ByOutside in Alaska's Tongass rainforest, where my children feel most at peace.
My son, a bright and hyperactive second grader with sensory processing issues, managed to get in trouble even while isolated at home. He hijacked the lesson by sharing his screen, changed his name to “Yo Johnny, Minecraft at 4:00,” and blew up the chat feed with video game jargon. He replaced his background picture with a ridiculous photo of himself, then hopped out of the frame to see if the teacher would notice.
We began to venture into the wilderness regularly, opting out of the Zooms and classwork entirely. Every day we explored moss-shrouded trails, empty rocky beaches, and secluded alpine meadows abundant with wildflowers. Instead of filling out worksheets, my children climbed trees and created magic wands with beach glass, shells, and heart-shaped rocks while rain pelted their faces and wind whipped their hair. They worked together to build forts out of driftwood.
When we returned home, we researched the answers to our questions. We learned about how the trees communicate and share nutrients through their roots, mitochondria, and the pheromones they emit through the air. We discovered how the moon controls the tide, and with it our moods and behavior, as we are also made of water. We investigated the history of mining in our area, evidenced in the big rusty wheels and broken tile we found on the beaches.
When school resumed in the fall, the rainy season changed to sideways sleet, and we were forced indoors. My children returned to full-time remote learning, but they had already become feral. They had swapped out their toys for rocks, shells, mud, and plants. My daughter chewed sticks and leaves that she pulled off the houseplants, turned my guitar strings into bracelets, and beheaded my flowers to create mandalas.