at her new preschool. Her commitment to hiking was still fly-by-night, however, and highly dependent on her mood for the day. Some days I could take her on a four-mile hike and she’d be all smiles and sunshine; other days she would dramatically drop to the ground and scream that she had broken her leg when asked to walk five hundred feet. She’d have to sit this one out, and she wasn’t particularly sorry.
When I tell my mom about my plans and ask her for advice, she gets excited.
“Of course you want to go to the mountains!” she says with a sly smile. “That’s where you were conceived, in a tent in Norway. I remember exactly where and—”
I cut her off before she is able to finish.
“I was thinking more along the lines of whether you have any recommendations on lodging or hikes, stuff like that.”
But of these my mom has no recollection. At least she’d had a good time in the mountains.
My sister’s memories of Lapland are slightly less romantic.
“I remember the mosquitoes. Big. Frigging. Mosquitoes. Make sure to stock up on mosquito spray.”
Dad, who had gone to Lapland with his parents many times growing up, is a little more helpful. He tells me about the lodge in the small resort of Björkliden, which back then was held by the government-owned railroad company and used to provide rest and recreation for state employees, like my grandfather. We talk about the perils of big ice melts from the mountains that sometimes create powerful and hard-to-cross whitewater downstream. Then he advises me not to get overly ambitious and camp on the mountain with Maya.
“It’s going to be cold up there at that time of year, especially at night. Torneträsk will probably still be covered with ice,” he says of the 550-foot-deep body of water that is a remnant of an ancient glacier and one of the longest lakes in Sweden.
At least we won’t need to worry about mosquitoes. At the start of June, when we’ll be going, it still won’t be warm enough in Lapland for them to flourish.
The trip will effectively cap our time in Sweden; the day after Maya and I return from Lapland we’ll fly back to the US. But we still have a few weeks and some loose ends to tie up before we leave for our trip. First up are parent-teacher conferences for both girls. Or, rather, parent-teacher-student
conferences, because in Sweden the child is an active part of these conversations.
As we walk into her classroom, Maya is hyper and bubbly, so different from the shy, apprehensive, and quiet girl who started at the school just five months ago, although it feels like a lifetime. Her teacher, Suzanne, starts out by asking her questions about school, what she likes, what she thinks she is good at, how she perceives the adults at the school, who she plays with, and how she feels about coming to school. She even asks her what she thinks of the school lunches.
“Our students’ well-being is so important,” Suzanne explains. “We want them to feel good about coming here and being here, because if they don’t, nothing else is going to work either. It’s so important to play and have friends and enjoy school.”
Swedish students don’t get any letter grades until sixth grade, but the teachers do record their progress and whether they are below, at, or above the requirements for their grade level, as specified in the national curriculum. Eventually, Suzanne hands over a piece of paper with Maya’s report card; she’s at grade level in all subjects, and above level in English and—of all things—Swedish. But the most important progress has probably come in areas that are not easily objectively measured.
“In the beginning I could tell that you were very quiet,” she says, and turns to Maya, “but I think you’ve come a really long way when it comes to standing up and talking in front of the class. I can tell that you feel safe here, and when that’s the case, it’s natural to become more assertive.”
Later that same week, it’s Nora’s turn. She, too, gets to participate in part of her parent-teacher conference, and is asked to share what she likes at the preschool and whether there’s anything that she misses about the US. First, though, Ellen, the preschool teacher, dives into a set of questions that the teachers use to evaluate the children. How does Nora show interest in collaborating with others? How does she show consideration for others? How does she express her thoughts and opinions? She tells me that Nora seems happy at preschool and always finds something to do, often with friends like Kerstin, but also by herself. She likes to do crafts, draw, weave, play in the sandbox, and sculpt with play-dough. Ellen commends her motor skills and her command of the Swedish language and says that she’s creative and imaginative. Ellen is not interested in whether Nora can count to ten, twenty, or a hundred, but we talk at length about how she’s showing interest in math.
Ellen tells me that a few weeks ago Barbro, the other preschool teacher, had worked with some of the children on that topic. She had brought out a tray with some random items: a butterfly, a roll of tape, a brush, a troll doll, and some things from the toy kitchen. The children were then tasked with pairing two of the items and explaining why they thought they belonged together. Nora was first up, and she picked the butterfly and the troll.
“At first Barbro was surprised and didn’t understand why Nora made that association,” Ellen said. “But then Nora explained that they both belong in nature. We thought that was a really clever answer.”
If previously I had thought of preschool math as being “one plus one is two,” Nora’s teachers showed me that it can be a lot more.
A few weeks before we are to leave for Lapland, I pull up in front of the preschool and park the car. The children are all outside as usual, some of them racing each other on trikes back and forth on the paved path that goes through the yard, others building castles in the sand play area. As I’ve been doing lately, I stay in the car for a moment and observe the scene from a distance. It takes me a while to spot Nora, but then I see her, on a red trike. She’s wearing jeans that are worn thin over the knees, a red T-shirt, and her pink Frozen baseball hat, and she’s spinning fast in ever-smaller circles, obviously enjoying the thrill of speed and the small risk of tipping over. Her face is caked in sandbox dust and her jeans are covered with grass stains. She’s only five years old, but she’s gotten visibly taller over the past few months. Her baby belly is disappearing quickly and she’s already asking to get her ears pierced. In three short months, she’ll be starting kindergarten. All I can think of at this moment are all the lasts—the last days that she’ll spend hours on end outside making mud pies, riding her trike, painting sticks, lounging in a tree. Of course I want her to grow up, but I can’t help but wonder if, once we get back to the US, her childhood is going to slip away too fast.
