A Beautiful Life: Lessons from a Bigleaf Maple

Today, the bigleaf maple leaves had completely covered the forest floor. They were enormous. Scattered across the pathways, piled beneath the trees, overlapping one another until the ground was barely visible. I picked one up and found myself wondering just how much it had given in its short life. For months, this leaf had been hard at work. Capturing sunlight, producing food, and providing the energy its tree needed to grow and thrive. Every day, quietly contributing to something much larger than itself. And then, when the season changed, the tree let it go.

At first glance, it might seem that the leaf's work was finished. Its brilliant green had faded, its edges were worn, and it was no longer needed among the branches. But its story was far from over. Now, resting on the forest floor, the leaf begins an entirely different kind of work.

It provides shelter for some of the forest's smallest and most vulnerable creatures. It helps protect the soil from the cold and holds moisture beneath its surface. It becomes food for the slow-moving decomposers that gradually break it down. And eventually, the leaf will disappear. Its beautiful shape will be lost, its colours will fade, and it will become part of the soil. The nutrients it once held will return to the earth, helping nourish the roots of the very tree that gave it life. Even in its disappearance, it continues to give.

What a beautiful life.

As I stood there holding that enormous leaf, I realized something. The bigleaf maple leaf is the kind of teacher I want to be. Right now, I'm in a season of growing and giving. I'm building Born to Explore, developing programs, learning alongside my students, and continually challenging myself to become a better educator. I give my time, my energy, my creativity, and a great deal of myself to this work. Some days I come home completely exhausted. Other days, I leave the forest feeling more energized than when I arrived. But I love what I do. And I believe deeply in the value of these early experiences.

I hope that the time I spend with my students gives them something they can carry forward. Maybe it's the confidence to try something new. The curiosity to look a little closer. The courage to ask questions, the patience to work through frustration, or the understanding that they have a place in the world. Perhaps it's something I haven't even noticed. The truth is, I may never know what stays with them. A conversation that seemed insignificant to me might become something meaningful to a child. A moment of encouragement might give them the confidence to try again. An afternoon spent exploring the forest might grow into a lifelong relationship with nature. Just as the leaf cannot know exactly where its energy will go, I cannot know what will become of everything I give. And I think I'm learning to be okay with that.

But there's another part of the leaf's story that speaks to me.

Its contribution doesn't end when its role changes.

Education is always evolving. Our understanding of children, learning, development, and the world around us continues to grow. The things we believe and practise today may look different years from now. I hope I never stop growing alongside those changes. I want to remain curious, question what I think I know, and be willing to change my approach when I learn something new. And just as the philosophy of education will change, so will I. There will come a time when my body won't move through the forest as easily as it does today. I may not always have the energy to climb over fallen logs, crouch beside a creek for half an hour, or spend my days keeping pace with curious little explorers. I don't know what that season of my life will look like. But I know I still want to give. Perhaps I'll share what I've learned with other educators. Perhaps I'll support families in new ways, mentor someone just beginning their journey, or find different opportunities to contribute to my community and the spaces that have given me so much. Maybe Born to Explore will grow into something that continues beyond my own years of teaching.

I hope so.

I don't want the value of my work to be measured only by the years I spend actively teaching, just as the value of a leaf isn't measured only by the months it spends attached to a branch. There's something comforting in knowing that we can continue to contribute, even when the way we contribute changes. And perhaps there's something else the leaf can teach me. It spends its growing season giving energy to the tree, but it doesn't do so alone. The tree provides the water and nutrients it needs, the roots draw from the soil, and the entire forest plays a part in sustaining the life around it. It's a relationship of giving and receiving. I think that's important for me to remember, too. As much as I want to give to my students, their families, my program, and my community, I also need to allow myself to be nourished by those relationships. By the children who remind me how exciting the smallest discoveries can be. By the families who trust me with their little ones. By the people who encourage me as I build something I believe in. And, of course, by the forest itself. I spend so much time thinking about what I can offer the children, but the truth is that I receive an extraordinary amount in return.

Today, all it took was a fallen leaf to remind me. One day, that enormous maple leaf I held in my hand will be unrecognizable. Its work will continue in ways that are no longer visible.

And I hope that, in my own way, I can do the same. To give what I can while I can. To grow and change with the seasons. To recognize that my purpose may take different forms throughout my life. And to leave something behind that helps others grow.

What a beautiful life that would be.

See you outside. 🌿