Going For A Walk In Nature
My daughter Sequoia and I went hiking up to a waterfall with a few friends, one of whom was a four-year-old boy called Tree. The walk was fairly easy; maybe about forty minutes long, some of which was climbing upriver over rocks. Though of course, with two small children, it made for a long, slow amble which took maybe twice as long.
Soon the people walking drifted into two groups: one group was going a little faster, and Sequoia ended up going with them, accompanied by her father, while I went slowly with the group that stayed behind to help Tree up the path.
Introducing Tree
Tree was amazingly agile and dexterous, jumping from rock to rock, leaping over streams of water and clambering up the next rock, like a little blonde Spiderman. I could see that he was completely able to judge for himself how far he was able to step, and which rocks were too high for him or too far to jump.
However there were three other grown-ups who were going along with Tree, 'helping' him to walk. Every step he took, they cried out in a chorus of "be careful!" and "this way!" and "watch out!"
There would always be at least one person trying to hold his hand and guide Tree along the easiest path, and they were regularly scouting a few metres ahead to see which would be the best path for him.
Every time someone offered him their hand, Tree pushed it away, every time they pointed him to a small, easy stepping stone, Tree found a massive boulder to scale instead, and all the grown-ups were constantly exclaiming exasperatedly, "he always takes the hardest path and climbs over the highest rocks!"
Let Tree Be
It was so clear to me that all their efforts were in vain; no one but Tree could really see what was the easiest way for him to go - after all, he knows exactly the dimensions of his own body, and how far he can reach, step or climb.
Tree was obviously annoyed by all the well-intentioned "help," and was going out of his way to avoid the paths the grown-ups pointed out for him. It also looked like he really enjoyed clambering up the biggest rocks he could find, and leaping over wide gaps. He seemed to be getting deeper and deeper into his "Spiderman" persona, the image of which was increased by the fact that he was wearing a bright blue t-shirt and red swimming pants.
Tree wasn't taking the "hardest" path, he was taking the "fun-est" path; climbing over the highest rocks because he really enjoyed it. It was an exciting challenge to him to see a huge boulder twice his height, and scramble up it.
It seemed to me that Tree was really irritated by the assumption that he needed all this help to go on the easiest path, so perhaps he wanted to scale ever more difficult rocks to prove himself.
Enjoying The Journey
While all the grown-ups were trying to hurry him along so that we could arrive quickly to the waterfall and enjoy it, Tree was already enjoying the journey far more than sitting by a waterfall, and not in any hurry. After all - we had the whole day to get there!
I hung back a little, chatting with Tree's mother, Brenda, about our children. We commented on how the other grown-ups were expending a huge amount of effort to bring Tree up the path, while it was clear that he really didn't need much of any help at all.
In the end, I felt that it was a bit too much for a relaxing, joyful day to walk with this crowd of stressed people constantly cajoling a small boy who clearly didn't need to be cajoled and resented it. So I quickened my pace, and caught up to the other people in our group, where Sequoia was going upstream with her father.
I was left with an image of Tree standing on a small rock, surveying the scene for his next leap, adults surrounding him on three sides, each of them crouched down and reaching out for him - calling him into their ready arms, outstretched to catch him if he fell. Then Tree brushed them all aside and climbed down the way he had came, to skirt around the grown-ups and clamber up to another, bigger rock.
It was nice to catch up to the others, and walk with people who didn't much bother with Sequoia, even though physically she was the same size as Tree. We just ambled along, letting Sequoia go at her own pace.
Trusting Children
We trusted Sequoia to know which path would be easiest to walk on; after all, she is the best judge of the dimensions of her body, and how far she can step or climb. We trusted her not to fall, just as we trusted each other not to fall. If Sequoia got to a point where the jump was too high or too far for her, she said so, and asked for help.
On the way back, Brenda and I lagged behind, so that it was just the parents and the children walking together, without the assistance of helpful people. Brenda commented to me that it was really nice to just relax, and take the path as we go, without worrying about the children, or stressing to 'help' them.
Sequoia and Tree both walked at their own pace, enjoying each other's company and not needing any assistance over the seemingly difficult path. I observed how they were much more comfortable in their bodies than the adults were, and weren't shy about getting on their hands and knees or sliding on their butts to get up and down boulders.
The more we tried to help them, the more they doubted their own ability to manage, and the more we let them go, the children proved that they didn't need us there at all, except for company. Our trust in our children allowed them the space to have confidence in their own abilities.