Nature Walks in a Digital Age

Recommended soundtrack to reading this post, click thee upon it:  "Still Fighting It" (Ben Folds) 

My son Eugene paid me a great compliment recently. We were on a “nature walk”, which means we traipse slowly around the block filling our pockets with pine cones and helicopter seeds. He was astride his “new” tractor—a plastic four-wheeler we got from a yard sale for a few pesos. We found some sticks for a sword fight, and as I took stance with my maple saber he asked,  “Are you a boy?”

I've been queried on the subject before, in circumstances less idyllic. In my mid twenties, a counselor told me I had a “teenage assurance” nothing bad would ever happen to me. Through the smoking wreckage of one of several romances in my young adult years, my ex recommended I look into maturity. Finally, junior high gym class when the coach with his knee brace and ill-fitting shorts said he was “ fixin’ to separate men from boys.” Until that afternoon walk with my son Eugene, most of these observations about my boy/man hood hadn't been flattering.

It's interesting how often the question is asked—or the observation made—in reverse. Oh grow up! Is the cliché when someone whines abut the harshness of the world or eats Red Vines and animal crackers for breakfast (a purely hypothetical example of course).  The idea being that to grow up is to choke down life as it is, hard as it may be to swallow.  

Jesus said, “unless you turn and become like children you will not enter the kingdom of heaven.” How would these words have fallen in our culture?  We're at a strange time. There are over a million apps available on the iPhone in my hand, and most of those are games. On the other hand, the average age an American kid loses their virginity—a traditional threshold of adulthood—is 16 compared to 21 a couple generations ago. My grandparents may have lived in a small town and believed that when you wrote a letter to the president, he personally read it, but by the time my grandpa was 22 he was married with two kids and ran his own farm. When I was 22 I couldn't keep track of my debit card, but I could quote Family Guy episodes ad nauseum.  The first time our grandparents saw the other sex naked they'd gotten married earlier that afternoon; today a boy is in fifth grade when he first views hardcore pornography.

So, we are less sheltered. We look down our noses at the previous generations’ credulity and optimism. We imagine ourselves disillusioned: the cool cultural heirs of Albert Camus and Hunter Thompson, Rolling Stones playing on our restored vintage record player. (Incidentally, if you met Camus he'd think you were an American brute, Mick and Keith would drink all your booze, and Hunter would hit on your daughter). We are independent, self-directed--our sentimentality cauterized.

Yet with all our sophistication, our maturity hasn't  taken up the slack. My son might well ask if I'm a boy, and I can answer him that no, I don't believe in the tooth fairy or the little man who turns off the light in the fridge. Yet ask me to make a tough career decision or figure out how my taxes work, and I’d probably rather go jump in puddles with Eugene. My dad always used to joke that his baby boomer generation’s only cultural contribution was the skateboard. Well, dad, all we did was reboot the skateboard and make it into a Playstation game. Meanwhile, as the off-color quipping of  Lenny Bruce in the 60s has become the acidic vitriol of Daniel Tosh today, we haven't gotten any wiser.

My actual answer to my son: “Yep, I'm a boy Eugene. Grown ups are just older kids, don't let anyone tell you different.” I sat there swimming in my own depth; Eugene ran after a squirrel. He graciously broke my trance with his latest question that always puts my heart in a vice grip, “You wanna play with me?” Then we found a ladybug, then a robin’s egg, then watched  airplane thunder down the belly of the sky.  

I helped him find rocks to throw in muddy water, and he squealed as I pushed him on his tiny vehicle down the alley. What do I need to do? Why this churning feeling that I have to—what, check my Facebook newsfeed? Check my email for up-to-the-minute spam? This itch that there are things happening I simply must know, as if the only real remaining sin is to be out of touch.I've got to go do adult things—watch the news and worry about high blood pressure—no time for nature walks.

Slowly, and with a few more squirrel chases,  the chatter of American daily life drains away. I find myself free—if only for a few minutes—to breathe spring air and watch my boy be mesmerized by a passing ice cream truck.

I think this is what Jesus was talking about. “Turn and become like children”—just being for a minute. Turning—pausing—to see the wonder of the seconds and be grateful. But first and foremost to shut up and look at it. Eugene seeing himself in a puddle; dancing with my one-year-old daughter to “Daydream Believer.”

In life it's often up the air if we can be better, but can't we be better? For me, it is vital to remember that nature walks are the point of my day. My time with my son is the pulp, the flesh of it—the rest is just the shell.

So my two year old asks, “Are you a boy?” I'm trying to be, son. Please teach me. But you are a boy, and my life's purpose is give you shelter, so you can be one as long as possible.