Category Archives: Travel

In Defense of Dirt: Rewilding Our Children

In Defense of Dirt: Rewilding Our Children
Before their Bodies Forget

From Finnish forest floors to Michigan creek beds, the science is clear:
real dirt is medicine, memory, and the immune system’s original teacher

By Thom Hartmann, author, speaker, activist, and educator

I grew up on the edge of Lansing, Michigan, with a stream just down the road and woods that felt like a secret frontier. We all did: the neighborhood kids, barefoot in the damp grass after rain, boots mucked up with creek-silt, hands scrubbed raw from climbing fallen logs and digging in the undergrowth. Getting in the dirt was part of childhood. We didn’t ask permission from microbes.

So when I read the recent report in The Guardian about Finnish nursery experiments transforming children’s health by simply letting them play in real soil, sand, leaves and forest-floor, I felt the past crash into the present and I knew again that the story of our species and our health lies in that innocent, messy contact.

In Finland, at a daycare center in Lahti (north of Helsinki), the researchers from the Natural Resources Institute of Finland adopted a radical experiment: rip out the asphalt, dig into the soil, roll out a live carpet of forest-floor moss and blueberry bushes, build compost heaps for children to feed, invite the kids to play, dig, muddle, get their hands in it.

The result, in a two-year study of three- to five-year-olds, was striking: children in the “rewilded” yards had fewer disease-causing skin bacteria (like Streptococcus) and showed stronger immune regulation (increased T-regulatory cells) within weeks. Gut microbiomes were healthier, inflammatory-associated Clostridium levels dropped.

This is the antithesis of today’s “modern” societal perspective on childhood and nature.

On the one hand, we have the modern obsession with pristine, sanitized lives: rubber-surfaced playgrounds, plastic mats, antibacterial everything. On the other, there’s the simple fact that our inner biology, our immune systems, our gut and skin microbiomes, were forged in the wild: the wild of forest floors, streams, soils, plants, bugs.

As I argued in my earlier essay “It’s All One Thing – The Story of the Worms” here in Wisdom School, our estrangement from that substrate is the seed of auto-immune disorders, of chronic inflammation, and a body that’s forgotten it’s actually part of nature.

In Michigan I was lucky: the woods and stream were mine for the exploring. I remember fingers crawling over moist logs, the smell of leaves turning, the damp cold run-off water slipping under my boots. I didn’t know at the time that those experiences were more than play: they were calibration.

They were training my immune system, teaching my skin and gut to know what nature looked like and smelled like and felt like. To know that dirt is not an enemy. And those childhood experiences are probably why I’ve never been troubled by autoimmune disorders or asthma.

So let’s call this what it is: a radical restoration. Not of some exotic wilderness, but of our lost contact with the natural microbial terrains that co-evolved with our species. The Finnish results are more than a Kindergarten trend; they’re a signal of what our children—and we all—are missing.

Here are some of the stakes:

When kids play in dirt rich with soil microbes, their immune system steps into a healthier balance: fewer disease-causing bacteria on the skin surface, greater regulation of internal immune responses.
The “outer layer” of biodiversity—soil, plants, forest floor—directly influences the “inner layer” of biodiversity in our bodies, our skin, gut, and airways. This is co-evolved, not incidental.
The modern shift away from exposure—to “sterile” play surfaces, indoor confinement, sanitized surfaces—may appear benign, but it’s been quietly shaping the epidemic rise of allergies, auto-immune disorders, and inflammatory diseases that both disturb the quality of life and can shorten lifespan itself.
This is not just personal wellness: it’s ecological and societal. The health of children, the immune burdens we carry, the resilience of future generations: all of this ties back to whether we let the next generation touch the living earth.
In the Finnish classroom yard they said: “We’re moving the action from inside to outside. We want to show the children nature so they learn about it.”

That sentence is packed. Show the children nature. Let them learn through contact, through play, through mess. Not as a museum piece, not as a “nature corridor” behind a fence, but as the ground they run on, dig in, climb across, whose bugs and fungus mix with theirs.

So, I want to issue a personal call to you—if you have children, nieces, nephews—or if you’re planning for grandchildren—or if you’re simply human, who used to feel the dirt under your fingernails and the creek cold on your shins—do this: Let the next generation get messy.

Plant a compost heap. Bring real soil into the sandbox. Create a border of moss and stones. Let the rain puddle, let the bugs crawl, let the children burrow. Let the forest floor not be exotic but ordinary.

I remember that stream down the road from the house I grew up in, the woods on the edge of Lansing, the sticky Michigan clay, the little fish, frogs, and crawdads under rocks, the mud mixing into water. I remember coming home with smudged socks, grass stains and a face kissed by sap.

I didn’t know at the time that I was feeding my immune system. I simply knew I was alive and it was a thrill.

We’ve forgotten that aliveness. Our culture has prized immaculateness, separation from the “dirty” wild, the exclusion of microbes like we exclude strangers. Yet the wildness is in us. The soil is in us. We’re made of the same living matrix as the tree roots and the beetles and the moss. Broken contact with that matrix isn’t harmless: it’s a literal loss.

In the wise old words I referenced in “It’s All One Thing”: “When we remove ourselves from that web of life, we do so at our own peril.”

The Finnish story is not just cute or scientific: it’s urgent. Rebuild our contact with the living earth. Let children scoop sand and soil, let them bury their hands, let them build mud-cakes like Aurora in Finland’s day-care. Laugh as they smear soil on their faces. It’s not chaos: it’s calibration.

