I am pretty sure half of these posts refer to hiking. It makes it sound as if hiking is our life. (I would be totally happy about that, by the way. A hike a day? Yes! Unfortunately, we have things like work, school, and…responsibilities.)
Hiking is a wonderful activity that provides multiple opportunities for teaching and learning. Hiking is hard work. Hiking is rewarding. Hiking requires that hard work before the reward. Creating situations that foster learning and delayed gratification is difficult in the world of today. Separating my children from screens and a pantry full of food is key, and I feel it is a prerequisite to allowing my children’s brains to develop a deeper understanding of themselves, the importance of sacrifice, and the beauty of nature.
For these reasons, my husband and I decided to take our children hiking…again…on Labor Day weekend this year. I do not particularly love hiking on Labor Day weekend. The trails in Utah are absolutely packed on holiday weekends, and the parking resembles that of an amusement park. It is just overwhelming. For this reason I woke my family up the rather early hour of 6:30 am, and we were out the door by 7:10.
I had heard of this hike to a not so secret lake called Cecret Lake that everyone assured me was just beautiful. It lived up to its reputation. It was breathtakingly beautiful. And the parking ended up being a nonissue.
We have hiked enough this year that a 1 ½ mile hike really is considered a short hike now. That’s not to say there was no complaining, but it was minimal.
One side of the little lake had some pretty short but steep vertical drops from the ground to the water. Aurora, greatly resembling a mountain goat, decided to climb down an especially treacherous looking area to get to a minuscule landing about a foot from the water and about 10 feet down from the main ground level.
As she climbed over and around a small evergreen bush growing out of the side of the edge, I noticed a much easier path down just a few feet away.
“Aurora,” I said in exasperation, “why don’t you just go around? You’re going the hard way.”
She took a second away from her focus on her awkward perch to glare at me. “I like doing things the hard way,” she huffed and turned back to her climb.
“Never,” I pursed my lips, “have you spoken truer words, my dear.”
Sometimes I just ache, I just desperately wish, I just plead inside my head that she could do things the easy way. Maybe just for a while to see how much, well, easier it is.
About 3 years ago, when Aurora was still in public school, Ike and I had a hurried discussion as I was walking out the door. We were filling each other in on where all of the children stood in their attempts to finish their chores and homework.
“Aurora has to finish her math homework still before she can play,” I added before I closed the door.
An hour later I returned home and the first thing Ike said was, “Aurora says she lost her homework.”
“Hmph…right,” I sighed.
She had been working on it in her room. I knew that. She hid it on purpose. I assumed that. The homework is hidden in her room. I devised a plan.
“Aurora, we have to find your homework,” I said.
“I don’t know where it is,” she retorted.
“I know, but we’re going to help you find it,” I answered. “You look in your room, Daddy will look in the car, and I will look downstairs and then come join you in your room to look there.”
Two minutes later…
“I found it!” she shouted from the landing.
“Perfect,” I smiled. And sighed again. Aurora likes to do things the hard way.
I’ve written about how she likes to do things the creative way or the interesting way. Sometimes I think it all equals the same thing: the hard way. Obviously my goal, Aurora finishing her homework, was not the same as her goal. I can only guess at what her goal was. It was probably something like: get away with not doing my homework as long as possible. Or maybe it was something less defined like: don’t think about doing homework. I don’t know. I will continue to do my best trying to understand, teach, and love this child, but it sure is exhausting to continually watch her do things the hard way. It is just so much, well, harder.
I know there will come a times when my job will be to just step back and allow her to experience just how hard the hard way can be. I know the consequences of choosing her own way may become more dire as she ages. In stepping back and allowing this to happen, I hope to continue to be a light she can look to.