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The immeasurable wonders of life and little Hudson's big question

We were going through a phase with measuring tapes. Pulling out the taut metal band and recoiling as it snapped back into its heavy yellow box. Go slowly. See the numbers? We can use it to measure how big something is. Hudson was a bit over two at the time and our world was one of happy chatter. He sang songs to me and would parrot lines from his favourite books. We spent sunny winter days making tiny and significant discoveries at the beach, painting with our hands and learning the names of all the whales. It was on one of these idyllic days, stretching out a measuring tape across anything we could find in the backyard, that he turned his earnest face toward me and asked, "How big is the sky?" As with all good questions from children, it made me reconsider what I thought I knew. At the time, he described the world to us with imagery and nuance. He was also captivated by measuring tapes, the ocean and all the secrets that it holds. In a pre-maternity life, I taught secondary school English literature. That is where, perhaps somewhat surprisingly, I became enamoured with picture books. One may expect that I would have formed a bond earlier, say, in my own childhood. But I can't remember anything before early readers (my favourite of which was the zany and enigmatic Go Dog Go by P. D. Eastman). The books I was finding as a teacher were, however, unlike anything I had read before - they felt strangely opulent, magnanimous in their imagery and ideas. Imagine! A tiny gallery that you can hold in your hands! I would pour over the works of Shaun Tan and Armin Greder and ask teenagers questions about wonder and urbanisation, otherness and the politics of belonging. That was when the seed fell and pressed itself into the dormant soil of a full-time teacher: one day I would make my own tiny galleries rich with ideas and beauty. When the measuring tape couldn't stretch across the vast cerulean ceiling above us, I knew it was time. The idea was elegant enough - some things simply cannot be measured. My debut picture book, How Big is the Sky?, begins by introducing young readers to scientific and mathematical concepts such as distance, weight and volume along with the instruments used to measure them. Drawing us into the world of a child as he sets off on an oceanic adventure with his family, the quantitative science extends to the immaterial in an exploration to find "the most important things" - because, while many things in our world can be counted, other things aren't so easy to measure. Like the warmth of laughter or love that's as limitless as the sky. How do you measure the immeasurable things? It is impossible to talk about this book without talking about my son. Not only because it is his idea that is painted across the cover, but because he has radically reframed what the "important things" are for me. During the years it took to envision and bring this book into existence, my son lost his ability to speak. As I fussed over early manuscripts and submitted illustrated drafts through a global pandemic, beside me, the songs and chatter of my son grew eerily silent. Mysteriously, achingly, as Hudson grew older, his words became trapped inside him. The parental panic of watching our son withdraw from the world and then from us - fearful, restless, angry - was not only painful, it was disorienting. The direction I thought we were headed, the places I had hung my values, were no longer relevant to my life. It became shockingly apparent that what was important had very little to do with scores, rankings or external measures of success. And while I thought I already knew this, our new reality shed light onto the superficiality of my ideals and demanded a shift of paradigm. As Helen Keller reflected in a letter to Rev. Phillip Brookes in 1891, "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen nor even touched, but [must be] felt with the heart". From someone else these words could seem quaint and rather trite, but as a Deafblind activist with her own torturous childhood of silence and frustration, Keller's words sit heavy with me. As an adult, the noisy demands of life often attach themselves to numbers and figures, deadlines and dot points. As an educator I watch young people adapt to the world of comparison and evaluation all too quickly, often confusing assessment with their sense of intrinsic value. We are bombarded, every day, with messaging that can make us feel like we need to measure up. I wrote this book because I wanted to point towards other metrics of worth. Things like generosity and courage, wonder and curiosity. Loyalty, determination, pride, love - these are all things that imbue our lives with meaning, and they are the things that we remember long after we've forgotten things like times, places, scores or rankings. This book, then, is not just about the measuring tape, it's about presenting the profound truth that the most wondrous, awe-inspiring things cannot be put on a scale or measured with a ruler or an altimeter. We already know that, but sometimes we all need a little reminding. While Hudson's words remain trapped inside of him right now, his ideas remain just as expansive. He shows us every day that things don't have