Corrina Lyn Boyer
A Fall Afternoon with My Kids: Turning Nature into Art
Today was one of those simple, beautiful days that I know I’ll remember for a long time. The air had that crisp autumn chill that always makes me feel both energized and nostalgic. The trees outside were bursting with color—deep reds, golden yellows, and those perfect burnt oranges that only October can create. My kids were full of energy, laughing and running through the yard, their little hands scooping up leaves as if they were treasures made just for them.
I didn’t plan it out ahead of time. Honestly, it started as one of those spontaneous moments where I just wanted to do something creative with them—something that captured the beauty of the season and the fleeting magic of their childhood curiosity. So we decided to gather leaves and turn them into art.
We walked around together, the three of us, crunching through piles of leaves and talking about which ones were “the prettiest.” My youngest picked up a big red maple leaf and shouted, “This one looks like fire!” My oldest chose a yellow one with little brown speckles and said, “This one’s smiling.” Kids have this way of seeing the world so differently—so full of color, meaning, and wonder. Watching them made me slow down and really see the leaves for what they were: pieces of nature’s artwork, already perfect on their own.
When our little basket was full, we went back inside and spread everything out on the table. I pulled out a blank canvas, glue, and my resin supplies. The kids took turns arranging their leaves—some overlapping, some spaced out like constellations on a white sky. We experimented with shapes and patterns, trying to decide what looked best. Eventually, we just went with instinct. There was no right or wrong—just a natural flow of creativity.
Once we glued everything down, I mixed the resin. That part always feels like magic to me. There’s something so satisfying about watching two simple liquids blend together and then transform into something glossy and permanent. The smell filled the air—strong but oddly comforting. I poured it slowly across the surface, letting it glide and spread, covering each leaf in a smooth, glass-like layer.
As the resin flowed, the leaves seemed to come alive. The colors deepened, almost glowing beneath the clear coat. The reds turned richer, the yellows warmer. Every vein in the leaves—the tiny details that make them unique—became more visible. It was like freezing a moment of fall in time, preserving it forever.
The kids stood on chairs to watch, wide-eyed and fascinated. “It’s like we’re making a window to the forest!” one of them said. And honestly, that’s exactly what it felt like. We were capturing the heart of autumn—the beauty that so quickly fades and turns brittle—and locking it into something that would last.
After the resin was poured and leveled, we stood there admiring our work. The canvas shimmered under the light, and even though it wasn’t finished curing yet, it already felt special. There’s something deeply satisfying about creating something beautiful out of the simplest things—fallen leaves, a little glue, a bit of resin, and a lot of love.
I’m not sure how it will turn out once it’s completely dry. Resin can be unpredictable—sometimes it bubbles, sometimes it shifts in ways you don’t expect. But that’s part of the process, part of the excitement. It’s a little like parenting, honestly. You do your best, pour your heart into it, and wait to see what becomes of it. You don’t always get perfection, but you always get something real, something beautiful in its own way.
As I cleaned up, I thought about how this small project captured so much more than just a craft. It was a memory made with my children—a shared moment of creativity and connection. These are the kinds of days I cherish: the ones that remind me that art doesn’t have to come from a studio, that inspiration doesn’t need to be grand or expensive. Sometimes it’s right there in your backyard, waiting to be picked up and glued down with little hands.
Tomorrow, when the resin is fully cured, I’ll hang it somewhere in the house. Maybe in the hallway, maybe in the kids’ room. Wherever it goes, it will be a reminder of this day—the laughter, the sunlight, the smell of autumn, and the sticky fingers covered in glue. It’ll remind me that the best art often comes from the heart, from those small, joyful moments that happen when you’re not even trying.
I’m excited to see how it turns out, but in a way, I already know it’s perfect—not because of how it looks, but because of what it represents. It’s a snapshot of love, curiosity, and the magic of childhood, captured forever in resin.
