Put on a Grey Ribbon for Borg Awareness

He didn’t hear me. I ask again, “Don’t you want to play on the rocks?”

The sun is shining brightly, and there’s a chill in the breeze that reminds me that we’re nearing the end of our warm days. Kids run and play among big grey rocks on our postmodern village green. People talk and laugh over beer at the table next to us. Across the plaza, there’s a steady stream of people in and out of the library, and in still moments, I can make out the sounds of a fountain.

An event is disbanding here in the square. Perhaps a hundred people in running and walking attire mull and scatter after a round of applause and a cheer. Most of the participants have those “awareness” ribbons, though the color is one I haven’t seen before, and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be aware of. People are smiling and making the most of a gorgeous day.

Yet, here my son sits, hunched over the tablet that the restaurant had kindly handed the kids to keep them occupied before lunch arrived. He’s engrossed in a video game, oblivious to the world around him. I look at him, and can’t help but think of the Borg.

For those less accomplished in the nerd arts, the Borg were the cyberzombies from the various post-Kirk Star Trek series. They were an intimidatingly vast empire cobbled together from members of Trek’s myriad humanoid peoples. Such unfortunate people were “assimilated”— enslaved into the Borg collective— by means of a hodgepodge of gadgets (and superfluous hoses) that left the victims partially mechanized, soulless drones coldly bent on assimilating everyone else. Introduced into the Trek franchise a bit more than a quarter century ago in The Next Generation, and playing a central role in Voyager and First Contact, the Borg symbolized the dehumanizing potential of technology.

Like the best of science fiction, the Borg were and remain a parable for real issues affecting real people in the real world. While the Borg were introduced in an era when many people still had green screens and were plinking away on command lines (as God intended), they’ve become even more relevant since the advent of the Worldwide Web and the mobile device revolution. We spend more and more time fixated on monitors, and we introduce our kids to this at younger and younger ages.

Kids do need to be technologically literate. That’s the world we live in. There’s legitimate value in some screen time, and parents need to educate kids about technology to help them to be good students, conscientious citizens, and eventually to build careers. Likewise, well-made applications in moderation can contribute to creativity and encourage kids to socialize around common interests. But, when I see kids wasting the last warm day of the season or obsessing about Plants vs. Zombies, it feels like the Borg are winning, assimilating the human race one child at a time.

There are real consequences to this. Not remotely surprisingly, the rise in the prevalence in childhood obesity has been linked to increased screen time, including time spent playing video games, surfing the Internet, and watching television. Among many other issues, this increases the risk of type 2 diabetes and asthma, and carries a greater risk of depression and behavioral problems. Equally unsurprisingly, the more direct access kids have to these devices, the greater the risk. The Harvard School of Public Health describes studies that found, for example, that children with televisions in their bedrooms are “more likely to gain excess weight than children who don’t”. It’s not a huge leap for parents to surmise that our kids’ ready access to tablets and handheld games may have a similar effect.

Kids with attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder may encounter other problems with video games. While anycasual relationships between ADHD and screen time is still being researched and debated, there’s evidence thatspending significant time plugged into video games is associated with more and greater symptoms of the disorder. There’s also research that finds an increased risk of video game addiction among boys with autism spectrum disorder and ADHD.

With so many reasons to prevent overuse, why not put on a gray ribbon to remind ourselves to limit our kids screen time? Like many of the other causes and concerns that inspire people to don a ribbon, kids’ overdependence on gadgets for entertainment is a legitimate concern. Unlike most diseases, though, allowing our kids to overuse iPads and PlayStation to their detriment is a choice. As parents, we can choose to create and enforce limits.

We can instead choose to spend time playing outside, socializing, being artistic, or playing with tangible toys. Young minds and bodies are going to develop more by actually cobbling together makeshift tools from rocks and sticks than by digging out another block in Minecraft. (Those blocks, incidentally, are perfect cubes, just like Borg spacecraft. Coincidence?)

Unplugging to play outside is particularly important. Time spent outside can carry some of the same physical and psychological benefits as meditation. In describing recent brain research related to time spent in natural settings that include water, Wallace J. Nichols goes so far as to write, “You don’t need to meditate to take advantage of [water’s] healing effects, because [water] meditates you.” For those parents unfamiliar with how to introduce kids to nature in a way that they’ll find engaging, Joseph Bharat Cornell’s book Sharing Nature with Children offers a variety of nature games that can be adapted to city parks, suburbs, beaches, or deep woods.