to be quantified or even seen or heard to be real, hold weight and be of tremendous value. We were going through a phase with measuring tapes. Pulling out the taut metal band and recoiling as it snapped back into its heavy yellow box. Go slowly. See the numbers? We can use it to measure how big something is. Hudson was a bit over two at the time and our world was one of happy chatter. He sang songs to me and would parrot lines from his favourite books. We spent sunny winter days making tiny and significant discoveries at the beach, painting with our hands and learning the names of all the whales. It was on one of these idyllic days, stretching out a measuring tape across anything we could find in the backyard, that he turned his earnest face toward me and asked, "How big is the sky?" As with all good questions from children, it made me reconsider what I thought I knew. At the time, he described the world to us with imagery and nuance. He was also captivated by measuring tapes, the ocean and all the secrets that it holds. In a pre-maternity life, I taught secondary school English literature. That is where, perhaps somewhat surprisingly, I became enamoured with picture books. One may expect that I would have formed a bond earlier, say, in my own childhood. But I can't remember anything before early readers (my favourite of which was the zany and enigmatic Go Dog Go by P. D. Eastman). The books I was finding as a teacher were, however, unlike anything I had read before - they felt strangely opulent, magnanimous in their imagery and ideas. Imagine! A tiny gallery that you can hold in your hands! I would pour over the works of Shaun Tan and Armin Greder and ask teenagers questions about wonder and urbanisation, otherness and the politics of belonging. That was when the seed fell and pressed itself into the dormant soil of a full-time teacher: one day I would make my own tiny galleries rich with ideas and beauty. When the measuring tape couldn't stretch across the vast cerulean ceiling above us, I knew it was time. The idea was elegant enough - some things simply cannot be measured. My debut picture book, How Big is the Sky?, begins by introducing young readers to scientific and mathematical concepts such as distance, weight and volume along with the instruments used to measure them. Drawing us into the world of a child as he sets off on an oceanic adventure with his family, the quantitative science extends to the immaterial in an exploration to find "the most important things" - because, while many things in our world can be counted, other things aren't so easy to measure. Like the warmth of laughter or love that's as limitless as the sky. How do you measure the immeasurable things? It is impossible to talk about this book without talking about my son. Not only because it is his idea that is painted across the cover, but because he has radically reframed what the "important things" are for me. During the years it took to envision and bring this book into existence, my son lost his ability to speak. As I fussed over early manuscripts and submitted illustrated drafts through a global pandemic, beside me, the songs and chatter of my son grew eerily silent. Mysteriously, achingly, as Hudson grew older, his words became trapped inside him. The parental panic of watching our son withdraw from the world and then from us - fearful, restless, angry - was not only painful, it was disorienting. The direction I thought we were headed, the places I had hung my values, were no longer relevant to my life. It became shockingly apparent that what was important had very little to do with scores, rankings or external measures of success. And while I thought I already knew this, our new reality shed light onto the superficiality of my ideals and demanded a shift of paradigm. As Helen Keller reflected in a letter to Rev. Phillip Brookes in 1891, "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen nor even touched, but [must be] felt with the heart". From someone else these words could seem quaint and rather trite, but as a Deafblind activist with her own torturous childhood of silence and frustration, Keller's words sit heavy with me. As an adult, the noisy demands of life often attach themselves to numbers and figures, deadlines and dot points. As an educator I watch young people adapt to the world of comparison and evaluation all too quickly, often confusing assessment with their sense of intrinsic value. We are bombarded, every day, with messaging that can make us feel like we need to measure up. I wrote this book because I wanted to point towards other metrics of worth. Things like generosity and courage, wonder and curiosity. Loyalty, determination, pride, love - these are all things that imbue our lives with meaning, and they are the things that we remember long after we've forgotten things like times, places, scores or rankings. This book, then, is not just about the measuring tape, it's about presenting the profound truth that the most wondrous, awe-inspiring things cannot be put on a scale or measured with a ruler or an altimeter. We already know that, but sometimes we all need a little reminding. While Hudson's words remain trapped inside of him right now, his ideas remain just as expansive. He shows us every day that things don't have to be quantified or even seen