Yes, modernization has brought us many gifts. Clean water. Sanitation. Vaccines. But modernization taken too far, with too much separation from our biological roots, leaves us with immune systems that misfire, bodies that mistake harmless soil microbes for threats, children who never taste actual dirt. The Finnish experiment is clear: get back to the soil, get back to the forest floor, get back to the messy, ordinary earth.

And the earth—our living earth—benefits too. More forest-floor carpets. More compost heaps. More kids playing outside, fewer rubber mats, fewer sterile boxes. We begin to treat biodiversity as not just glamorous (rainforests, coral reefs) but local (yard patches, old tree stumps, rain puddles). We begin to remember that our health is tied to the health of that biodiversity.

So my invitation to you: On your next weekend, find a patch of ground the kids (or you!) can mess with. Dig into it. Feel the soil. Let a leaf rot into the compost. Let worms do their work. Let the world pull you back. Because we’re not apart from nature: we are nature. And when we pretend otherwise, we hurt ourselves and the world around us.

It’s time to stop treating microbes as abstract threats or invisible villains. They are—and have always been—our companions, our allies, our ancestral family. The Finnish children’s laughter in the sandy forest-floor yard is our ancient laughter too.

Let’s dig in.

—Thom Hartmann, educator and commentator, is the author of many respected books. Reprinted with permission. To receive new Wisdom School posts you can become a free or paid subscriber of this reader-supported digital publication, The Wisdom School: What It Means To Be Human. All Wisdom School articles are free and available to everyone. Copyright by Thom Hartmann, 2025.

“A” Series of Journeys: The Story Behind the Board

By Kate Han, age 16, from South Korea, studies in Canada.

‘A’ Series of Journeys by Kate Han, age 16, Canada.

I’ve always struggled with the question, “Where are you from?” It’s not that I don’t know; the answer has never felt complete. I was born in Korea, spent much of my childhood in India, and now study in Canada. Each country left something inside me, not just as memories but as layers of identity. My artwork (see above) , ‘A’ Series of Journeys, emerged from this sense of fragmented belonging. But without the backstory, I realized the artwork feels like a silent map—colorful but unexplained. This is the narrative behind that map.

From Korea to India: My First Migration

I was five when my family moved from Seoul to Bangalore. What I remember most from those early days was the constant feeling of being “new.” New sounds, new smells, new alphabets. Even at that age, I knew I wasn’t just visiting—I was being asked to live someone else’s normal. In school, I was the only Korean girl. I didn’t speak Kannada or Hindi, and I barely knew English. But children don’t wait for fluency. I played tag with my hands, not my words. I watched others tie their shoes, share lunch, and greet teachers. I mimicked until it became second nature.

India gave me my first lesson in courage: that you can belong without blending in thoroughly. My neighbors wore saris and spoke a language I didn’t understand, but they treated me like family. We celebrated Diwali together, and over time, the questions stopped being “Where are you from?” and started becoming “Are you coming to dinner?”

India didn’t erase my Korean self. Instead, it added to it. I still spoke Korean at home, wrote Hangul in my diary, and celebrated Chuseok with food parcels from my grandmother. But the girl who lit sparklers on the rooftop during Deepavali wasn’t pretending. She was expanding.

Canada: A New Kind of Destination

Years later, I moved again—this time on my own, to a boarding school in Canada. If India was about cultural immersion, Canada was about cultural comparison. I had more words now, and more awareness. I could see how my classmates viewed “Asia” as a single block. I could also see how they saw me: someone exotic, sometimes confusing, occasionally admirable. Someone told me, “Wow, your English is excellent.” It was meant as a compliment, but I felt the space between us widen.

Boarding school life sharpened my understanding of identity—mine and everyone’s. I met friends from Nigeria, Ukraine, Mexico, and Australia. Some had never left their home countries before.

Some, like me, had already moved across continents. We bonded over strange cafeteria food, homesickness, and midnight conversations about who we were becoming.

Canada taught me that identity is not a finished product. It’s in constant motion. You carry your past, but you also build your future with every choice—what you say, how you listen, which memories you protect.

Why I Made the Board

‘A’ Series of Journeys started as a personal project to visualize this idea of motion. I used pins and thread to create intersections, connections, and collisions. Each line on the board represented a person, a place, a story, or a version of myself. The foam base—soft yet firm—symbolized the adaptability I’ve had to develop. The photos marked moments in time that still speak to me. Together, they formed a chaotic and orderly piece, much like my life.

But something felt unfinished. It was only after receiving the Skipping Stones Editor message that I understood why. The board is a conversation starter, but it needs a voice. The images are full of meaning, but only when paired with a story. Without this reflection, the piece may be a decorative design, not a lived experience. That’s why I’m writing this—to give the work its missing voice.

What I’ve Learned

I’ve learned that home is not a location—it’s a rhythm. It’s in how you wake up, how you say goodbye, what you find strange, and what you start calling your own. In India, I learned to listen before speaking. In Canada, I learned to question people’s meaning by saying “diversity.” In Korea, roots can deepen even when far from the soil.

Another lesson: People are much more than the labels we use. The word “immigrant” doesn’t tell whether someone is hopeful or scared. “International student” doesn’t reveal how many languages people hear in their dreams. I’ve learned to ask better questions. Not “Where are you from?” but “What feels like home to you?”

Above all, I’ve learned that my journey is not a detour—it’s the main road. My experiences are not interruptions to everyday life; they are my life. And through them, I’ve gained a sense of the world and a stronger sense of self.