Today, sipping my iced tea at a sunny table, I decide that the line must be drawn here. I’m putting a stop to the Borg. I could give up Tuvok and Torres, hack their sleep system, blow up the Enterprise, or hose the enemy with plasma coolant. If any of those options were immediately available to me, I might take advantage of one of them. Since, alas, these are the province of Janeway and Picard, I opt for the comparatively tame alternative of taking away the tablet, observing that it’s a beautiful fall day, and insisting that my son should go play.

This article previously appeared on The Good Men Project.

Wilderness Delivered Nightly

She’s looking out the window, watching thick woods fly by at 60 miles per hour. I can see a pensive look on her face in the rearview mirror. There’s a question that my four-year-old daughter hasn’t quite formulated yet, something about the fireflies, or why the sky turns orange when the Sun’s setting, or why the stars seem to turn on one by one. But, we have somewhere to be, and we’re probably running late, so it seems that there’s no time for a walk in the woods.

Engaging kids in nature is important for their development and can be a lot of fun for families. A number of scientists and educators, like Stanford’s Greg Bratman and David Suzuki have written about the science of how and why nature is good for people. Richard Louv, in his iconic book, Last Child in the Woods, emphasized the benefits of outdoor time for kids’ psychological, physical, and spiritual wellbeing. Time spent outdoors also cultivates curiosity, and prompts a lot of thinking and questions about science, math, and geography.

Alas, for those of us living in cities and suburbs the apparent distance between home and “nature” can make it challenging to find outside time. Throw-in homework, swimming, and kiddie-parkour, and the free time seems already spent. It’s hard to make time for a green hour.

But as the Sun goes down each evening, an astounding wilderness is revealed overhead. From the meteors skimming the nearby edge of our own atmosphere to the Andromeda Galaxy, some 2.5 million light years away, space is nature you can readily access with your kids without having to travel more than a few steps from home.

Fall is a great time to get started with sky-watching. Increasingly long nights and the eventual end of Daylight Savings Time cooperate to deliver dark skies earlier and earlier each evening. Stargazing and bedtime are less likely to conflict. Fall also coincides with the Earth passing through debris trails left by various comets, resulting in some beloved annual meteor showers: the Southern Taurids (peaking around October 10), Orionids (October 21), Northern Taurids (November 12), Leonids (November 17), and Geminids (December 13).

You don’t need a telescope to get started. In fact, I’d advise against getting one for a while. Young kids have a hard time focusing on objects using a telescope, and the time spent setting up and breaking down the scope may significantly exceed the amount of time that young kids can comfortably (and enjoyably) attend to sky-watching.

Some simple equipment can be useful, though, when you’re getting started. Locating objects in the night sky may be a bit easier with a basic magnetic compass. Also, a pair of binoculars can resolve lunar craters or reveal that Venus has phases, much like our Moon. If you already own these, then by all means use them, but there’s no need to dash out to spend on them.

It’s OK if the kids get distracted. Especially the first few times, there may be a lot of general excitement about playing outside after dark. Kids also get very fixated on gear. The invisible force that keeps the compass needle pointing in the same direction may warrant repeated investigation. And why point your binoculars at the Moon, when your brother, the car, my shoes, and this pebble are much better targets? And, there may be a fair amount of talk about Jedi that leads to light-saber battles.

Relax, keep at it, and don’t turn it into a chore. The goal is to minimize all of the barriers that get in the way of young kids engaging with nature. If the kids are having fun, they’ll want to do it again, and eventually, they’ll want to watch the stars. Your ally is preparation; your enemies are time and weather. Here are a few tips to help prepare and to thwart the enemy:

Look at a sky chart beforehand and have a plan for what you’re going to look at: Talk about what you’re going to observe. It’s perfectly appropriate, especially for little ones, for the whole observing experience to consist of a game of finding Venus or a constellation or two, and spending a moment looking at them.

Start with an easy target: If you’re not sure what observe first, try the Moon. It’s easy to spot, and the phase changes are very conspicuous. Consult a chart to make sure you choose an observing time during which the moon will be up.

Choose a sky-watching spot where you can sit or lie down, preferably away from bright lights: Standing and craning your neck will wear you and the kids out quickly, and you’d be surprised by how often kids staring at the Moon will bump into each other and fall down. That might be funny the first time.

Check the weather and bundle up: Make sure you’ll have clear skies. Also, since you’ll be mostly inactive, you’ll want to dress warmer than you would for hiking or playing at the park in similar temperatures. If you plan to observe for more than a few minutes (for instance, if you’re watching an eclipse or meteor shower), consider bringing a tarp or picnic blanket to go on the ground, plus a blanket to cover you.

