I have learned many valuable lessons in my time as both a home educator and school administrator, many of which I gleaned from living on a regenerative agriculture farm. In 2014, my family and I moved to a farm nestled in the Sierra Nevada Foothills to attempt to grow our own food and cultivate a connection with the land and each other. My kids and I decided to start a homeschool co-op where we could learn in community right here on the farm. We called it Farm “School.”
We spent joy-filled days classifying living organisms as we raced from creek to pond, only to fall breathlessly under the shade of the fruit trees in the orchard where local artists and musicians would meet us with watercolors and guitars in hand. It was idyllic and unforgettable.
Then, in 2018, the deadliest and most destructive wildfire in California history, the Camp Fire, tore through our county, decimating the town of Paradise along with half the homes of our Farm School families. We were devastated. Our learning community rallied to support each other in very tender and beautiful ways, and slowly, we began to heal.
Likewise, after the ecological devastation of a wildfire, nature rallies to heal, bringing about transformation in a process called ecological succession. Every living thing on my farm, from the hills dotted by mighty blue oaks to the riparian areas that wind through the valleys, gives me immense hope that transformation in nature, in our lives, and in our communities can take place.
The first time, though, that I stepped foot on the farm where I now live, it was only a few short weeks after a wildfire had come through. Everywhere I looked was blackened earth. I didn’t know if I could call this place home. What remained on the hillsides were burned-out brush and mature blue oak trees that had withstood the fire – these became an invitation to birds like the acorn woodpecker to rest from flight. Landing on a blackened branch, they brought seeds from other areas. Seeds they spread when they pooped. These seeds would become the annuals, or simply, grassy weeds. They formed a protective cover over the soil, keeping all the nutrients and microorganisms within their depths alive. Their root systems are minimal, but they pop up quickly to protect. It’s the first sign of healing, like a scab over a wound.
The second time I visited, green grasses had replaced blackened earth. Ok, I thought, maybe I could live here. But it wasn’t until the time after that that I knew this would be home. It was April, and the fields were full of wildflowers, purples, yellows – too numerous to count – the scene beautiful beyond words. What had felt like utter devastation just months earlier now resembled hope.
You see, the weeds had protected the wildflower seeds until they were ready to emerge. They broke up the soil with their roots, added nutrients, and prepared the way for the facilitator species – the shrubs and brambles. They’re the ones that start to put down deeper roots because they have a different capacity for protection. They chaperone and shelter the seedlings that will become the overstory – the trees, like the blue oaks on my property, whose roots go deep enough and bark thick enough that they can survive ecological devastation. Working together, the grasses act as protectors, the brush serves as facilitators, and the trees form the overstory, creating an island of hope within the ecosystem.
Science writer and biomimicry pioneer Janine Benyus describes how these islands of hope grow in a circular, successive way. At first, you might see one island here and another over there, but over time, they begin to merge, forming a larger, interconnected whole. This is exactly what happened when the Farm School community came together to support one another after the Camp Fire. I see the same phenomenon happening here at The Cottonwood School.
In our virtual classrooms, islands of hope emerge in spaces where learning once seemed dormant. Healing takes root during park days and in meaningful conversations between teachers and parents that foster connection and restore hope. Parents, homeschool teachers, and the entire learning community serve as protectors, facilitators, and guides in their children’s education. Your homeschool is an island of hope—one that, together with others, helps create a thriving, supportive network of learning and growth. And though, at times, it feels as if we are alone in our work, we are not. The circles are starting to come together so that if you reach out your hand in the dark, you might actually find another hand waiting for you. You are an island of hope.
Kindly,
Kara Tupy, Associate Director of Instruction, TK-8 (Not to be confused with Kara Parkins)