When the Night Sky Becomes a Classroom: Writing, Wonder, and Light Pollution (Guest Blog Post)2/20/2026 Have you ever talked to your students about the night sky? It’s funny — we spend so much time teaching about the solar system, yet most of our kids only see it through diagrams and digital models. By the time the real sky puts on its nightly show, they’re usually at home, indoors, surrounded by the glow of streetlights and screens. Sometimes I catch myself wondering if my lessons can ever compete with that. This year, though, something clicked. Being involved with Expeditions in Education has provided me with meaningful opportunities to connect nature directly to my lessons and deepen student engagement. Through programs like Crossing America, STEAM in the Park, and National Park Expedition Challenges, I have been able to incorporate nature journaling, wildlife gardening projects, an Abraham Lincoln study, and a variety of hands-on STEM activities into my teaching. These experiences have helped me bring learning to life by blending literacy, history, science, and environmental exploration in meaningful and engaging ways. Expeditions in Education was once again the fuel for this successful unit. With state testing on the horizon, I was asked to incorporate a writing assignment into my 4th and 5th grade library classes. Instead of reaching for the usual prompts, I decided to use the Boreal Stargazing Week Prerecorded Video 2026 as our launchpad. (Find it here: https://vimeo.com/1159865504?fl=ip&fe=ec ) The visual comparisons in that video — bright sky vs. dark sky, star‑filled vs. star‑washed — were exactly what my students needed to understand light pollution in a real way. After watching, we talked about what they noticed, what surprised them, and why the night sky looks so different depending on where you stand. Then I wrote two articles — one for 4th grade and one for 5th — using the information from the video. I reviewed the expectations for writing with each grade level.
The best part was how naturally our conversation drifted back to nature. They weren’t just writing about light pollution; they were thinking about how it affects animals, stargazing, migration, sleep, and our connection to the world around us. They were noticing the night in a way many had never done before. Once the writing was complete, we shifted into a constellation mythology unit to tie everything back to the library. I used two wonderful books:
We explored four or five myths, talked about why ancient cultures looked to the sky for stories, and discussed how light pollution affects our ability to see those same patterns today. It was the perfect blend of literacy, science, and cultural history. To wrap it all up, each student received a piece of black construction paper and twenty tiny star stickers. (Mine were a mix of green, silver, gold, and red — use whatever you can find.) They scattered their stars across the page, then used a white crayon to connect some of the dots into an animal or person. They gave their constellations unique names. And of course, they wrote their own constellation myths — some were hilarious. I was truly shocked by the imagination that went into their stories. In a world where many children rarely see a truly dark sky, teaching about light pollution isn’t just a science lesson. It’s an invitation to notice, to wonder, to reconnect with something bigger than ourselves. When students realize that their environment shapes what they can see — and what they can’t — they begin to understand their role in caring for it. And when writing, mythology, and nature come together, the night sky becomes more than a distant concept. It becomes a classroom. Wendy Back Mt. Sterling Elementary Librarian Mt. Sterling, KY
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This is a stream of consciousness with no real form. No tidy structure. It just needed to be said. When passion intersects with purpose, something beautiful happens. Not flashy. Not loud. Just deeply right. That’s what Expeditions in Education is for us. It started with a love for national parks, for curiosity, for kids who ask big questions, and for educators who show up every day carrying more than most people ever see. But passion alone isn’t enough. Passion burns bright—and then it burns out—unless it’s anchored to purpose. Our purpose is simple and steady: to help students see themselves as capable problem-solvers, to help educators feel supported and seen, and to help young people understand that the places we protect—parks, rivers, coastlines, communities—matter because people matter. When passion meets purpose, learning stops being something you consume and starts being something you live. A livestream becomes a doorway. A field journal becomes a mirror. An engineering challenge becomes a way to say, I can help. We see it when a student realizes their idea could actually protect a turtle nest, when a ranger’s story sparks a classroom halfway across the country, when an educator exhales and says, “This is why I teach.” Expeditions in Education lives in that intersection—where wonder meets responsibility, where science meets empathy, and where learning reaches beyond walls and screens into the real world. This work isn’t about checking boxes or chasing trends. It’s about showing up with intention, designing with nature, and believing—fiercely—that curiosity and kindness still change things. That’s what happens when passion finds its purpose, and we’re so grateful to walk this path with you.