As I walk up to the green metal gate and see her face light up in a big grin when she sees me, I fight back tears.
Goodbye, Shack
* * *
For nearly six months we had lived in a five-hundred-square-foot house with one shared bedroom and a tiny bathroom with four minutes’ worth of hot water. My wardrobe made minimalism master Marie Kondo look like a hoarder, and the girls had survived with fewer toys than I ever could have imagined. Even more remarkably, they hadn’t once told me they were bored. There had certainly been times when I missed our “old” life (sleeping in my own bedroom, with all lights turned off, now seemed like a luxury), but I’d also discovered a new kind of simplicity, and it was liberating.
During our last week, we pack up our lives in three suitcases and six carry-on backpacks and wheeler bags. Whatever is left goes in paper bags: three for recycling, two for items to donate, and two with leftover food for my mom. She would get the pepper plant that Nora planted at preschool in a cut-off juice carton as well.
Before we move out we go for one final walk through the nature preserve down the road. As usual when both girls are with me, we don’t move fast. There are simply too many things that constantly require their full attention. A beetle dragging another beetle around. A fallen tree that’s begging to get climbed. An ant trail crossing our path.
“Look, Nora! The ants are collaborating to get the food to the anthill!” Maya shouts as she takes a closer look. Nora, however, ignores her, as she’s busy devouring a stand of wood sorrel, a kid favorite among wild edible plants. I’m taking it all in from a moss-clad stump, letting each passing moment warm me, along with the afternoon sun.
On our way back, near the Scout cabin, a small frog jumps across the trail. Like an expert hunter-gatherer, Maya effortlessly sweeps it up with one hand. The girls love on it for a few minutes; then I suggest that it’s time to move on.
“We have to let it go, Nora,” Maya tells her little sister in a serious tone. “It belongs here in the woods.”
“But I really want to keep it as a pet,” Nora says, disappointed and on the verge of tears.
“That’s okay, Nora. Don’t be sad. We can order another one from Facebook.”
Nora is not completely clear on what Facebook is, nor does she know that, in fact, the social media site is typically not where one would go to purchase pet frogs, but none of that matters. She’s comforted by her big sister’s words and we’re able to finish our walk, embraced by the evening sun and the knowledge that summer is upon us.
A few days later, it’s time for Maya’s school’s commencement ceremony at the local church. The pews are decorated with purple lupines, and the program is full of hymns that lionize nature and summer, evoking images of flowering meadows, wild strawberries threaded on grass straws, and cows that have just been released for their summer grazing. Several of the songs are the same ones that I used to sing during my own commencement ceremonies, eons ago. One of them, “The Barefoot Song,” is exactly what the title implies: a celebration of running around without socks and shoes. When it’s time for the school’s principal to give her traditional speech, this is also one of her main themes.
“You’ve been cooped up way too long, and your feet have been trapped in shoes,” she says as she addresses the school’s eighty-some students. “Now is the time to throw them off and walk around barefoot. Promise me that you will do that!”
Chances are she won’t need to ask them twice.
After the ceremony we go to my mom’s house to prepare for my and Maya’s flight to Kiruna, Lapland, later that night. In my former life, before I
had kids, I used to be organized. I used to plan ahead and make checklists. I’d been that rare (and, admittedly, somewhat annoying) breed that would even arrive early to parties. Now I sat here, a few hours before our flight, and wondered if I should cut the handle off my toothbrush, as some extreme adventurers are known to do to minimize weight, or ditch my deodorant to make room for Maya’s favorite stuffed animal, a raggedy cat named Pelle, and still keep my backpack manageable for hiking. In the end, I do neither, instead choosing to leave behind my woolen long underwear and some other spare clothes for myself. Whether this is a wise decision or not remains to be seen.
I also pack my grandmother’s favorite necklace, a simple silver chain with a heart pendant that she used to wear every day, which I’ve carefully tended since her death three years earlier. When she died, I’d wanted to spread some of her ashes in the mountains of Lapland, the place that she and Farfar had cherished and chosen to return to time after time, but was told by the funeral home that according to Swedish law it’s not legal to split up the remains from a cremation. I decided instead to bury the necklace somewhere in Lapland—I would know the right place when I saw it—so that a part of Farmor would always remain in the mountains.
If we even make it there, that is. At six o’clock Friday evening, shortly after our first flight to Stockholm has taken off, negotiations over employment contracts between Scandinavian Airlines and the pilots’ union break down and the pilots decide to call a strike. With this, most SAS flights, including the last leg of our trip, are canceled, leaving airports across the country crippled and teeming with frustrated travelers. After waiting in line for two hours to get help, all we have to show for it is a room for the night at a mediocre airport hotel, but no way of getting to Lapland in the near future. A sympathetic woman behind the SAS help desk books us on the first flight on Sunday but doesn’t give me much hope that the strike will be over by then.
There’s No Such Thing as Bad Weather Page 23
