The Only Question Any of Us Every Have

You're walking.

And you don't always realize it, but you're always falling.

With each step you fall forward slightly.

And then catch yourself from falling.

Over and over, you're falling.

And then catching yourself from falling.

And this is how you can be walking and falling at the same time.

                                                                          ~Laurie Anderson

I found myself remembering these lyrics as I watched a baby toddle along the sidewalk, walking and falling at the same time. Every step an act of faith and courage.

She came upon a brown leaf, a grapefruit leaf. It stopped her. She seemed to consider the leaf, then bent suddenly at the waist, reaching for it with her chubby fingers, grasping it, then brought it to her mouth all in one motion. 

Her father lurched toward her, saying, "Phooey! Phooey!" The baby stood upright at his approach, noting her father with her eyes while her hands continued to clutch the leaf. Her father wiped bits from her lips, then pried her mouth open to check for anything that might have gotten past. 

She stood for a moment, making a face as if at a bitter taste. She fell forward slightly, then caught herself from falling, one, two, three times before stopping as she once more noticed the leaf, or what was left of the leaf, in her fist. Her father again said, "Phooey!" but instead of bringing it to her mouth, she released the leaf with a kind of lurch, perhaps attempting to throw it. It fell at her feet. She once more bent at the waist and grasped it, bringing it once more to her mouth.

"Phooey!"

This baby had walked before, she had bent, grasped, mouthed, and thrown before. Maybe not leaves, but other things: balls, dolls, sticks, rocks, napkins, cups, garbage, you name it. She is likely beginning to speak, but really, these interactions -- bending, grasping, mouthing, throwing -- are her questions. The courageous act of walking, falling and catching her fall, is one of her ways of discovering novel things about which to ask her questions.

Grasping that crumbly, brown leaf gave her a different answer than the one given by, say, the bunch of keys she grasped the day before. Judging by her expression, I'm thinking she didn't much like the answer to her mouthing question. When she threw her rubber ball it had bounced and rolled in answer to her throwing question, but this crumpled leaf's answer to momentum and gravity was . . . something else.

It's easy to be a cynic if you're a person who doesn't know young children like we do, to see all of this as involuntary movement resulting from mere instinct. Western scientific thinking remains attached to notions of a clockwork universe, including humans, but most other traditions see this as intelligence. The intelligence of a plant to turn toward the light: the intelligence of a human baby to bend, grasp, mouth, and throw.

But what if they fall? What if they choke? What if they throw a rock through a plate glass window? 

That's what they need us for. We are there to say "Phooey!" not because we're superior beings, but because it is our responsibility at this stage in our own development to keep them safe. The clockwork universe views us as separate beings, but babies are intelligent enough to know that there is no separation between us, that their existence is fully intwined with ours. 

They ask their questions without limit until they come to one, often discovered through pain. That falling and catching yourself from falling business started with just falling, and no matter how many times we catch them, they will not learn to catch themselves until they've discovered the limit, the pain, for themselves. When we say "Phooey!" when we say, "I can't let you do that," we are setting a limit, for now, beyond which the pain might be too much. We are so intwined with them that we operate as their prefrontal cortex, providing them with advanced executive function. And they, in turn, provide us with renewed curiosity about things like leaves on the sidewalk. We are so intwined that we keep one another fully alive. We say "Phooey!" not because we are their bosses, but because we are them.

If we could put our babies' questions into words, be it about leaves or anything, they would be phrased something like, "How do I connect with this?" And really, that's the only question any of us ever have.

And in between each asking, each connection, each intwining, we are falling and catching ourselves from falling, over and over. That's what babies know.

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If you're interested in transforming your own space into this kind of learning environment, you might want to join the 2025 cohort for my 6-week course, Creating a Natural Habitat for Learning. This is a  deep dive into transforming your classroom, home, or playground into the kind of learning environment in which young children thrive; in which novelty and self-motivation stand at the center of learning. In my decades as an early childhood educator, I've found that nothing improves my teaching and the children's learning experience more than a supportive classroom, both indoors and out. This course is for educators, parents, and directors. Registration closes this week! You don't want to miss this chance to make your "third teacher" (the learning environment) the best it can be. I hope you join me! To learn more and register, click here.

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