Legacy Magazine

by Wren Smith

The Soft Walk and sharing ceremony offer gifts to delight the senses. Photo by Harold Johnson.

Thirty second graders, some with arms outstretched for balance, take large steps, tiptoeing behind me. They carefully select each footfall so that it alights like a butterfly on a flower. Glancing over their shoulders, their eyes widen. Some fashion their hands beside their heads, make a sign for deer, and point at the full-grown doe who trails our little “Soft Walking” adventure. I carry a large, lidded basket full of treasures from the Earth, gifts representing this place I love.

In a few moments we will share these gifts in respectful silence. First, however, we walk softy, employing techniques popularized as “Quiet Walks” by Steven Van Matre in the 1960s, but also echoing teachings from many of the great traditions that have been handed down through the centuries—spiritual practices that acknowledge the limits of the spoken word and aim to cultivate what some Christians refer to as contemplative receptivity and Buddhists call mindfulness. But these were second graders, and my initial intention in developing a ceremony that focuses attention was not as lofty.

I explained to the children before we began our Soft Walk how we will move and why we will walk so softly. Their teachers seem surprised by their children’s eager response. I feel like the pied piper with my enthusiastic entourage. When I reach an elevated portion of the wooden bridge spanning a pond lined with cattails, I point toward a red-winged blackbird perched on a cattail seed head. Gesturing to my shoulders and back to the bird, I direct their attention to the red and yellow epaulettes on his wings. This handsome fellow announces his territorial reign with a loud “okcaree” and I cup my hand beside my ear, encouraging the children to listen.

I motion for the group to stay put, while I hop down from the bridge to pull a cattail blade, and then resume my perch in clear view of the entire group. Quickly splitting the length of this blade into three equal strips, I tie a knot in one end. Holding the knotted end in my mouth, I hastily make a headband and place it on a student who has joined me on this platform overlooking the pond. The others smile and nod approvingly. Dragonflies darting nearby capture our attention and I hold my arms outstretched like wings. When a damselfly alights on another cattail, I clasp my hands behind my back, creating a tent with my arms that mimics the damselfly’s wings at rest. The children notice and nod and help others see.

Continuing past the pond, we find wild peppermint and I pinch off a lush sprig, rolling it between my hands to release the menthol before taking a deep whiff. The children directly behind take turns inhaling the minty delight before passing it down the line to the others. We enter the meadow where several larger clearings allow visibility to the entire group. This meadow offers daisies, butterflies, orange and black milkweed bugs, and the song of grasshoppers. I show some of the children spittlebugs hiding in a fortress of foam and these children become spittlebug guides for their classmates.

We make our way through the sundrenched field and move toward a stand of white pine trees, known to thousands of schoolchildren as the “enchanted forest.” As we gather in a clearing near the woods a red-tailed hawk cries overhead and circles once; some of the children open their arms imitating its impressive glide. Young sassafras trees offer us fresh lemon-lime scented leaves and three different leaf shapes to investigate. I macerate a few of these leaves and pour a small amount of water from a canteen over them. Rubbing the leaves and water together reveals the mucilaginous quality of sassafras leaves. I pass the slippery green poultice to a little ruddy faced boy (I suspect the class clown) who gestures with his hands to his nose and grimaces before grinning broadly. We share a quiet chuckle before he passes the wet glob back to his classmates; soft laughter follows the limp mass down the line.

Holding up three fingers, I warn about the perils of poison ivy, which I spot growing near the path. Feigning stretching and itching I point out the vine before signaling to stay away.

I motion for the children to stretch out their arms, and many automatically close their eyes. The sun warms us and a breeze ruffles our hair. I feel like a leaf gathering the energy of the sun this day. Insects buzz and trill, a field sparrow provides its classic rendition of a “ping pong ball dropping on a table” song. A flock of goldfinch announces its presence overhead with “per-chicory” twittering chatter. Weaving my hand in a roller coaster motion and pointing up, I hope to share the hiccupping flight pattern of these aerobatic charmers.

Approaching the “doorway” of the enchanted forest, I pause, peer in, and motion for the group to follow. We step into the cool darkness of the pine forest and our quiet group grows even quieter. The needles of the white pine create a soft carpet and add an air of elegancy to our Soft Walk. Each step into the forest seems a step back in time, leading us closer to something primal. The smell is earthy and clean. The branches of white pine trees grow in a wagon wheel arrangement that casts lovely shadows on the reddish brown needles on the forest floor. Some of these children have never been in a forest before; none of them has been quiet in the forest with classmates. Teachers and parents are amazed at the children’s quiet attentiveness.

Items found in nature help Soft Walkers make connections. Photo by Chris Knopf.

There is just enough open space in this forest for our Soft Walk basket ceremony. Setting my basket beside me on the carpet of pine needles, I silently enlist help from teachers and parents as we form a large circle in the middle of the enchanted forest. We’ve carried a blanket into the woods and the children help as we spread it out on the forest floor. I pause and look around at the circle of eager faces. The children’s eyes gleam. Everything is as it should be. I nod approvingly and motion for the group to sit down cross-legged on the pine needles. I’ve learned that this cross-legged position seems to act as a stabilizer for young children, especially if followed by a signal to rest chin on clasped hands.

All eyes watch as I slowly lift the lid of the sharing basket in front of me. Inside are various gifts of the Earth; I’ve wrapped many of them like presents with large leaves (water lotus, big leaf magnolia, and burdock) secured with cattail or yucca cordage. Instead of colorful ribbons and bows, I’ve attached flowers, pinecones, and such. The gift packages brim with mystery. Slowly I reach into the sharing basket and unpack this treasure trove, placing the packages near me on the blanket. I bring out a pear-shaped gourd with a cork in one end. Giving it a shake, I reveal its watery content.

