I have one basic rule about yard-work and I stick to it well: Only when necessary. My neighbors might say I stick to it too well, since I apply it faithfully to all aspects of the yard: watering, mowing, and in the fall, raking. Take raking as a specific example. Why, oh why, I ask, would I invest hours into raking leaves from the ground before 1) all the leaves have fallen off the trees, and 2) I’ve held out at least a week for a freak storm that might blow all the leaves into my neighbors’ lawns?

This autumn I admittedly took my own rule so far I couldn’t keep it consistently. It began with the mowing, which I hadn’t done for almost two months. Actually, now that I think about it, that means it really began with the watering–if I had watered the lawn I never could have gone two months without mowing, but since I refuse to sprinkle my salary into the soil, I made it through a couple calendar flips.

Anyway, for the final mowing of the season I like to drop the mower blade down a couple notches, a trick I heard somewhere and hope is a wise thing to do. Unfortunately, the grass had grown so long in a couple spots that I couldn’t use the mulching piece, which meant when I did mow, I left a few trails of grass clippings across the lawn.

Now don’t go thinking the raking immediately jumps into the story at this point. Remember the rule: only when necessary. The next thing I did was fly to Seattle for four days for the National Association of School Boards’ T+L Conference. When I returned, the clippings had dried to hay and the trees had deposited a load of leaves atop them. In keeping with my yard-keeping rule, I was determined to leave it all there until every last leaf fell from those trees.

But then last Saturday brought 70 degrees and the girls and I needed to get out and do something while Mommy finished running errands. I looked outside and felt a tinge of obligation to pick up the grass clippings. It was a minor tinge, barely perceptible to the feeling human, and if I were put to it, I might admit I did not actually feel it. What I felt may have been an emotional impulse, a desire to go outside and play combined with a lack of ideas about what to play when I got there.

Whatever it was, though, the girls and I chose to head outside and grab the rakes. We began in the part of the yard closest to the shed, but after piling a small amount of clippings I moved across the yard to a needier area.

The girls helped me a little but Eldest became fixated with our original pile. To her, that was the pile, and these bigger ones by the hill would make great additions to that pile. When she suggested I drag the larger pile to the little one, I glanced at her with a tad of sincere confusion.

“Well, Eldest, I was going to make this big pile here and just carry the bag to both piles when I was ready for them.”

Why move the big pile to the little pile? That was my question, but it was misguided. Applying adults’ reasoning to children’s play is a classic blunder. It leads to unfair criticism and adults’ impatience. It’s the kind of impulse that asks why Middle eats her marshmallow-Cheerio treats one Cheerio at a time, or why the girls don’t write on the paper in the pad before tearing off all the pages. The question is framed out of logic and reason (Why work harder instead of smarter?), but it’s reasonable only in an adult’s context–a context that usually cannot fathom the logic of play. Adults’ inability to recognize the logic of play is perhaps why, as Lynell Burmark pointed out at a T+L session, children laugh or smile 400 times a day and adults only 17.

“Well, we need to move this one,” Eldest asserted in response to my comment, undeterred by such adult-logic. She next bent over and pinned a load of grass and leaves between her hands and marched back to her favored pile to dump it. I raised my eyebrows and grinned. Thankfully, when I asked that question about moving the piles I didn’t ask it out-loud. Instead, I waited.

Eldest just worked on, happily transporting grass and leaves one armload at a time. Eventually she tracked down her little red snow-shovel and used it to expedite the process. I, meanwhile, continued to rake the hill and build up the bigger piles, though they grew considerably slower with Eldest snagging handful after handful.

When I finished the area and had merged my two big piles into one, Eldest was still working, though she had ditched the snow-shovel and returned to hauling armloads. Her focus remained steady-she had not ventured away to play other games and then return, but constantly picked at her self-assigned mission. With a smirk of defeat, I began to drag my big pile in her direction.

“Are you going to rake that one over here?” she exclaimed after I’d moved it a few feet. When I nodded, she glowed, and then she grabbed another armful.

Though my first response to Eldest’s pursuit was to smirk and act according to my own logic, Eldest’s dedication and determination overcame me, and I followed her lead. She out-lasted me with sincerity of purpose, and I became the follower.

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Eldest’s example is one I am determined to follow. Too often this year I have found myself worked up over one issue or another, trying to change something or bring my own logic into other’s lives. Whether it’s utilizing and expanding the use of technology in learning, collaborating at a building level, or just trying to champion what is best for our students, I grow frustrated and get nowhere.

What if, instead of inviting frustration, I stuck to what doesn’t get me worked into useless frenzies: teaching? What if I did like Eldest and just kept to my task, picking away at it one arm-load at a time? If I got no help and no one followed, I wouldn’t change my direction, because I had a purpose that at least I clearly understood. Perhaps eventually, though, someone would follow. That would be great, because if that person helped, we’d achieve the purpose earlier, and we would be able to do what Eldest did–convert our pile into a bird’s nest, pretending the pink and yellow mums were eggs that we’d laid.

And at that point followers like me would recognize that making a nest is as much fun as playing in it. And that’s as reasonable as it gets.

Thanks for reading.