“Purpose doesn’t always arrive with a plan. Sometimes it shows up as a feeling you can’t ignore.” www.expeditionsineducation.org In recent years, STEM and STEAM have become powerful educational buzzwords. Grants, credits, certifications, and career pathways are increasingly tied to whether a program can demonstrate explicit connections to science, technology, engineering, arts, and mathematics. While these frameworks have brought welcome attention to interdisciplinary learning, they have also created an unintended consequence: educators feel pressure to prove which letter lives where, rather than focusing on how learning actually happens. At STEAM in the PARK, we are often asked, “What STEM elements are involved?” Usually the question comes from a well-intentioned place — educators seeking professional development credit or districts seeking alignment. But the question itself reveals a deeper issue. It assumes that meaningful learning can be separated into tidy categories, when in reality, neither life nor work functions that way. The world does not operate in acronyms, and therefore, education should not either.
Real learning is integrated by nature. In a national park, a ranger studying erosion is applying geology, physics, data collection, mapping technology, engineering solutions for trail design, historical knowledge of land use, and communication skills to educate visitors. An artist sketching a landscape is practicing observation, spatial reasoning, geometry, color theory, and emotional interpretation. A historian interpreting an Indigenous site blends anthropology, ecology, oral tradition, and literacy. None of these professionals perform their work inside a single letter of STEM. Their expertise lives in the intersections. When educators step into these environments, they experience learning the way the brain actually processes it — integrated, sensory-rich, contextual, and relational. Science is not a worksheet. Math is not an isolated period in the day. Art is not an “extra.” Literacy is not confined to language arts. Instead, each discipline strengthens the others, anchored by lived experience. We tell students we are preparing them for “STEM careers,” yet no engineer works without communication skills. No scientist succeeds without collaboration. No data analyst functions without storytelling and ethical reasoning. No environmental technician solves problems without understanding community impact. The modern workforce demands critical thinking, adaptability, empathy, systems thinking, creativity, and communication. These are not separate subjects. They are woven capacities. When we overemphasize labeling which activity is “science” and which is “engineering,” we risk missing the true goal: developing whole thinkers who can navigate complex, real-world problems. Nature is the original interdisciplinary classroom. Long before we created acronyms, humans learned by observing nature. Patterns in seasons taught mathematics. Stars inspired navigation and technology. Cave paintings carried history and art. Fire required engineering. Storytelling preserved culture and language. The natural world has always been humanity’s first integrated curriculum. Programs like STEAM in the PARK return educators to this foundational truth: learning is most powerful when it is lived, not compartmentalized. And this is where STEAM in the PARK is fundamentally different from most professional development offerings. It is not a class. It is not a workshop. It is not a curriculum package. It is an experience. For one week, educators step out of their roles as instructors and into the role of learners. They live inside a national park. They work alongside rangers and park staff. They participate in conservation projects, interpretive planning, scientific inquiry, historical storytelling, creative practice, and quiet reflection. They build community around shared meals and shared trails. They listen more than they lecture. They notice more than they measure. They remember what it feels like to learn with their whole body, heart, and mind engaged at once. And because the learning is embodied, it stays with them long after the week ends. Journaling strengthens literacy. Trail mapping builds spatial math. Wildlife observation teaches scientific inquiry. Building erosion barriers explores engineering. Listening to park stories deepens historical understanding. Quiet reflection cultivates social-emotional awareness. None of these experiences require announcing which letter they belong to — because the learning is authentic, memorable, and transferable. And when educators return home, they carry these experiences back into their classrooms. Lessons become richer. Questions become deeper. Student engagement becomes stronger. Content gains context. Curiosity is reignited. Providing immersive experiences for educators strengthens not only the teachers themselves, but every classroom they touch. Perhaps it is time to shift our language. Instead of teaching STEM or STEAM, we teach wonder, inquiry, connection, problem solving, stewardship, and storytelling. These are the capacities students need to thrive — in careers, in communities, and in caring for the planet they inherit. The acronym may open doors for funding and credit, but the word — education — is what opens minds. If we want students prepared for the world as it truly is — complex, interconnected, unpredictable — then our teaching must reflect that reality. We must design learning that mirrors life, not labels. Experiences that cross boundaries. Questions that do not fit into boxes. Classrooms that feel more like ecosystems than assembly lines. When educators step into a forest, a canyon, a shoreline, or a historic site, they remember why they became teachers in the first place: to spark curiosity, nurture courage, and cultivate meaning. Not to fill in letters, but to form lives. Today, we drove through Klamath Mountains, near the Trinity Alps Wilderness Area, wrapped in a world that felt suspended between dream and reality. As we wound along the forest roads, fog drifted between the trees and stretched across the water, soft and swirling, as if the landscape itself was breathing. It felt like we were driving straight into a story — one filled with whispers, mystery, and a quiet invitation to look closer. The fog changed everything as we drove through it. Trees became silhouettes, curves in the road disappeared into silver haze, and the lake