Amy’s Story
1982. I had just become a mighty eighth grader. My mom’s friend hired me to transpose her business ledger into a computer program. I worked in her dark den. I don’t know what I loved more: ledger paper the size of the desk, or scrolling through the same data on a nine-inch screen. The following year, I aced my high school typing and accounting classes. My computer fate was sealed.
1992. My fingers defied frostbite by racing around the keyboard at light speed. My double-lined business suit plus two sublayers could not compete with the office AC. I don’t see how anyone considers 72 degrees room temperature. My feet were frozen in their pumps even though they were wrapped in a small throw blanket under my desk. While my fingers flew on autopilot, I gazed through the glass wall of my office at my dream job outside. An old man pulled weeds from the flower beds and beautified the parking lot with a push broom. I asked my boss for a change in duties, but the proposed pay cut further sealed my fate of computer work.
2002. Eight hours to Key West. Just enough time to knock out the eight novels my Flagler professors assigned for the upcoming term. I could certainly do without the I-95 scenery, and my kids could certainly use some quality minivan time with their dad. I stacked the novels in the cargo hold and curled up next to them. My earphones piped nondescript instrumental music to drown out the kids’ bickering. Don Quixote regaled me from his four-inch-thick paperback. Within an hour, motion sickness sent me back to watching I-95 out the window of the front seat.
2012. My inflight carry-on failed muster. It overflowed with my students’ science fair reports. I pulled a few out and held them in my arms. With all the repentance of captured con artist, I confessed, “I’m a teacher.” The attendant nodded me through. Despite my seat neighbor’s annoyance at the clutter, the flight was a delight as my students joined me in spirit with their precious attempts to sound like Einstein. When I got back to the school and entered their grades, I was mortified. Bjorn had no grade. I flipped through the report mountain ten times. Still no Bjorn. Was he in the Southwest Airlines terminal? The seatback? The lavatory? My co-teacher consoled me. “I’m sure he didn’t even turn in a report.”
Sure enough, Bjorn never made a peep about the zero on his grade. But I would never carry student work away from home again. The following year, I taught my students how to build their science reports on free Google websites. They had no need for backboards, printer ink, or report binders. And I had nothing to lose. Literally.
My teacher colleagues stayed on campus many long nights unfolding and grading backboards that were stacked head-high along the walls of their classroom. There was no space to open and display all 150 of them. Afterward, most of the students opted to let the janitor dispose of their creations rather than carry them home on the bus. The janitor sentenced them to 450 years in the landfill.
Meanwhile, I graded my students’ website projects from my back porch through my laptop. I even gave them last-minute opportunities to fix errors. After the grade, they left their paperless projects on the internet for future Googlers to learn from.
2022. My summer Creative Commons class met weekly for Zoom conferences. The hour-long discussion was a perfect time to grab a walk on the beach. As I listened to the lecture through my headphones, I found a shark tooth. I couldn’t help but show it off when it was my turn to speak. The class thanked me for bringing them outside for a moment.
Outside for a moment. Huh? They all work on computers. Why is “outside” a treat for them? Isn’t it the norm? Google ads show my fellow web creators working from outdoor cafes, beaches, and mountaintops. I pondered this as I hiked to the back of the GTM reserve to work on my laptop at that picnic table overlooking the river. I forgot about it as I used my phone to write an article from Guana Dam while watching the fishermen catch and measure their trout. I cringe from my workstation under the Nocatee bridge when boaters think nature is better if you blare music at it.
As I look back over the trajectory of my working conditions, I can clearly see the moment I achieved my lifelong goal. It was in 2021, when I knocked out all of the reading for my Liberty University Old Testament course while pulling weeds at the SPVCA clubhouse. I had to do some engineering to get the textbooks into audio format, and the robot reader didn’t know how to pronounce a few things. Nevertheless, I was living the dream. I had arrived.
Everyone’s Story
Admit it. Isn’t a return to nature everyone’s dream? Ask any corporate type why they want money. One of their top three reasons will be access to nature. Vacations on a tropical beach. An African safari. A mountain cabin on a lake. A yacht in the Mediterranean. A ski resort in the Rockies. Better yet, they’d like a private home in any of those places. Arora Borialis pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows.
If you’ve been to the Florida Keys, you may have seen this book in the local shops:
Honestly, most people would be happy to sit in their own backyard. The earth. The air. The sky. Maybe some pets and wildlife. Covid-19 sent a wallop through the working world. It took a massive catastrophe to open people’s eyes to the idea of working in nature. I don’t mean being a forest ranger. I mean, taking your number crunching to a park bench. Taking your research on a walk. Joining a board meeting from a fishing boat.
We were never meant to close nature out. We were meant to work with it.