As I sat hip to hip with my elderly neighbor, the cool stones of her porch pressed against the backs of my legs, heightening the radiant warmth felt from the mid-morning sun. Two long, flat blades of grass were pinned between my thumbs, and my hair was tied back into springy pigtails. I could smell the sweet fragrance of the tall tulips in her garden and the spray she used to set her wispy grey hair into tight curls after it had spent the night wrapped around antique rollers. With nothing more than her own humble slivers of green, she buzzed short melodic snippets of ragtime jazz. I was determined to join her. The corners of her lips crinkled up in a grin as she watched from the corner of an eye decorated by the ornate crossings of crows feet. I blew with a zestful breath, and the toes of my velcro shoes turned inward‒ signifying my concentration, but all that was audible was the aspirated sound of hot air leaving my lungs. I turned to her, deflated. Without a word, she took her carefully selected pieces of grass, repositioned them between her thumbs, and blew again. A gloriously high pitched squeal emanated from her hands, and a smile broke out across my face.

I then looked at her quizzically; there seemed to be nothing different in our methods, yet success eluded me. I asked her to open her hands and examined the grass, both were roughly the same width and of similar stiffness. I repositioned the grass in my hands and watched as she did the same, my knuckles lined up as hers did, and the grass pieces laid flush together. She made the proper shape with her wrinkled lips, and I focused on mimicking it exactly. My mind spun as I attempted to learn what seemed like an unearthly art form, so simple, yet so challenging to my five year old self. Eventually, it clicked: my lips were obstructing the grass’s vibration. I sat up straight with elation, stretching as if my head could reach the clouds, and fought a grin that threatened to deform my carefully procured embouchure. I buzzed a pitchless tune of triumph and both Ms.Yvonne and I laughed.

I was awestruck that such a vibrant, intricate sound could come from something so small and mundane as grass. However,  Ms. Yvonne, with patience and grace, sat with me, encouraging my curiosity and introducing me to the fulfilling nature of inquiry. I spent endless afternoons wandering her yard, stumbling upon discoveries as minute as the ants that marched up her old pear tree or pondering concepts as broad as how our town developed. Her home became an escape from the unintentional disregard I experienced as the youngest and most curious of five children. My innate desire to understand the world around me flourished in her company and her attentive and caring nature empowered me to value my curiosity. With Ms. Yvonne’s encouragement, I saw for the first time the interconnectedness stretching through every aspect of my life. But what I value most from my time with Ms. Yvonne is not what I learned, but the way she showed me how to learn, opening my eyes to a world previously unseen.

As I grew older, I questioned everything: why the opposite side of the sky turned rosy at sunset, why large groups of starlings danced through the air in synchronization. I relentlessly chased the feeling of exhilaration that came with furthering my understanding. My father often grew weary of our endless discussions and my constant stream of questions; my teachers sometimes became frustrated with my pleas for additional work and lengthy asides on assignments. I could not curb my desire to know more; my head constantly filled with questions just beyond my grasp. This curiosity drove me to scour our bookshelves and the internet for answers, or even steal my sister’s graded homework from the recycling bin to analyze.

I eventually found solace in the expansive woodlands around my home as they provided me with limitless opportunity to revel in the concepts of ecology without others’ scrutiny. The forests held a network of interconnections so vast I could spend weeks studying just the relationship between two organisms that made up only a tiny sliver of the entire system. I quickly drew parallels between the symbiosis I found outdoors and the relationships I saw between local community members. I recognized that in every interaction there is a balance of give and take, and that knowledge can always be part of the reception. As these academic and moral principles meshed, I better understood the extent of connections that existed around me.

Ms. Yvonne and I shared our last conversation three years ago. From time to time I find myself sitting on the rock wall that separates our backyards, buzzing short tunes on blades of grass and thinking of the hours we spent together exploring her small piece of the world. I can recall every instance of genuine self-teaching that brought back the empowerment and excitement I had felt on the porch with Ms.Yvonne. I am grateful for her maieutic nature that sparked realization and the wisdom that confusion is natural, and even powerful if translated into curiosity.