or heard to be real, hold weight and be of tremendous value. We were going through a phase with measuring tapes. Pulling out the taut metal band and recoiling as it snapped back into its heavy yellow box. Go slowly. See the numbers? We can use it to measure how big something is. Hudson was a bit over two at the time and our world was one of happy chatter. He sang songs to me and would parrot lines from his favourite books. We spent sunny winter days making tiny and significant discoveries at the beach, painting with our hands and learning the names of all the whales. It was on one of these idyllic days, stretching out a measuring tape across anything we could find in the backyard, that he turned his earnest face toward me and asked, "How big is the sky?" As with all good questions from children, it made me reconsider what I thought I knew. At the time, he described the world to us with imagery and nuance. He was also captivated by measuring tapes, the ocean and all the secrets that it holds. In a pre-maternity life, I taught secondary school English literature. That is where, perhaps somewhat surprisingly, I became enamoured with picture books. One may expect that I would have formed a bond earlier, say, in my own childhood. But I can't remember anything before early readers (my favourite of which was the zany and enigmatic Go Dog Go by P. D. Eastman). The books I was finding as a teacher were, however, unlike anything I had read before - they felt strangely opulent, magnanimous in their imagery and ideas. Imagine! A tiny gallery that you can hold in your hands! I would pour over the works of Shaun Tan and Armin Greder and ask teenagers questions about wonder and urbanisation, otherness and the politics of belonging. That was when the seed fell and pressed itself into the dormant soil of a full-time teacher: one day I would make my own tiny galleries rich with ideas and beauty. When the measuring tape couldn't stretch across the vast cerulean ceiling above us, I knew it was time. The idea was elegant enough - some things simply cannot be measured. My debut picture book, How Big is the Sky?, begins by introducing young readers to scientific and mathematical concepts such as distance, weight and volume along with the instruments used to measure them. Drawing us into the world of a child as he sets off on an oceanic adventure with his family, the quantitative science extends to the immaterial in an exploration to find "the most important things" - because, while many things in our world can be counted, other things aren't so easy to measure. Like the warmth of laughter or love that's as limitless as the sky. How do you measure the immeasurable things? It is impossible to talk about this book without talking about my son. Not only because it is his idea that is painted across the cover, but because he has radically reframed what the "important things" are for me. During the years it took to envision and bring this book into existence, my son lost his ability to speak. As I fussed over early manuscripts and submitted illustrated drafts through a global pandemic, beside me, the songs and chatter of my son grew eerily silent. Mysteriously, achingly, as Hudson grew older, his words became trapped inside him. The parental panic of watching our son withdraw from the world and then from us - fearful, restless, angry - was not only painful, it was disorienting. The direction I thought we were headed, the places I had hung my values, were no longer relevant to my life. It became shockingly apparent that what was important had very little to do with scores, rankings or external measures of success. And while I thought I already knew this, our new reality shed light onto the superficiality of my ideals and demanded a shift of paradigm. As Helen Keller reflected in a letter to Rev. Phillip Brookes in 1891, "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen nor even touched, but [must be] felt with the heart". From someone else these words could seem quaint and rather trite, but as a Deafblind activist with her own torturous childhood of silence and frustration, Keller's words sit heavy with me. As an adult, the noisy demands of life often attach themselves to numbers and figures, deadlines and dot points. As an educator I watch young people adapt to the world of comparison and evaluation all too quickly, often confusing assessment with their sense of intrinsic value. We are bombarded, every day, with messaging that can make us feel like we need to measure up. I wrote this book because I wanted to point towards other metrics of worth. Things like generosity and courage, wonder and curiosity. Loyalty, determination, pride, love - these are all things that imbue our lives with meaning, and they are the things that we remember long after we've forgotten things like times, places, scores or rankings. This book, then, is not just about the measuring tape, it's about presenting the profound truth that the most wondrous, awe-inspiring things cannot be put on a scale or measured with a ruler or an altimeter. We already know that, but sometimes we all need a little reminding. While Hudson's words remain trapped inside of him right now, his ideas remain just as expansive. He shows us every day that things don't have to be quantified or even seen or heard to be real, hold weight