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About
Welcome
I'm glad you're here.
I've spent over thirty-five years in the woods with children — real woods, with mud and sticks and long stretches of quiet that most adults have forgotten how to sit inside. What I've learned in those years didn't come from a curriculum. It came from watching. From listening. From getting out of the way often enough to notice what children actually do when we let them.
I once watched a child make a small clay friend for a fading mushroom — because "it looked lonely." That moment taught me more about education than any textbook I've read. Not because it was cute, but because it was real. A child saw something suffering, felt something in response, and acted — with tenderness, with creativity, with complete seriousness. No one told her to do this. She simply met the world as it was and responded from her own deep sense of what the moment required.
That is what education looks like when you trust it to emerge rather than trying to deliver it.
I offer these pages first as a gift — to my own children and to all the dear young friends, most now grown, who have walked these trails with me. And I offer them to you, wherever you are in your own work with children.
If you're a parent wondering how to slow down, how to stop managing every moment, how to trust your child's natural capacity to meet the world — you might start with the blog. The essays there are personal, practical, and grounded in real moments from the trail.
If you're an educator looking for a different way to think about your role in the classroom or the forest — one rooted in presence, observation, and trust rather than outcomes and benchmarks — explore the resources and reflections on contemplative pedagogy.
If you're a practitioner drawn to the intersection of the Buddhadhamma and parenting — or simply curious about what thirty-five years of sitting with children and sitting with the Dhamma have taught me about both — the About page is a good place to begin.
If you're not sure — that's fine too. Look around. Follow what draws your attention. That's how children learn, and it works just as well for the rest of us.
What you'll find here is an education rooted in experience, not abstraction. It values presence over performance. Wonder over outcomes. It respects the rhythms of human development and takes seriously the idea that children are not preparing for life — they are already living it.
Come in. Stay as long as you like.
—Rebecca
Sections in this Website
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Exploring how children learn to exclude and label others as "one of those," and how educational systems suppress natural curiosity, movement, and diverse ways of learning.
Discover why "I'm bored!" is actually good news. This science-backed guide reveals how unstimulated time boosts preschoolers' creativity, brain development, and emotional resilience.
Children worked with clay as a bird gathered pine needles outside. Nests, worms, houses, and burrows emerged—gestures of shelter, repetition, and persistence carried in material.
A simple forest school lesson on bird alarms became a doorway into presence, perception, and pressure—spanning science, parenting, deep nature connection, and contemplative awareness.
When attention softens, the forest responds. Birds, breath, and baseline become a mirror—not of self, but of tone, pressure, and the wake of thought.
A tribute to Bev Bos and the living legacy of Roseville Preschool—celebrating trust, play, presence, and the radical act of letting children tumble freely into becoming.
A nature-based approach using curiosity, storytelling, and invisible guidance to foster deep connection with the land, self, and others, supporting cultural repair and renewal.
Exploring presence as relational, embodied, ethical, and cross-cultural—moving from technique to undoing, attunement, and mutual vulnerability with children and nature.
Presence shaped by outcome isn’t presence. Krishnamurti invites attention without identity, method, or purpose—challenging us to meet the child without bringing ourselves.
In the hush of the forest classroom, Emily discovered withered mushrooms and responded not with removal, but with reverence—sculpting clay companions to ease their solitude.