Why This Matters

For young people like me, art is more than expression. It’s a translation. It’s how we turn complexity into something we can share. I hope ‘A’ Series of Journeys speaks to anyone who has felt between places, languages, or versions of themselves. I hope it shows that confusion can lead to clarity and discomfort can lead to growth.

This write-up is not the end of the project—it’s part of it. The series continues as long as I live, move, reflect, and create.

By Kate Han, age 16, grade 11, originally from South Korea, currently studies in a boarding school in British Columbia, Canada.

A New Chapter of My Life

By Angela Xue, age 10, Florida.

Another box. Then another. My black hair, usually silky, was sticky with sweat as I packed up all of my earthly belongings.

“Ming, get ready.” Under my mom’s authoritative voice, a note of trepidation quivered. “We’re about to go to the airport.”

“Ok, fine,” I replied, as reluctantly as I could.

I had lived in the buzzing streets of Shanghai for my whole life. I haven’t taken one step out of the comfort of my country. Now, all the sudden, my parents had decided to move to America, where my dad could find a better job. I’d have to leave all my friends, teachers, and even my tennis coach, who taught me how to swing a racquet before I could write my name. So, as you can see, I absolutely do not want to move to America. But, according to my parents, “Ni zhang da yao sheng huo hao, shiao shi hou yao mian dui tong ku.” That basically translates to, “If you want to live a good life when you are older, then you have to suffer when you are young.” They also said something vague about staying true to yourself and your dreams even when moving to another country—which I never really understood. My dream had always just been to enjoy my life in China.

“Are you ready?” my mom called.

“Yes, just one more thing to pack,” I replied, my heart racing like an F1 driver. I carefully placed my last precious item, a picture of my family and me, into the final box.

Then, I hurried down the stairs. With a heavy heart and dragging feet, I slowly made my way to the door. I tried to savor that short amount of time, but just knew it was going to make me more devastated. I briskly walked into a bluish, gray car with shiny windows. The driver was my Dad’s best friend, Uncle Tong. Yet another friend we would lose when we move to America. The car was about to burst with our luggage—we all held our breath to see if everything would fit until the trunk finally slammed shut over the last suitcase. The driver began to turn the key to start the car and stop my heart, my breath, and everything about my life for all twelve years of it so far. I took one long, regretful look at our apartment as we began to drive away, the engine humming, into my new life.

It’s not an exaggeration when I say the airport was extremely packed when we got there—it buzzed with more people than even the densest street of the crowded city I was born in. The hustle and bustle made me feel like part of a huge ant colony. Just as we made it through the final security checkpoint, an announcer called through the speakers: “Passengers of Flight 224, we will start boarding the plane soon for Miami, Florida.”

After endless hours of being trapped in the sweaty plastic chair along with all the other airplane passengers, finally, that same voice jerked me to attention from the stupor I’d fallen into. “Attention all passengers, please gather your belongings, we are approaching our destination.” We were here, in the dreadful place I had only imagined months before.

I peered out the window. America sure looked less crowded than home, but it was nothing like my home halfway across the globe. People started to file themselves out of the plane, and we followed. When we got to the airport terminal, my dad decided we would sit down and eat lunch. I expected soup dumplings, noodles or roast duck, but instead there were hamburgers and french fries. When I tried the bun, my taste buds were left disappointed by the lack of flavor. As I bit into an over-salted fry, this time, I also bit back tears.

A week later…

My stomach wasn’t just doing cartwheels now: it was double backflips, and handstands. I walked into the front doors of my new school. Everything seemed foreign. The school was a big cement building with newly polished windows, unlike the tinted windows in my old school. Kids turned around to look at me. They started magnetizing into groups and whispering. Suddenly, I was in the middle of the hallway while clusters of other kids gathered on the sides. I caught some people saying, “Who is she?” and, “ Is she a new kid?” I blushed. Then, a strange noise rang out and everybody started walking to different rooms.

Nervously, I cast around for someone to ask. I spotted another kid, who had almond-colored hair and blue eyes, similarly to many of my classmates. What she didn’t seem to have, and which set her apart, was friends. My throat dry, I whispered, “Why’s everybody leaving?”

The girl looked over at me. “They are going to their classes.”

What did that mean? I gave her an inquisitive look. She somehow understood that I was not American and I didn’t speak much English. Then, she all of a sudden said hi in Chinese.

“Ni hao ma?” She could speak Chinese?

At my astounded expression, she added, “Wozai xue Zhongwen.” I am learning Chinese.

I don’t know what triggered me to do this, but I started a full-blown conversation filled with laughs and smiles. We smiled at each other and went to our rooms. There! I had found my first friend. Already! Maybe this wasn’t that bad after all.

The rest of the day flew by. Amelia talked and laughed with me and we had a lot of fun. As we walked home together, I felt a warm feeling spread over me. This was the beginning of a new adventure.

By Angela Xue, age 10, Florida. She writes, “Both of my parents are from China and so are my grandparents. I was born in the US. I regularly visit China to see my grandparents every year. I am fascinated by the cultural difference between the two countries. I imagine instead of being born here in the US, if I were born in China, how my life would be different. I sometimes dream about this. In school, I visualize and put myself in the shoes of students who came from China. Their life and perspective must be very different from mine. This multiple culture comparison fascinates me and drives me to write this story about Ming.”

Where is Home to You

Where is Home to You?

