Why nature is my motherhood ally

The air around my son crackles with electricity. He experiences the world with zest, throwing himself into life with such gusto that you are enticed to see the magic that exists everywhere, too. His high energy makes you wish you, too, had the capacity to move with such speed, to experience with such curiosity — to go, go, go. You watch him and you remember again that life should be met with wonder, with joy, with a physicality that is visceral. He makes you want to live! 

Chioma with her daughter.

When my daughter laughs, it sounds like the most enchanting bubbling of a spring; you can tell that it comes from the very center of her being. It is full and expansive, and it invites you to share in that laughter and joy — even when you have no idea what she’s laughing about. Her expression of all emotions is raw and deep; she beckons to you to be human, to feel, to the vulnerability and connection that are the essence of all beautiful, intimate relationships. 

I love my children deeply, and delight in the essence of who they are. Their presence in my life has grounded me and deepened me in ways I didn’t even know were possible; my gratitude for them is profound.

Yet, they can frustrate me. 

That electric energy that my son possesses — that magic something which makes me watch him with such open-mouthed admiration — can be aggravating when we are indoors. The sounds of frequent running and jumping, and the aftermath of dynamic exploration can sorely test my patience. That depth of expression that my daughter has, her beautiful, fervent sensitivity — the intensity and expressiveness of it all, that desire to experience life with head, heart and hands — can really exhaust me. 

The sounds and feelings ricochet against the walls and ceilings of our home, filling me with either deep contentment or overwhelmed frustration. When I am calm and well-rested, their sounds are the most precious vibrations of my life, but when I am tired and overwhelmed, their sounds pummel my sensitive ears, crashing against the needs of my body and mind for introspection and silence. My delight morphs into something far less generous, my admiration is taken over wholesale by extreme irritation. My gratitude is unmade. The act of mothering feels very different from this other side.

By now, there are countless studies that have shown how beneficial time in nature is for humans, and particularly so for children. Time with the natural environment is associated with benefits to the physical body, like a stronger immune system and better sleep; mental health, like reduced stress and anxiety; a greater sense of psychological well-being; and for those with a spiritual life, a deeper spirituality. As mammals, time in nature is truly part of our wild heritage; we are a necessary part of an interconnected ecosystem, an inextricable part of a living whole. 

Yet, quite frankly, these studies and important pieces of research are the last things on my (conscious) mind when I am outdoors with my children. Though I eagerly read books, articles and studies on the subject, spending time outdoors with my children is more instinctual than anything else. 

None of these specific benefits are at the top of my mind when we are outside; instead, what is irresistible for me is simply restoration. I am seeking a balm for an overwhelmed, overstretched nervous system that has been battered by the echoes and hammerings of children’s inevitable indoor noises. I am desperately seeking a change in my lenses — striving to return to a perspective of mothering that looks at her children with delight, rather than extreme irritation.

Chioma’s daughter climbing a tree by a neighborhood lake.

In this, Nature is my motherhood ally. She takes my hand and allows me to see afresh the wonderful essence of my children. “Look,” She says, “the children are the same. They have not changed. It is only the environment that has.” Then, I take a deep breath, and lean into awe as I watch them as they are. I receive the laughter and yells of delight as precious vibrations against my ears again; somehow, the noise is now converted into music. Yes, the sounds are the same, but the sky seems to combine the loud yells of their voices with the song of the birds to create glorious harmony. Free from the restraints of walls and ceilings, their bodies are no longer the prisoners of rigid enclosures; they are truly set free — and so, too, am I.

There is another way in which Nature is my motherhood ally. It is something that lies below the surface in my consciousness. It is another Mother’s gift to her children: a freedom of another kind. 

I vaguely remember the first time I was asked if Africans had houses or lived in trees. I was a freshman in college, having just moved that January from the tropical heat of Aba, Nigeria, to the freezing winter of Teaneck, New Jersey. The question irritated and surprised me, but it didn’t offend me. There was no hint of malice in the way the question was asked. It seemed to lay itself out as genuine curiosity, genuine ignorance. 

It wouldn’t be the first time I got that question. Between myself and other amazing West African friends I made during my wonderful college experience at a truly international campus, we got questions like that a lot. It wasn’t until I began to see the one-sided stories that were being told about Africa that I understood why this question was often asked with such genuine curiosity: people just didn’t know!

I am one of the only West African people that I know who spends as much time outside with her children as I do. It is ironic that the reality for many middle-class Africans is the very opposite of the stereotype that Africa carries. As a continent that was colonized for so long (and is still being colonized in less explicit ways), the minds and spirits of many Africans still bear the scars of that 

deep trauma. When you have been told for centuries that the things that are yours are inferior, less than, something to be subjugated and “civilized,” there are harrowing things that you carry — even if you do not know that you carry them. 

Colonization meant that the biophilic living choices of Africans — a design choice that is currently championed and repackaged as something new and subversive — were denigrated and scorned as being “uncivilized”; that our languages, cultural practices and the general ways in which we moved through the world were things to be stripped off, shed and utterly discarded. The tension between our pride in our very diverse African cultures and the desire to “prove” our sophistication — to disprove this false story of inferiority — can be quite taut. 

So, for many, that tension necessitates a turning away from Nature, an imperative separation between the (perceived) primitive and the modern. There is an almost visceral desire to be seen as the opposite of the stereotypical “bush African”: that caricature of a person who never wears shoes and belongs in a world three centuries in the past. So, we keep our shoes on. We shuttle from one modern, concrete building to another — yet, we delight in tradition, eat our cultural foods with relish and dare anyone to say that their foods are better. (And, I daresay, they aren’t!) 

We live in that tension. 

But I insist that this separation from nature isn’t for me — and it certainly isn’t for my children!

Chioma’s kids on top of a jungle gym.

Like every other parent, I want the absolute best for my children. My life experiences have taught me that the things that make up a “Good Life” are both material and immaterial; and, for me, time in nature is the very best of both. I want to give my children the things that touch their souls at the very deepest level, and I frankly cannot give them that if we are not outside. I want to give them wonder and awe; beauty and hope; joy and delight. I want them to feel the mysterious comfort of a cool breeze on days that are hard, and the grateful ache of their hearts as they encounter an unforgettable sunset sky. My heart fills with admiration as I watch them climb trees, especially ones that they could not climb just yesterday. When they come down, they might have leaves in their hair and mud on their feet. They just might look like that “bush African” (and I have been criticized for it) — but I’ll take it. The joy and adventure, risk and reward, of every second they spend outside is more than worth it.

I want to be the mother of children who are whole, who know that they belong everywhere goodness, joy, beauty and delight may be found. 

That is why I bring my children outside.

Check Out More News and Resources