and be of tremendous value. We were going through a phase with measuring tapes. Pulling out the taut metal band and recoiling as it snapped back into its heavy yellow box. Go slowly. See the numbers? We can use it to measure how big something is. Hudson was a bit over two at the time and our world was one of happy chatter. He sang songs to me and would parrot lines from his favourite books. We spent sunny winter days making tiny and significant discoveries at the beach, painting with our hands and learning the names of all the whales. It was on one of these idyllic days, stretching out a measuring tape across anything we could find in the backyard, that he turned his earnest face toward me and asked, "How big is the sky?" As with all good questions from children, it made me reconsider what I thought I knew. At the time, he described the world to us with imagery and nuance. He was also captivated by measuring tapes, the ocean and all the secrets that it holds. In a pre-maternity life, I taught secondary school English literature. That is where, perhaps somewhat surprisingly, I became enamoured with picture books. One may expect that I would have formed a bond earlier, say, in my own childhood. But I can't remember anything before early readers (my favourite of which was the zany and enigmatic Go Dog Go by P. D. Eastman). The books I was finding as a teacher were, however, unlike anything I had read before - they felt strangely opulent, magnanimous in their imagery and ideas. Imagine! A tiny gallery that you can hold in your hands! I would pour over the works of Shaun Tan and Armin Greder and ask teenagers questions about wonder and urbanisation, otherness and the politics of belonging. That was when the seed fell and pressed itself into the dormant soil of a full-time teacher: one day I would make my own tiny galleries rich with ideas and beauty. When the measuring tape couldn't stretch across the vast cerulean ceiling above us, I knew it was time. The idea was elegant enough - some things simply cannot be measured. My debut picture book, How Big is the Sky?, begins by introducing young readers to scientific and mathematical concepts such as distance, weight and volume along with the instruments used to measure them. Drawing us into the world of a child as he sets off on an oceanic adventure with his family, the quantitative science extends to the immaterial in an exploration to find "the most important things" - because, while many things in our world can be counted, other things aren't so easy to measure. Like the warmth of laughter or love that's as limitless as the sky. How do you measure the immeasurable things? It is impossible to talk about this book without talking about my son. Not only because it is his idea that is painted across the cover, but because he has radically reframed what the "important things" are for me. During the years it took to envision and bring this book into existence, my son lost his ability to speak. As I fussed over early manuscripts and submitted illustrated drafts through a global pandemic, beside me, the songs and chatter of my son grew eerily silent. Mysteriously, achingly, as Hudson grew older, his words became trapped inside him. The parental panic of watching our son withdraw from the world and then from us - fearful, restless, angry - was not only painful, it was disorienting. The direction I thought we were headed, the places I had hung my values, were no longer relevant to my life. It became shockingly apparent that what was important had very little to do with scores, rankings or external measures of success. And while I thought I already knew this, our new reality shed light onto the superficiality of my ideals and demanded a shift of paradigm. As Helen Keller reflected in a letter to Rev. Phillip Brookes in 1891, "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen nor even touched, but [must be] felt with the heart". From someone else these words could seem quaint and rather trite, but as a Deafblind activist with her own torturous childhood of silence and frustration, Keller's words sit heavy with me. As an adult, the noisy demands of life often attach themselves to numbers and figures, deadlines and dot points. As an educator I watch young people adapt to the world of comparison and evaluation all too quickly, often confusing assessment with their sense of intrinsic value. We are bombarded, every day, with messaging that can make us feel like we need to measure up. I wrote this book because I wanted to point towards other metrics of worth. Things like generosity and courage, wonder and curiosity. Loyalty, determination, pride, love - these are all things that imbue our lives with meaning, and they are the things that we remember long after we've forgotten things like times, places, scores or rankings. This book, then, is not just about the measuring tape, it's about presenting the profound truth that the most wondrous, awe-inspiring things cannot be put on a scale or measured with a ruler or an altimeter. We already know that, but sometimes we all need a little reminding. While Hudson's words remain trapped inside of him right now, his ideas remain just as expansive. He shows us every day that things don't have to be quantified or even seen or heard to be real, hold weight and be of tremendous value.