My piece explores my evolving understanding of the concept of “home.” What began as confusion during a second-grade writing assignment has turned into a meaningful journey of self-reflection. Through literature, dance, and lived experiences across multiple cultures and countries, I’ve come to understand home not as a location, but as an internal sanctuary—something rooted in peace, expression, and emotional connection. I was inspired to share this story because I believe many young people around the world also struggle with this complex question.

—Leah Hyolim Lee, age 14, New York.

The question, “Where is home to you?” is a deceptively simple yet profoundly
complex inquiry. Every individual has a unique interpretation of the question. For some, it may evoke a geographic answer, rooted in soil, and for others, it is a neutral blend of cultural heritage and personal experience. For many years, it remained an elusive enigma, a landscape shrouded in both familiarity and fog. At times, I found myself blaming my diversity and uniqueness for my confusion.

In the second grade, we were required to write an essay, and the prospect of my first major writing assignment filled me with curiosity and joy. My eyes were laser focused on the green basket, which contained a mix of cards. Each of them read a different prompt, and that promise of individuality planted a seed of anticipation and interest in all of us. I daydreamed about the type of subject I would be given. I lost myself in reverie, imagining every scenario possible that I could think of: all of which I knew fully what the answer would be. Would it be a fantastical prompt that required me to use my imagination, or a historical viewpoint that I needed to assert my opinions on?

My trance was broken when my teacher’s voice cut through my thoughts like a razor. With each step towards the teacher’s table, an unmistakable sense of nervousness rose within me, an almost tangible tension that coiled around my chest. When I finally read what was written, it put me in a place of unexpected confusion. What had once seemed so simple now felt like a labyrinth, where I was trapped in the maze lost in disorientation.

It read, “Where is home to you?” in bold unforgiving letters, and I found myself frowning as my footsteps grew shorter with a loss of hope. Thoughts buzzed around in my head like a swarm of restless bees, each one darting from idea to idea, stinging my mind with urgency.

The sharp chime of the bell sliced through the quiet like a sudden gust of wind. As I
looked down, eraser marks and salty tears took the place of words that I prayed were there.

From then on, I subscribed to the conventional image that a “home” was synonymous with a tangible, physical space. I chose to take the easy way out, as I fantasized about a beautiful house, where the rhythm of belonging hummed softly to comfort me. However, each time my family moved countries, my picture-perfect image became increasingly fractured, like a mosaic of pieces that never quite held together. I wondered if my odd life was not deserving of something like a home.

I was met many times with silent criticism from others when I tried to answer the
question, “Where are you from?” Random words spilled out of my mouth, as if they too, were uncertain of their purpose and destination. I felt the unspoken implication that my origins, divided and shifting, were less valued than those steeped in singularity.

The more I bloomed into a more mature individual, I came to realize that I should not have pushed myself into the shadows as I lived in confusion of who I really am. This new perspective was the start of my own journey to sanctuary.

I began to fall in love with the world of literature, where I found a peculiar sense of home in the novels that I read and in the movies that I watched. I embarked on adventures with Huck and Jim and went on a frivolous journey with Chris, Gordie, Vern, and Teddy. The ink and paper seemed to embrace me with the warmth of familiarity that became a refuge where the chaos of the world fell away. The characters’ struggles, triumphs, and moments of reflection mirrored my own, creating an unspoken bond. A thread of shared experiences wove us together into the fabric of human existence.

Through this discovery, I often found myself perplexed. How could a mere assemblage of paper and ink evoke the sense of belonging that I had longed for? How could a world, spun from the loom of imagination, offer such a welcoming hand? It forced myself to confront my sustained belief that a home was a structurally defined place.

A home, as I experienced, can also take the form of an art style. I found shelter in a studio, with its polished floors and mirrored walls, which became a sacred ground. It was not the studio itself that gave me a sense of home, it was how it housed a place where I could express myself in ways that I had never before, where I was both the performer and audience. Through ballet, I learned an entirely new language that spoke to me in a way words never did.

The rhythm of my breaths and the breaths of others synchronized into one. It was a silent but meaningful indication that the mere art form of ballet had brought me both a place for sanctuary and fictive kinship.

The Oxford Dictionary defines a home as “a place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household,” which is a seemingly straightforward and static notion. Yet, I find myself at odds with this definition, as it enforces the idea that a home is a fixed place, an address, and a place in which an individual is anchored for a lifetime. Even as I challenge the dictionary’s definition, there are moments when I long for the permanence that it reflects and when I yearn for the comfort of knowing exactly where I belong. My own internal diversity has led me to this hard fought journey, where I am able to confront my own definition of where I belong. My belief continues to evolve, but for now, I live by my own definition that a home is not measured by the land beneath my feet, but by the peace within my heart.

By Leah Hyolim Lee, age 14, New York.

Who I/Am

By Philip Shin, age 16, California.