shimmered with a muted glow that sunshine alone could never create. The water didn’t just reflect the world — it reimagined it. Fog turned familiar places into something new, something sacred, something that asked us to slow down and simply witness. And then, as we climbed higher along the road, we suddenly found ourselves above the fog — a lake of clouds stretching below us, soft and endless, like the sky had poured itself onto the earth. From there, the world looked entirely different. The forest peaks rose like islands, and the sun poured freely across the landscape, brilliant and unobstructed. And then, as we continued along, the sun began to appear in scattered pockets once more. Light spilled through breaks in the canopy, dissolving the fog in some places while leaving it lingering in others. With every mile, the view shifted again — texture, color, and clarity emerging where mystery had been. It was as though love and happiness were stepping into the scene, warming what had once been hidden. The same forest, the same water, yet entirely new perspectives with every turn. Driving through that dance of fog and light felt like a reflection of life itself. There are times when we move through uncertainty, when the road ahead is hazy and the story isn’t fully revealed. And there are moments when we rise above it, catching glimpses of clarity and hope, seeing farther than we thought possible. But we were reminded today that to truly live well, we need both. Fog teaches us wonder. Light teaches us clarity. Together, they teach us how to see. And as we drove through it all — the mystery and the brilliance — we felt grateful for every mile. — Dacia Driving by Steve Photos by Dave When school funding runs low, professional learning is often the first thing to go. And every time it happens, I want to ask — do we realize what we’re actually cutting?
Because when we invest in educators, we are investing twice — once in the teacher, and again in every student they will ever reach. You cannot expect inspired classrooms if you starve inspiration at the source. Professional learning isn’t a luxury. It’s where teachers rediscover curiosity, gather new tools, and feel seen, encouraged, and reminded that their work matters. And here’s the truth we don’t say loudly enough: teachers who feel valued teach differently. They show up with more patience, more creativity, more joy, and more belief in their students. Being loved and taught by someone who feels loved and valued themselves? That is priceless. That is the foundation of student success. I also hate that politics get tangled in this. Supporting educators should never be partisan. It’s human. It’s community. It’s the future. If schools can’t fund professional learning — and many truly can’t right now — then it’s time for corporations, foundations, and community partners to step forward. So where are those new funders? Raise your hand — we would love to talk with you. Because pouring into teachers is pouring into children is pouring into the world we’re building next. And that’s an investment worth making. I realized the other day that I’ve been picking a "word" for the start of the year since 1994—the year after Katie was born. Looking back at that list is like looking at a map of my life. Some of those years were great, full of energy and "big" moments. Others were just... hard. I remember the year after my mom died so suddenly, my word was Recovering. Honestly, that was all I had the strength to do back then. The tradition isn't always pretty. I’ve had years where I had to repeat a word because I clearly wasn't finished with it yet, or years where a single word wasn't enough and I needed a whole phrase. But looking at them all together, they tell the story of how I’ve grown, hit some walls, healed, and just kept going. This year, the word I’m landing on is Rooted. I’ve been thinking a lot about what I’ve learned from the Redwoods. They don't survive the centuries just because they’re big or tall. The real secret is that their roots spread out and actually tangle together. They literally hold each other up through the storms. That image has really stayed with me. This season of my life isn't about "doing more" or "reaching higher." It’s about holding on deeper to what—and who—actually matters. In my own family, being rooted means a lot less rushing. It’s about staying at the table a little longer for a conversation, making room for more laughs, and protecting time that doesn’t have to be "productive" to be important. It’s about being a steady place for the little ones and honoring the people who came before us. To me, it just feels like belonging. This year, I want to grow "down" instead of just stretching myself thin. I want to lean into the work I’m already doing and the people I’m so lucky to serve. Growth doesn’t always have to be something people can see from the outside. Sometimes it’s just the quiet work—the invisible courage, the steady commitment, and the love that keeps every branch of my life strong. I’m heading into 2026 rooted in memory, in hope, and in the person I’m still becoming.  Together, we spent time in one spot—learning that sometimes slowing down allows us to see and feel more. We explored how the Colorado River carved the canyon over millions of years, examined rock layers that hold Earth’s story, and reflected on how people—past and present—have lived, traveled, prayed, and found meaning here. Through Ranger RisingBuffalo’s stories, students learned that this place is not only shaped by geology, but by relationships, memory, and care. Ranger RisingBuffalo invited students into an important mission: Design a way for all people to safely and respectfully experience this one place—without harming the land and while honoring the people connected to it. More than a design challenge, this became a moment of connection. Ranger RisingBuffalo touched us all with his stories, his kindness, and his encouragement to truly see one another—to understand that our stories are connected, that places hold memory, and that when we take time to listen, we begin to know each other as humans first. He reminded us how important it is to remember these stories and carry them forward with respect and care. We were honored to share this meaningful virtual experience with students across the country and grateful for the reminder that learning happens best when we slow down, listen, and connect. This season, something pretty magical happened.