Minimize flashlight use and let eyes adjust to the dark for 15 minutes: Light sources (other than pure red light) work against your body’s natural ability to see in the dark. If you can safely navigate to your viewing spot without lights, this reduces adjustment time when you arrive. The few minutes dedicated to adjusting can also be good time for kids to get out some energy so that they’re ready to look at stars when it’s time.

Have hot drinks when you get back inside: This not only helps you to warm up after a chilly outing, but creates a natural time for kids to talk about what they saw or ask questions. If your kids are like mine, this should be a surprise. Otherwise, the subtlety of stargazing will have to compete with the promise of hot chocolate.

Have fun: Remember, sky watching is not a chore, but a family activity to be enjoyed together.

As my daughter and I cruise down the highway, she wants to know if the moon is getting bigger or smaller. It’s a question about phases. I remind her that it’s getting bigger when it’s round on the right side, with the cutout part on the left side. I tell her that it’s a quarter of a million miles away, across a vast wilderness of space.

She takes in the view and dreams.

Versions of this article previously appeared on The Good Men Project and The Children and Nature Network blog.

Introducing the Blue Hour

The calendar on the kitchen wall looks like a chessboard, some of its squares filled-in with so many events that they’re almost black. Only, a proper chessboard would have regular white squares in between. Mine has mostly dark squares, and none of the cells are exactly empty.

There’s soccer practice, track practice, and track meets. And soccer games. And ballet, and honors chorus, and Cub Scouts, and the Arts and Science Fair. There’s an event that’s been crossed out, but then circled and underlined, and there’s an acronym I don’t recognize with a time next to it. I think I’m supposed to bake brownies for that, which reminds me that I need to find time to get to Dawson’s for cinnamon and dark chocolate. When’s that going to happen?

Every minute of our kids’ time (and our time, for that matter) is accounted for, most to be spent either inside or on sprawling fields of manicured grass, with car rides in between. Intuitively, it seems like too much structure and not nearly enough real outside-time.

In his 2005 book, Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children from Nature-Deficit Disorder, Richard Louv presents research that shows that spending time in natural settings is essential for kids’ psychological, physical, and spiritual wellbeing. He uses the term ‘green hour’ for unstructured time spent in nature, whether it be wilderness or an overgrown lot at the end of the road. Louv advises parents to carve out time for things like exploring and playing in the dirt, and hands the reader approaches to talking to school- and community leaders about enabling this.

Louv’s ideas about outside-time are on my mind as my train takes me underground, the jewel of a spring sky abruptly giving way to the muggy darkness and dingy light of WMATA’s tunnels. I’m on my way to Blue Mind 5, a conference dedicated to how people interact with water, and the intersections of brain science and conservation.

The Blue Mind summit is organized something like a TED event, full of new ideas, but with an old-fashion and genuine feel that stems from strangers meeting around a common passion. In addition to the usual academics, consultants, and nonprofit leaders who share research and innovative thinking at this sort of event, Blue Mind involves others who bring unusual and profound perspectives on the water.

Yes, there are artists and adventurers, and their stories about the beauty of vanishing marine life and cheating death on the high seas are poignant and harrowing. But perhaps more significant are the people less accustomed to standing at the podium. An 83-year-old community leader talks about his hometown’s struggle to build a public pool, and its significance for a man who grew up in segregated America. A former US Marine shares in pointed detail his personal war with depression, alcohol abuse, and sleep disorders, and how Operation Surf is helping him overcome them by riding the waves.

While much of the neuroscience describing the positive effects of time in and around water is still in its infancy, it seems clear enough that there are real benefits. Some of this is described in Wallace J. Nichols’ book, Blue Mind: The Surprising Science That Shows How Being Near, In, On, or Under Water Can Make You Happier, Healthier, More Connected, and Better at What You Do. Research suggests that relaxing by the water has benefits beyond relaxing in other settings, and similarly, that exercising in -or simply being in- the water carries its own set of positive results. Researchers have speculated about using water exercise and therapies to help manage everything from attention-deficit disorder to stress and sleep disorders.

As science pieces out how to measure and test these benefits, complicated by the tricky business of adapting clinical equipment for use in the water, we parents have a luxury that peer-reviewed scientists don’t: We can simply say, “This works for our family, so let’s do it.” From a parent’s standpoint, it doesn’t necessarily matter whether something has to do with reducing stress hormone levels, or if it’s leftover genetic programming that predisposed early humans to spend time near resource-rich waters. What matters is that it works.

Unfortunately, in a community that celebrates being overscheduled and highly accomplished, any activity that doesn’t deliver a certificate, a grade, or a trophy has little hope of getting space on the calendar. There are already more organized activities than there’s time for, and if there were an extra couple of hours in the week, convention seems to demand that they be spent on more of the same. Time spent in the water, doing nothing in particular, seems frivolous.