(A poem expressing the duality of author’s heritage with authentic questions and observations.)

parts of a whole
parts with a hole
i am: of two places, of two minds, of two halves
of land and sea, of peninsula and coastline, of damp and dry, of lush greenery, trees stretching from moist soil, spindly limbs beckoning endless sky with verdant leafy hands

of bilingual pop, side dishes galore, vibrant colors and squishable characters with rosy cartoon cheeks, harmonic beauty of nature and man, of R. of Korea, and
of cold gray steel, cracked asphalt, emblazoned skyscrapers towering, challenging the heavens
of year-round sunshine, greasy hamburgers, of beaches and business,
of So and Cal

two puzzle pieces, together forever, one tarnished, decaying, colors fading, cobwebs staining, fabric fraying

is abstract art just as pretty, captivating, whole if half the canvas is burnt away?

i step onto the shores of my homeland and think to myself, i should recognize the corner stores, the animated billboards, the raindrops cascading down, the rhythmic syllables that dance smooth waltzes about my ears, my mother tongue of biology, not adoption

i recognize not; i recognize naught

i return to foreign lands, to scorched earth, to the misty supermarkets, the earthquake-proof apartments, the sunlight beaming down, the rapid syllables interspersed with boisterous laughter and fiery expletives
my mother tongue of adoption, not biology

and i think to myself, this is my homeland, but it is not my homeland, but it is my homeland

i have:
a tongue of one world, with sparse buds of another a culture of one world, with oft-forgotten elements of another

i am:
incomplete, part of a whole, part of a red, white, blue whole
part of a red, white, blue, black whole, half faded, melted, evaporated, into sands of time

who am i?

who i am.

By Philip Shin, age 16, Korean American, California. They write: “I have loved writing for my entire life. I write for fun, but also to better understand myself and my place in this vibrant, diverse, and multicultural world… I was spurred to write this poem after a trip to Korea.”

Here and There with Every Bear

By Sara wael, age 14, Al Ain, U.A.E.

Bears by Daemion Lee, Oregon.

Bears here, bears there,
bears are found everywhere!
Let’s take a trip to meet them all,
Who’s your favorite bear of all?

First, we visit the panda bear,
Found in forests deep and rare.
They love to munch on fresh bamboo,
And nap around the whole day through.
They tumble, roll, and sometimes share,
Pandas are the playful bears!

Ready for more? Let’s move along,
To places chilly, wild, and strong!

Then we go where the weather snows,
And icy wind forever blows.
There we meet the polar bears,
Fishing for food and swimming in pairs.
White and tough with icy stares,
Polars are the coolest bears!

Keep the pace, there’s more to see,
The forest calls to you and me!

Soon we find a grizzly bear, tall,
Roaming the forest, proud and strong
Eating honey with a mighty swish,
Their claws are sharp, their steps are swift.
With watchful eyes and steady care,
Grizzlies are the protective bears!

Quiet now, don’t make a peep,
Moon bears rest where midnight sweeps!

Found at night in forests deep,
Where moonlight glows and shadows sleep.
There we meet the moon bears, shy,
Peeking up at the starry sky.
With quiet steps and gentle glares,
Moon bears are the mysterious bears!

Under stars, our journey’s bright,
Next comes bears with eyes of night!

Found beneath the northern skies,
With beauty bright in golden eyes.
There we meet the black bears, bold,
Clever, curious, and never cold.
With black, brown and soft dark hair,
Black bears are the boldest bears!

Now let’s explore the mountains high,
Where secret bears are passing by!

Hidden in the southern clouds,
In mountains deep, special and proud.
They wander alone in quiet steps,
And eat wild fruits on jungle treks.
They’re quiet, sweet, and very aware,
Andeans are the special bears!

Off we go, you’re almost there,
To meet a bear with shaggy hair.

Seen in grasslands climbing trees,
Their tongues stretch out with skill and ease.
They feast on bugs with great delight,
They sleep by day and wake at night.
They’re gentle, sweet, and beyond compare,
Sloth bears are the caring bears.

Now for last, the smallest one,
Our bear adventure’s almost done!

Finally, we meet the smallest bear,
Cute and sweet, with gentle care.
Found in tropics, bold and bright,
Resting deep through day and night.
With honey dreams and silly stares,
Sun bears are the cutest bears!

Bears here, bears there, bears live everywhere!
Let’s keep them safe with all our care.
From forests deep to mountains high,
They need our help to thrive, not die.
So show some love, be bold, be fair,
Who’s your favorite bear out there?

—Sara Wael, United Arab Emirates. She adds: “My name is Sara, and I’m 14 years old. I live in the U.A.E. in a city called Al Ain. I wrote this poem (which I hope to publish as a book someday) to help spread awareness about endangered bears and to shine a light on bear species that many people don’t know much about. I hope this poem inspires others to learn more about these amazing animals, their habitats, and just how important they are to our world.”

Save Them Bears

By Ya-Ting Yu, Taiwan

Black Bear recently moved north for climate change research. During the festive season, Black Bear’s colleague, Polar Bear, invited him to her family dinner. “No Bear should be alone on Christmas Eve,” she said when she heard the un-partnered Black Bear planned to hibernate in his cave. With no excuse to say no, Black Bear obliged.

That evening, Black Bear arrived at Polar Bear’s home with a basket of cloudberries in his paws. He’d agonized over the gift, unsure what to bring. Though he’d seen Polar Bear’s lunch boxes: ringed seals, whale carcasses, geese eggs, he still preferred chestnuts and persimmons. Honey and beetle larvae were rare treats he savoured after long hours of foraging through data at the lab, but to be inclusive, a value Polar Bear emphasized, he chose cloudberries, safe for vegans, vegetarians, and the nut-allergic.

Polar Bear’s family welcomed Black Bear warmly, hugging, kissing and thanking him profusely for the cloudberries. Flustered by the sudden physical contact, Black Bear forced a courteous smile and awkwardly patted Polar Bear’s Mom’s back, relieved when she finally let go of his paw. It was his first time receiving kisses from complete strangers. Where he came from, in the East, Bears rarely even shook paws, sniffing was usually as close as they got.