More than 15,000 students gathered—classrooms buzzing, screens glowing, curiosity wide open—to join their ranger friends from across the country for Holiday in the PARKS: Season 6, hosted live from Pearce Elementary School in North Carolina. Together, we celebrated 19 national park sites and learned alongside 27 incredible rangers, park staff, and volunteers who brought winter to life in the most creative and engaging ways imaginable. From snowy mountain landscapes to coastal shores shaped by cold winds and shorter days, students explored how people, wildlife, and entire ecosystems adapt when winter settles in. They investigated how snow, ice, and darkness shape daily life in different parks. They listened to stories of winter traditions, seasonal survival skills, and celebrations rooted deeply in place. And they considered an important question together: What does it mean to explore and protect our national parks during the coldest season of the year? And then—because learning is even better when students get to do—they became designers. Engineering with Heart and Purpose As part of our Engineering Design Challenge, students stepped into the role of park planners, imagining accessible and sustainable park features that make national park sites easier for everyone to enjoy. Their designs showed something powerful: stewardship isn’t just about protecting land—it’s about caring for people too. Thoughtful accessibility strengthens parks, communities, and the future of these treasured places. The joy, creativity, and curiosity from students was unmistakable. Every ranger talk sparked questions. Every park shared a story. And every classroom reminded us why this work matters. We are deeply grateful to our partners at the National Park Foundation for their continued collaboration and belief in bringing the parks to students everywhere. If you missed it—or want to relive the magic—you can watch the full archive here: 👉 https://www.crossingamerica.net/holidayintheparksllivestream-120012-720639-725207.html Holiday in the PARKS isn’t just an event. It’s a reminder that no matter where students live, the parks are theirs—in every season. After a long 43 days, our hearts are full. 💛🌎
We are beyond grateful that our incredible park rangers and public lands staff will finally be able to return to the work they love—protecting, preserving, interpreting, and caring for the places that mean so much to all of us. Their passion fuels everything we do. And now, because they are back, we can continue our mission of connecting national parks to classrooms across the country. From livestreams to hands-on science, storytelling, and educator experiences, none of it is possible without the men and women who steward these precious places. We’ve missed them. Students have missed them. And the world needs them. Here’s to stepping forward again—together. To changing the world one connection at a time. To inspiring young people to be curious, compassionate, and good humans. To honoring our rangers and the lands they protect. Let’s get back to it. 🌲✨ #NationalParks #Education #PublicLands #ExpeditionsInEducation #Gratitude #ConnectingClassroomsToParks Yesterday’s Crossing America LiveStream brought students and educators together from across the country to explore how wildlife moves, migrates, and thrives in one of America’s most breathtaking landscapes.
A heartfelt thank-you to the National Park Foundation for making experiences like this possible. Their support helps us connect classrooms to parks, science to storytelling, and curiosity to conservation. We’re so grateful to our partners at Grand Teton National Park, the Grand Teton Association, and the American Conservation Experience (ACE) for sharing their passion and expertise. Special thanks to Cadence Truchot, Tribal Community Engagement Fellow with ACE, and Zach Gorski, Education Associate with Grand Teton Association, for helping us bring the Tetons to life for students everywhere. Check it out HERE! |
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