I hope so.
I remember making mine in what was it? Fifth grade? I remember picking leaves off the trees, just one from each, double checking to see if I had already collected that kind of leaf. My father brought my siblings and me around Calvin’s campus to pick our leaves. We’d use our dichotomous keys to evaluate what kind of leaf it was. Needle-like or scale-like? Serrated or toothed? We’d stick them in the sleeves in our binders with a pencil-scrawled label, until we got confused, thinking we might have mislabeled a prior leaf, because we found one that fit the description just a bit better.
I remember finding the ginkgo leaves. Broad and flat, simple, fan-shaped. It was my favorite leaf that we had found.
My dad was full of joy over our joy over the leaf. He told us that that was his favorite leaf, too. It always had been, ever since he was a kid.
I remember that project every time I see ginkgo leaves—sleuthing with my siblings, trying to see who could solve the leaf puzzle first. We learned the names of trees. We learned about the plants that were native to the place we lived, and about the ones that had been brought in. We learned that some were beautiful and some were harmful and some were both.
I miss when attention to the world around us, and wonder over the beauty of the earth, was our assignment.
At the Festival of Faith & Writing this past year, Robin Wall Kimmerer gave us quite a striking image: kids today can recognize corporate logos, but they often can’t recognize the most common plants growing around them.
I’m afraid that’s true of me. And I lament that.
In a society so concerned with productivity, there isn’t much reason for me to know the names of the plants growing around me. No one is going to evaluate me on whether I can tell a maple from a ginkgo. There is no particular achievement in it, no measurable benefit.
But maybe that’s the wrong question.
Whenever I see ginkgo leaves covering the ground in the fall, I think of my leaf project and the joy of a shared favorite leaf. I think about the millions, billions, of people who came before me who knew what grew where, what could be eaten, what could hurt you, what could heal you. People who knew the trees not only for what they could provide, but for the shade and the beauty they gifted.
I hope teachers still assign leaf projects.
Madeline Witvliet (’25) graduated from Calvin with a degree in English. She can be found in coffee shops in Eastown, exploring Michigan’s state parks, or singing with Calvin’s Alumni Choir. Madeline enjoys spending time outdoors, crafting, and cooking Mediterranean-inspired meals.