But their habitat differences didn’t stop there. For an occasion like Christmas Eve, Polar Bear’s family usually indulged in seal and whale fat. Vegetation was more for decoration, except for the hippie Cousin who’d recently turned vegan to combat the melting ice.

Before dinner, the family gathered in prayer positions, bowing their fluffy heads to say grace. Black Bear, unfamiliar with their faith, looked from left to right at the table and hurried to mimic their gestures.

“Amen,” Black Bear echoed, a pace too slow.

“Do Bears in your forest also celebrate Christmas?” Polar Bear’s Mom asked.

Black Bear scratched his ear. “I guess so? But it’s more of a time when Bears hunt for deals—shopping sprees, fancy meals. We don’t get the day off, you see. Lunar New Year, now that’s a feast worth hibernating in Taiwan.”

“Oh, are you from Taiwan?” Polar Bear’s Aunt leaned closer, her snout twitching. “My son volunteered to build homes for the poor children in rural parts of your forest. Right, Cubby? He, sorry—they have an igloo architectural license.”

Mortified, Polar Bear injected, “Auntie, Cousin went to Thailand, not Taiwan.” Her fur bristled as she glanced at Black Bear.

“That’s cool,” Black Bear said. “But igloos? My Sun Bear friend told me they melt once the volunteers take off. At the end, it seems easier for them to sleep in trees.”

“In trees!” Polar Bear’s Aunt gasped. “Son, you must go back and build them un-meltable igloos next time. The poor cubs. Just imagine—they don’t even have blackout curtains!” She sighed sympathetically and turned to Black Bear. “Do you have blackout curtains in Taiwan? Don’t tell me you also sleep in trees.”

“Oh no,“ Black Bear said with an uneasy laugh. ”Mostly caves or tree cavities. The only time I climb trees is when I’m hungry—for honey and bee larvae. Have you tried them?”

“Bee larvae? That sounds disgusting,” Polar Bear’s Cousin said, wrinkling their nose, unfazed by Polar Bear’s death glare across the table. “Thailand fed us Pad Thai and Green Curry every day.”

“Son,” Polar Bear’s Uncle rumbled as he lumbered over with a platter of barbecued seal fat. “Don’t you know Formosan Black Bears are battling Giant Pandas to protect their territory? What propaganda are you watching all day on TikTok? Read the news.”

Polar Bear’s Aunt sniffled. “I heard about that conflict. Is that why you left, Black Bear? It must be so dangerous back home. Don’t worry. Stay here in the Arctic as long as you want. We’ll sponsor you.”

No longer able to tolerate her extended family’s political incorrectness, Polar Bear tried to stir the conversation. “So, Black Bear, how’s your research? Any insights to share?”

“Yes, actually,” Black Bear said. “Before coming here, I thought Taiwan did a terrible job on climate change initiatives. Sure, we mostly rely on fossil fuels, but imagine squeezing Australia’s population into an area the size of Switzerland. Add typhoons and earthquakes to the mix. Our islands need to generate energy for millions and the semiconductor industry, which, by the way,” he added, fixing his gaze on Polar Bear’s Cousin, “powers your AI, EVs, solar panels, and wind turbines. Charity case, eh?”

A beat of silence followed as Polar Bear’s family exchanged looks. The Cousin shifted in their seat, ears flattening. Minutes passed. Polar Bear cleared her throat.

“Did you know Taiwan is smaller than many of our icebergs?” she asked, her voice tentative, like a kind schoolteacher. “Every Bear does what they can with what they have. And really, isn’t that what this is about? Climate change affects us all—even those big-headed humans. Here we are, just bears trying to adapt.”

She surveyed her family, looking each in the eye, and finally at Black Bear. “And if Black Bear can adapt to seal fat and bear kisses, maybe we can try a little harder too.”

For the first time that evening, Black Bear felt the tension in his shoulders ease, melting faster than glaciers. Maybe he didn’t fully belong in the Arctic yet, but any bear could find a caring companion who understood, even in this icy corner of the world. He leaned in to sniff the barbecue seal fat and said, “Hold up. Let me get my soy sauce.”

Story and illustration by Ya-Ting Yu is a Taiwanese writer based in Taipei, with roots stretching to Toronto and Edinburgh. Writing in English as her second language, she weaves themes of identity and belonging, drawing on her background in counseling and psychology to tell the stories of East Asian expatriates and international students.

Save Them Bears was inspired by my own experience as a Taiwanese expat, navigating the nuances of cultural assimilation and identity. I hope to highlight how cultural misunderstandings can be wrapped in well-meaning gestures. By anthropomorphizing the characters, I aim to create a story that is somewhat ‘trigger-free’ yet thought-provoking.

The Cliffs of Moher, Ireland

Text and photos by Roi J. Tamkin, Atlanta, Georgia

I visited the Cliffs of Moher on a recent trip to Ireland. Although the day was windy and chilly, I couldn’t help but marvel at the size of the steep, dark cliffs. I watched in awe as the wild waves of the Galway Bay crash into the tall, rocky walls.

This geological wonder is located in the southwest part of the Burren Region of County Clare. The cliffs stretch for nine miles. They stand 702 feet tall at O’Brien’s Tower and fall to over 200 feet at some points. The town of Doolin is nearby, and visitors can walk to town on a trail at the visitor’s center. You’re bound to see lots of sheep as you walk the trail.

The cliffs are the most visited tourist site in Ireland with 1.5 million tourists a year.