Opening the first package (it’s wrapped in a large water lotus leaf), the entire circle leans forward in anticipation. The quiet is settling in, working powerful magic. The lotus leaf opens to reveal a large freshwater mussel shell. I lift the top shell of this bivalve to reveal its rosy opalescent sheen. It encloses a smaller mussel shell, one punctured with button-sized holes. This smaller shell holds yet another surprise—an even smaller shell containing buttons made from mussel shells. Bringing my hands towards my mouth, I show that mussels can be food, or perhaps a serving dish. I feign using the shell as a digging tool. I lay the shell on the blanket nearby, although I will soon pass it around the group. I’ve learned to wait until after I’ve silently communicated most of the information before passing around objects so participants aren’t distracted by the objects being passed.

Another leaf package contains a small, warty gourd. This one is shaped like an avocado, with a nickel-sized hole near the end. I hold my hands over the hole and shake, producing a rhythmic rattle. The kids bob their heads and shoulders to the beat before I pour its contents of powdered dry red clay into the cup of the now empty large mussel shell. Pouring from the water gourd I mix the clay with my fingers to make a red paint. Holding up an index finger, I look mischievously at the dimple-faced little girl on my right. Her eyes widen for a moment, then she nods her head yes and leans her face toward me. I paint a stripe on her nose and a daisy on her cheek. I stand up, with a turtle shell in one hand and the index finger on my right hand extended, ready to paint the face of any child that nods his or her permission, as I walk around the circle. Sometimes a child will initially decline but then decide they want to be painted too. Occasionally a child will decline. I never push.

Returning to my seat in the circle, I indicate by pointing my finger at all the painted faces that I need my face painted too. All heads nod affirmatively. I offer the paint shell and my face to a little boy on my left. The children know that I have made my face a vulnerable canvas and seem to appreciate my bravery. While I’ve led hundreds of Soft Walks, I’ve never gotten my face slathered in mud.

Unwrapping the last leaf package, I unveil a box turtle shell with the plastron hinge ligament still intact. Opening the “box” with enough pause to build suspense, I begin pulling out the contents like a magician pulling scarves from a bottomless sleeve. Petals of pink, purple, and blue from blossoms and buds of iris and spiderwort, green leaves of dock and yellow dandelion heads, even pieces of burnt wood tumble out and onto a silk scarf.

I hold up a dandelion head and a drawing tablet that I’ve pulled from my basket, and quickly rub the dandelion directly onto the canvas to paint the sun. The children gasp in delight, and do so repeatedly each time another color from my “paint box” appears vividly on the landscape scene I paint before them. I’ve been painting with plants and mud from as far back as I can recall, but was surprised at the children’s level of delight the first time I added the paint box to my sharing basket. We lose so many things, including the simple joys of discovery, when we lose our direct contact with the natural world.

After their journey around the circle, my Earth treasures are back home near my basket. The blanket, now festooned with shells, leaves, herbs, antlers, and flowers, provides a feast for the eyes, and the silence is a feast for the ears. Cupping my left hand to my ear while I slowly wave my right hand over my eyes, I invite the group to close their eyes and listen for a few moments. The wind whispers in the tops of the white pine to the vireos, robins, and wrens, and in the distant woods, I hear the flute-like song of the wood thrush (a delightful surprise for that time of day). A wood pecker drums, someone cracks a twig, a blue jay squawks, and a helicopter from Fort Knox flies overhead. People are breathing slowly and easily. I think I could sprout roots here.

When it is time for me to break the silence, I take an African thumb-piano hidden in my basket. A gourd forms the resonating chamber and I love how the metal tines sound soothing regardless of how I play. It’s a sound reminiscent of water flowing over rocks or wind in the trees. Children and adults open their eyes and I begin to speak softly. I explain that it is always difficult to be the one to start talking, the one that must break the silence. I ask them to name, one at a time, some of the sounds they heard during our quiet time.

“Birds,” says one.

Music or noise? I ask.

“Music.”

“I heard the wind,” whispers another.

Music or noise? I ask again.

“Oh, music. It’s so peaceful!” she adds again in a whisper.

The Soft Walkers take turns sharing their sounds and classifying them as music or noise. We realize that some of the sounds can be both music and noise depending on their volume and our musical preference. We also discover that we name most of the natural sounds as music and most of the manmade sounds as noise. One little boy suggests that the manmade sounds seem loud and harsh while the natural sounds are soft and gentle. After complimenting this child’s astute observation, I suggest that when people come together in stillness, we become part of the music of nature.

When I ask these listeners if they heard this music during our quiet time, they affirm with enthusiastic nods. I explain that this music is full of stories and how these stories have been waiting for just the right time and place to be told. Inviting the children to ask questions about plants, animals, and other treasures they encountered during our time together indicates a new attunement to their surroundings. These children who just an hour earlier rapidly fired questions without waiting for answers now seem to know what they really want to know. Their questions reveal an attentiveness that pulls forth the stories of the freshwater mussels; water lotus leaves and pods; spittlebugs; pigments in nature, trees, peppermint, and goldfinch; and so much more. These stories unfold to their receptive ears like treasured gifts offered directly from the Earth.

Wren Smith, interpretive programs manager for Bernheim Arboretum & Research Forest in Kentucky, has been sharing her Soft Walk program for more than 25 years. Reach her at 502-955-8512, x227 or Wren@bernheim.org.