Establishing a blue hour, a bit of unstructured or loosely structured time in, on, or around the water, will create legitimacy. Lovechild of Louv’s green hour and Nichols’ blue mind, the blue hour affirms parents’ common sense with established and emerging research on the benefits unwinding, being outside, and enjoying the water. This gives us social permission for regularly doing things like hunting for shark teeth, paddling on the lake, or swimming without a team.

The blue hour---which by no means needs to be exactly one hour---provides time for relaxing, getting exercise, exploring, praying, thinking, chatting, or some other undertaking so seemingly inconsequential that there’s not a word for it. The lack of structure is important, because this makes space for the mind to spend time engaged (or disengaged) in whatever way it needs to. Being in or close to the water also creates a natural barrier to distractions from electronic devices. Kids can’t play Angry Birds while wading in a tide pool, and Dad can’t check email with both hands on a paddle.

This act of subversion can take place anywhere you can access a conspicuous body of water. Beaches, lakes, and riverfronts seem likely candidates, but so too are overgrown creeks and ponds. Though natural places offer the combined benefits of the green hour and the blue hour, there’s no reason that you can’t get at least a little of both at an outdoor swimming pool.

It’s perfectly OK to leave blanks on the calendar that will enable whatever water time the season and the day call for, or if need be, draw a battle line by actually scheduling this wasted time. If the plan is simply to head to the lake or the pool, you’ve successfully built a blue hour into the schedule without overwhelming the experience with structure.

If it’s hard to rationalize an activity that has no hope of being itemized on a college application, then think of it as cross training for your and your kids’ brains. Runners may do some yoga to overcome poor flexibility, and soccer players may take up a bit of cycling to build endurance without the stress on the knees. Likewise, anyone getting a biology degree is also going to take courses in chemistry. All of these endeavors help to fill gaps, create breadth, or solve problems associated with specialization. In a similar way, your blue hour helps your kids to be ready to learn and compete better by complementing their formal sports and academics.

Time in, on, or around the water is good for your kids’ bodies and minds. The science is already beginning to explain why this is, and seems poised to provide more practical insight. In the meantime, we need to prioritize these kinds of positive experiences that help our kids to be healthy and happy. How will you spend your next blue hour?

A version of this article originally appeared on The Good Men Project.

Nests, surprises, and mysteries

I feel like I’m writing a lot about birds lately, which is ironic. Among the pantheon of living things to know about, birds have always been a peculiar gap in my knowledge. But, nests were the stars today, so it’s a day to write about them. When teaching kids about nature, nature often dictates the terms and timing.

This morning, I was doing my weekly rounds of filling up the seed feeder and inspecting the nesting box at church. Following an unbroken span of weeks in which the only visitor was a wasp, last week I’d found a tidy little nest made entirely of pine straw. This week, I found in the nest three perfect blue eggs.

I hollered over the fence to let the kids know. Both of mine were thrilled to see the eggs, and there were a few others on the playground who stopped by for a boost to look at them. They’re perhaps about the size of a penny, if not a bit smaller. My son declared, “They’re blue! These are robin eggs!”

I explained that robins aren’t cavity nesters, and that the gauge of the nesting box is simply too small for a robin to squeeze through. I said that I don’t know, but I’ll do some reading to find out. My hunch is that they may be eastern blue birds, but alas, I’m even less clever about eggs than I am about birds.

My daughter wanted to know if we were going to watch them hatch, but I told her that it would be days. This was enough to send her running back to play on the playground.

In the afternoon, I discovered that a waif of a bird has taken up residence in a nesting box I’ve had for a couple of years. Übernanny Emma had helped the kids make the box for Father's Day a couple of years ago. I promptly weather sealed it and hung it in an inconspicuous part of a conifer right next to a living room window. After a couple of years with no evidence of use either for roosting or nesting I moved it to hang from a flowering dogwood in the backyard.
While moving some bags of topsoil, I noticed the box moving. As I approached, out flew a slight, tawny bird, somewhat smaller than a goldfinch. Looking inside the box, I saw a complete but ragged nest, made as much from bits of string, paper, and plastic, as stray grass and weeds I'd pulled earlier. I don't recognize the bird at all.

I told the kids about the little bird, and it sparked some discussion. Both of them are hoping to spot it, and both have suggested every species they know as a possible identity. I’m still stumped, but am reading up on the little guys. In any event, it’s become a mystery for us to solve together.