The cliffs were formed 326 million years ago from sediment deposited at the end of a river. Layer upon layer of sediments turned into Namurian shale and sandstone. Now these dark colored cliffs are subject to erosion due to wind and sea. Portions have crumbled into the water creating sea stacks.

The national landmark has been designated an Important Bird Area as those craggy cliffs are home to many species of birds including puffins and razorbills. When I visited, every bird looked like a gull to me. They flew from their homes burrowed into the rock face and headed out to see to find fish to eat.

A popular attraction is O’Brien’s Castle. Built in 1835 by Sir Cornelius O’Brien, people climb the steps for spectacular views of the Aran Islands across the Bay. There is disagreement as to the purpose of the Castle, but it has been a tourist hit right from the beginning.

The best time to visit is early in the morning. The morning hours afford the best view of the islands and surrounding land. I arrived in the afternoon, and even though the sun was high in the sky, it was extremely cold and windy. I only had twenty minutes of clear views of the ocean and the bright green grass atop the cliffs. Before long, the fog rolled in, and I could not see anything more than a foot from my face. Walking along the tops of the cliffs became dangerous, and I had to keep my eyes glued to the person walking in front of me for safety. The fog came in so quickly and so thick that I decided it was time to visit the museum inside the visitor’s center.

There are many different one-of-a-kind geological structures on the island of Ireland. The Cliffs of Moher tell the story of the passage of time. It took millions of years to build up the cliffs, and now erosion is tearing them back down to sediment. A visit to the Cliffs will last in your memory: the contrast of colors between the murky walls and the emerald green grass; the woolly sheep grazing nearby; and the mystery of O’Brien’s Tower all add up to an amazing day by the sea.

Text and photographs by Roi J. Tamkin, a photographer based in Atlanta, Georgia.

Hazel Lee, Chinese American Fighter Plane Pilot

By Fanny Wong, New York

“Race you to the corner!” Hazel challenged the boys.

The boys groaned, but maybe, just maybe, they could beat her this time.

They didn’t. Beaten again by this scrawny young girl. She also played handball and cards with them. Guess who won?

Hazel’s parents, immigrants from China, met and married in Portland, Oregon. Hazel, the third of eight children, lived with her family in Portland’s Chinatown. It was the only community the Chinese were allowed. The children went to Chinese school on Saturdays to learn to their language and culture.

Hazel was good at writing and speaking Chinese, but a traditional Chinese girl she wasn’t. Her voice was too loud, her laughter too boisterous. She was handy and fixed things around the house. Not ladylike at all.

When Hazel was a teenager, a friend took her up in a biplane at an air show. Her eyes danced, face flushed, and her heart raced with excitement as the plane lifted off. The rumbling motor and whirring propellers were music to her ears. She was as free as a bird high up in the sky. Hazel’s dream soared with the plane. She knew she belonged in the cockpit of a plane.

Now that she had a dream, she had to find a way to make it come true.

First, she had to find a job after graduating from high school in 1930. The only job she could find was as an elevator operator in Liebes department store in downtown Portland. Up and down she took customers from floor to floor. She stuck to the boring job her job to save money for flying lessons.

Hazel’s parents turned pale when she enrolled in a flight school in 1931. It was not what a woman did. It was not what a young Chinese woman did. What would the Chinese community think of their daughter!

“You’re not afraid of the water, you’re not afraid of the wind!” her mother lamented. It was her way of saying Hazel was not scared of anything. Eventually, her parents let her try something different, be someone different from what the Chinese community expected of her.

Hazel went through the same training as the men at the Chinese Aviation School in Portland. The mind-boggling controls, dials and levers did not intimidate her. She lived for the moment when the plane swooped like a swallow over sea and land. The higher the plane soared, the freer she was.

Hazel passed all the flight tests in a year and received her pilot license in 1932. At that time, only one percent of American pilots were women. In those days, people thought a woman should not fly a plane. How could a woman handle an emergency? Too emotional! Too nervous! And whoever heard of a Chinese female pilot? Hazel couldn’t find a pilot job.

In response to Japanese aggression against China in 1932, Hazel journeyed to China, hoping to join the Chinese Air Force. But again, she was frustrated that it did not accept women pilots. In the end, she settled in Canton and flew for a private airline.

After returning to the United States in 1938, Hazel waited for years before she could prove herself. In 1942, during WWII, when male pilots fought overseas, the military needed more pilots at home. Some 25,000 women applied for the program. In 1943, with 35 hours of flying time and a medical exam, Hazel was one of 1097 women pilots accepted by the new Women Airforce Service Pilots Program (WASP) to prove their skills.

Like the other trainees, Hazel had to pay her way to Sweetwater, Texas for training. Their pay was $259 a month, with no benefits. She was among the select few and the only Chinese. For six months, in the dusty and hot Avenger Airfield, she endured sand in her hair, snakes and spiders even indoors. But she learned to fly different military airplanes, parachuting and making emergency landings. She studied all the parts of the plane, rudder bar, stick and struts. When she learned to take apart the engine and put it back together, she was as proud as if she had won a trophy.

One time, Hazel’s instructor made an unexpected loop. Her seat belt did not work properly. She fell out and parachuted safely. On the ground, she dragged the parachute behind her all the way back to the airfield. The incident didn’t faze her.

Another time, Hazel’s plane’s engine cut out in mid-flight. She made an emergency landing in a wheat field in Kansas. A farmer chased her, thinking the Japanese had invaded Kansas. She convinced him that she was flying in a U.S. flight program. Hazel knew no matter how American she was she would be looked at differently. But this incident did not discourage her. No, she might look like the enemy, but she was thoroughly American.

