Some trees go unnoticed. Others become part of an entire childhood.
In Yazuri Reynosa’s story, the pichoco tree belongs to the latter. It is more than just a tree: it is a place to play, a refuge where children watch the seasons change, and a silent companion that teaches, without ever speaking, that nature is constantly transforming.

Author: Laura Soto
Leia em português. Léalo en español.

When I asked Yazuri where Dany’s story came from, I expected to hear a childhood memory.

Instead, she surprised me.

“There is someone named Daniel,” she began. “He’s an adult now, but he still sees the little things in nature the way a child does.”

He likes to stop and observe. To ask questions. To find beauty in the things most people overlook.

That is how Dany was born. Not as a portrait of one person, but as a reminder that growing up does not have to mean losing our sense of wonder. Then another protagonist entered the conversation.

The pichoco tree. “It has always fascinated me.” It wasn’t simply a beautiful tree. It was a tree that was always there.

A tree that witnessed childhood games. That changed throughout the year. That offered something different with every season. And the more time you spent around it, the more it seemed to reveal.

Perhaps that is why, while reading I Climb and I Jump, it feels as though the tree grows alongside Dany.

The months go by, and both of them change. The tree blooms. It sheds its leaves. Then it comes back to life.

Meanwhile, Dany gradually gains the confidence to climb its branches and discover that this place has far more to offer than he first imagined.

I asked Yazuri why she chose to show the passing of the seasons so carefully.

Her answer was simple.

“I wanted children to see that a tree is never exactly the same.”

Suddenly, I realized the book had never really been about a tree.

It was about learning how to observe. Because when we truly pay attention, we discover that a single tree can feed people with its flowers, shelter birds and insects, provide wood for traditional masks and, at the same time, become the perfect place for an afternoon of play.

What seems like one tree becomes many different trees at once. It all depends on who is looking.

Throughout our conversation, Yazuri never used words like biodiversity, conservation or ecosystem services. She didn’t need to.

All of those ideas were already there. Simply told through the eyes of a child. Perhaps that is one of the book’s greatest strengths. It does not teach through definitions.

It invites children to discover. To observe. To ask questions.

As we talked, I found myself thinking about how often adults explain to children why nature should be protected.

We talk about climate change. About ecosystems. About the importance of trees.

But we rarely give children the time to build a relationship with them. For Yazuri, the process works the other way around. First comes connection. Then comes care.

“I want children to enjoy the book,” she told me. “I want them to keep being children.”

That wasn’t the answer I expected.

I thought we would talk about environmental education or the message she hoped to convey.

Instead, she spoke about the right to play.

And the more I reflected on it, the more it made sense. After all, nobody protects what they have never truly come to know.

A child who climbs a tree, watches it bloom, discovers that its flowers can be eaten or notices the animals living among its branches will probably never need someone to explain why that tree is worth protecting.

They will already have built a relationship with it. Toward the end of our conversation, we also spoke about the role of women in her community.

Yazuri explained that much of their knowledge continues to be passed on through everyday life. While women gather plants, prepare food or carry out daily activities alongside children, conversations naturally become moments of learning. Knowledge moves quietly from one generation to the next, woven into ordinary life rather than formal lessons.

Perhaps that is why being part of this collection of books written entirely by Indigenous women means so much to her.

“I never imagined we could share our way of seeing the world like this.”

Her words made me realize that these books do much more than tell stories.

They open a window into other ways of growing up.

Into childhoods where nature is not something to admire from afar, but a place to play, to learn and to create the memories that stay with us for a lifetime.

As our conversation came to an end, I kept thinking about the pichoco tree.

About how it had quietly become the true protagonist of our conversation.

And I realized that perhaps this is the greatest achievement of I Climb and I Jump.

It reminds us that a tree can be much more than a tree.

It can be a playmate. A patient teacher. A refuge. And the place where a lifelong relationship with nature begins.

Read the book here and watch the animation:

Read more about the project here.