Just Do It

I had the idea a long time ago: I’d organize a camping trip through the church. I’d lead hikes. We would rent canoes and spot meteors, depending on when we went. I told myself over and over that I’d get something on the calendar. Four years went by before our first outing.
Staffing the Environment Commission’s booth at Hometown Holidays was a conflict one year, a watershed event another year. There was a proposal to write for work, and something to do for a professional organization. Then, there’s ballet, taekwondo, tee ball, swimming, and music class. Every time I thought we had found a date, someone who wanted to join in had a conflict. Waiting for the opportunity when there’s ample lead time to plan and no conflicts all the way around meant that years went by without organizing even one trip.
So, we wing it. The trips are loosely planned. We meet someplace where there’s some variety in things to do- swimming, hiking, poking around exhibits in the ranger station. We eat some meals all together, and some as individual families. Maybe we’ll hike together, maybe we won’t. Maybe we’ll see the falls, maybe we won’t. And since we actually do it (with a plan that we’ll do it again), there’s always next time for anyone who missed this outing.

Waiting for the perfect time, and operating under the expectation that everything would be planned out like a cruise, meant that it just wasn’t happening. Making it happen is far more important getting every detail right. Kids need unstructured time outside. There’s ample research that this is good for their bodies and good for their minds. When they meet friends and explore together, it’s also good for their social development.
So, go spend a night or two outside with your kids in the next couple of weeks. It’s a great time of year to do it, and you can even be part of the National Wildlife Federation’s Great American Backyard Campout (even if you’re camping somewhere other than a backyard). Don’t overcomplicate, don’t overspend, but have a good time outside.

Little Blue Flowers

A few weeks ago, we took a day-trip into the city to see the cherry blossoms. I’ve lived here all my life, but cannot recall ever making the pilgrimage to see the monuments framed by pink blooms. I packed lunch and the little stroller and we made our way in. I had planned to arrive early, start the morning with a walk beneath the blossoms, and have lunch in a museum before heading home.

I had a plan.

Instead we arrived late and managed only to make it into The Castle, which houses just a small sampling of what can be found in the other museums. We ate lunch at the wrong time. We were running behind schedule. Right around the when I had intended to head home, we were just barely beginning the trek toward the blossoms.

She wanted to walk and I didn’t want to discourage it, but it’s hard to get anywhere quickly with two little feet trudging behind you. She went along at her own pace, skipping then slowing, strolling then stopping. It’s a long walk down the mall for a just-three-year-old, especially for one who is absolutely fascinated by the blue flowers speckling the grass.

A man with a bike cart noticed us. He approached slowly and asked if we wanted a ride. “No, thank you,” I replied.

He raised his eyebrows. “It’s going to take a long time. You’re sure?”

In my eagerness to get to the main event, I wanted so much to hop into that little cart. However, between the expense and the blue flowers, I knew we had to walk. “I’m sure. Thank you.”

He must have thought I was crazy. There I was, a grown-up, with the opportunity to take charge of the situation. I had the chance to speed things along, but I opted to indulge in the enchantment of a three-year-old.

We did eventually make it to the cherry blossoms. We moved slowly. All because she had seen something I hadn’t. Those blue flowers. In my rushing and my planning, I had missed them. The cherry blossoms, though gorgeous, paled in comparison to the pure joy of a little girl lying nose to the ground, seeking those little bits of blue. Those sweet little pops of color sprinkled in the grass; each created; each perfectly designed. Tiny, yet captivating. Something I would usually traipse over, now a hint of Him in the middle of the city.

Chasing Meteors

The sky is dark and clear. There are plenty of stars visible, including some reasonably faint ones. But, after 45 minutes of watching, there are no meteors. I check the time on my phone one last time to find that it’s about 3:30, before heading back to the tent. Little Guy is sound asleep.
It’s the best weather and the best sleep I’ve had on a camping trip in 20 years.
In the thin morning light, a gray catbird picks at the leaf litter beside the trail. They’re small birds, but they migrate over a large range. Some of them reach southern Mexico. It’s possible that this little fellow spent the winter on the Yucatan Peninsula. Maybe, he even spent time in Chichen Itza, a sprawling campus of Mayan temples and other ritual structures.
 There’s a building there, or most of one that 1,000 years ago contained reflecting pools around a small tower, used by astronomer-priests for watching the heavens. Another, the Pyramid of Kukulkan, marks the spring and fall equinoxes.
Suddenly, I’m less disappointed about the meteor shower that wasn’t. The gray catbird came all the way from his observatory in Mexico to watch it. I, on the other hand, got to spend the night camping with my son, on an expedition to chase after something elusive.
Photo credit: The author.