Easy-going Hazel made many friends. At 31, she was eight to ten years older than the rest of her classmates. They soon forgot she looked different, that she was the only Chinese they knew. Her calm, fearless piloting skills impressed them. They loved her irrepressible sense of fun, as when she wrote their nicknames in Chinese on their planes with lipstick. Her personality bubbled over like a pot of soup. Her friends knew she was nearby when they heard her laugh, “Heeyah! Heeyah!”

Although Hazel graduated from the WASP program in 1943, the U. S. Government did not allow women in combat roles at the time. Instead, being one of the best graduates, she was chosen for Pursuit School at Brownsville, Texas. There, she trained with 134 other graduates to fly fighter planes, such as the Pursuit and the P-51 Mustang, high powered single-engine jet planes. After the training, she delivered the new planes from factories to airfields all over the North America. If anything was wrong with them, she was among the first to know.

Hazel accepted dangerous missions, such as flying in open cockpit planes in the winter, shivering in many layers of clothing. Another dangerous job was flying a plane that served as a “tow.” A large target sleeve was attached behind her plane for gunners to practice shooting from the ground. She cringed when bullets whizzed by the cockpit, but she kept flying these dangerous flights. Sometimes, after the practice flight, she found holes in the tail of the plane.

Hazel crisscrossed the country in wartime to deliver planes that would be used in combat. She flew seven days a week, bone-tired, but proud of her non-combat role in wartime and took every challenge in strides.

As Hazel zoomed cross the sky, she wished her Chinese community could see her in an unconventional job, and doing it well!

On Thanksgiving Day, 1944, Hazel delivered a plane-a P-36 King Cobra from Niagara Falls, New York to Great Falls, Montana. As her lane approached the airfield, a plane above her lost radio control reception. The pilot did not know the position of Hazel’s plane. The two planes collided and burst into flames. The other pilot had non-life-threatening injuries., but Hazel died of her wounds two days later.

Because the WASPs flew military planes as civilians, they received no military benefits. Hazel’s family had to pay for her remains to be shipped home. After resistance from the River View Cemetery in Portland to bury a Chinese person there, Hazel’s family sought help from an Oregon senator, who appealed to the White House. The cemetery relented and Hazel was buried in a gentle grassy slope. Her grave marker was a polished slab of red granite with a winged diamond etched above her name, a symbol of the silver WASP wings pinned on the uniforms of American women who flew in WWII.

In 2004, the State of Oregon inducted Hazel into the Aviation Hall of Honor. Hazel and the other WASP pilots would not be recognized with military status until 1979. In 2009, President Obama awarded surviving and deceased pilots the Congressional Gold Medals.

Comfortable in a career dominated by men, Hazel not only lived her dream but proved a woman could fly a fighter plane as well as any man. She didn’t expect to make history. As the first Chinese American women to fly for the U. S. military, she was doing what she loved, for a country she loved.

—Fanny Wong, Chinese American Author, New York. She is a frequent contributor to Skipping Stones Magazine.

Coral Remembrance

By Rachel Agyeman, age 17, Maryland

Spring
Small fluorescent animals join together
Into sprawling colonies, growing across millenniums
An undersea civilization emerges
Pillars grow into branching skylines
Soft-bodied leaves, flowers, and mushrooms cover the floor
Young polyps ride currents with their finned neighbors
Weaving through thin, colorful trees and stinging whips
Before settling into extended colonies
A season passes, and warmth arrives to the city

Summer
The surface brightens, the city quiets
Gleaming, branching skyscrapers dim
Vibrant mushrooms and flowering plants fade
Into the returning memories of ivory reefs long lost
Generations of colonies once teeming with life
Now frail and shriveled beneath the waves
The sun a soul-sucking beam, draining all the reef’s radiance
Algae and mucus escape to the surface, clouding the scattered sunlight
A season passes, and the dark city begins to cool

Autumn
As sunlight penetrates the waves slower, the blazing heat seems to weaken
The city’s remaining colors endure, each polyp retains its strength
The skyscrapers continue to stand tall, the plants remain in bloom
Memories of the passing heat reach future generations
Strengthening each one more, prolonging their lives
Preserving the civilization’s vibrancy
The polyps and fish swim freely once again
Through now illuminated paths
Color returns to the bustling city

By Rachel Agyeman, age 17, Maryland. She writes:
“I was born in Maryland and have always lived there, but my parents grew up in Ghana and immigrated to the United States in the early 2000s. I’ve only visited Ghana once during my winter break this year, so I’m not fluent in the native language, which is Twi. I only speak and write English, though I can understand a little bit of the Twi my parents speak to each other. I hope to continue visiting Ghana in the future to stay connected to my family and culture. Drawing and writing are very important passions for me. Having the opportunity to create, either as a comfort outlet or a long-term project, is something I will always value. I will soon be going to college to study psychology and explore some art programs, hopefully finding a way to combine my passion for creating with my desire to understand and help others through my studies. I created this piece for my creative writing class and was inspired by an article I saw during my research about coral having the ability to ‘remember’ past bleaching events. The concept of coral being able to ‘remember’ anything despite not having a brain made me want to write a poem that combined scientific facts about coral with an emotional, personified perspective on the lives of coral reefs.”

In Defense of Dirt: Rewilding Our Children Before their Bodies Forget