the case of two curious moments

I'm thinking about the gift of being curious.

I struggled with whether to say the gift of curiosity or being curious but really I am talking about the excitement - the joy - during the experience of being curious. Yesterday, two moments occurred that left me filled with joy, wonder, and honestly excited about the rest of our school year.

I'll share both stories through photos:

Act One

It started with a line. One long line. Then another and, slightly shorter. Then several small lines.

I watched and I was struck by the uniqueness of the drawing. I don't often observe three year old children drawing in this way, with distinctly sized vertical lines. It felt meaningful, especially as he lay the paint pen down and traced his pointer finger along each line.

Yet, I was left with only my sense of sight to make sense of - and wonder about - his approach. This artist speaks Chinese and I do not, so for the moment, I was left with wonderment.

This school year I do not speak the same home language as any of my students. That is a challenge in several important ways, yet in this moment, I was grateful for our language gap. Without the ease of simply listening in or asking and telling I was left to think. Yes, think.

I thought about this particular student's past painting and drawing experiences. I thought about his joy for sensory play. I thought about his age and the fact that, this may not be a representation of anything - and simply a joyful art experience. I thought about how interesting it was that he followed the line with his finger. Why, why, why did he follow the line? It must represent something to him, I thought. I thought about the possibilities, as this idea of line and movement grew into a thought cloud of potential provocations.

The joy of thinking is well, a joy.

Epilogue

I recorded several videos of this student and in one he did engage in private speech. As I shared the videos with the wonderful teaching assistant I work with, who happens to speak Chinese, she shed light on the entire scenario. This boy shared that this was a 'fast train' in his private speech, which also made sense of his finger trailing the lines and the sounds he uttered as well.

Ahhaaaaa!

I am thankful to know the story behind his lines, but I am also thankful for the gift of thinking. It feels good to be curious about our children - it feels good to move through cycles of inquiry and live as a teacher researcher.

I am left thankful for this moment.

Act Two

Three children and a basket of vibrant paint sticks.

The moment was beautiful in and of itself. The three children shared space, allowed lines to merge, and moved around the table like one organism.

Then, more happened.

Not just more, but more completely of the children's own interests and agency.

First one cup, then another, and another...writing tools began to fill the table. They worked as a team, back and forth retrieving cups of markers and pencils, lining them upon the table.

And suddenly, their table space ran out.

Near silently, they agreed to a plan.

Stools were lined up and ever so carefully these cups bearing writing tools filled the tops of stools.

I watched the expressions on their faces. There was such focus, they were doing serious work. I was reminded of my childhood. I grew up in Florida and our little townhouse community had access to a small inlet. There, my best friend and I found sea foam and we concocted a plan to sell slime. Do you remember the gumball machines that sold sticky slime and putty in the 1990s? Well, we set about a new business plan to sell our sea slime and make our fortune. I'm sure our faces showed the same tenacious, serious expressions.

Childhood is filled with these moments and I felt such honor and privilege to observe this moment between two boys - who are new friends - with just a few weeks into this school year. Adults are not needed during these moments, unless called upon. I made my way to the sink and tidied up quietly to give them space, but to allow myself a vantage point to observe and marvel.

Yes, indeed it was a lucky day to be left in awe of childhood, remember my own, and wonder about what we can do tomorrow.

an ode to time and space

A timely article was published this week by Angela Hanscom in the Washington Post about the time and space we afford children during the school day. Transitions have been on my mind as I enter a new school year in a new school. The time and space we create for and with children is of the highest, highest importance.  

We all need time. Time that feels authentic and uninterrupted in our day. Time to move rhythmically from one part of the day to another. Children need this, but really we all do. Consider your perfect Saturday. What does it look like? What does it feel like?

My perfect Saturday is quiet and begins with slowly enjoying coffee while playing on the floor with my son and husband. I have the freedom to move upstairs and downstairs to access different materials that support our play needs. It is calm. There are snuggles on the couch to read. A bike ride outside leads us to eat our lunch and then rest. Wake up with a little sweet snack and another cozy read... 

The day is fluid. There is a rhythm to our time and a warmth of the space.

And how does it feel? 

The day feels peaceful and relaxed. My cup feels full!

I mention this wondering - how does it feel - because I can feel it physically in my body when I am rushed. I feel a quickening of my heart and a tenseness in my back. I feel this with loud transitions. I feel this when I am asked to move quickly from activities.

This all leads me to consider how my preschool program feels for me and, most importantly, how might it feel for our sensitive and feeling three year old children? 

My son attended a lovely Waldorf daycare during our time in The Netherlands. I learned much from his warm teachers about the rhythm of a child and their day. Learning can not be unlearned - so happily the gift of understanding the importance of these rhythms has stayed with me in my own practice as an early years teacher. 

The openness of time and space runs on a continuum, from the tightly scheduled days Hanscom mentioned with 14 transitions in an early years room - to a Waldorf room with moments simply flowing into one another. 

We make space for our classroom to exist somewhere on the spectrum while meeting the expectations of our own unique school cultures. It does feel prudent for us all - parents and teachers of young children - to reflect on this and consider - where does your classroom lay on this continuum? 

I was reminded of Hanscom's article today as I observed a pretend play scenario unfold in the classroom this morning. It is a story that emerged from time and space...

A photo story from this morning:

Our classroom has access to a multi-sensory space, complete with wooden climbing frames and a large indoor sandpit. This morning, children used the climbing frame to jump, scale, run, and release some of their Monday morning energy. After 45 minutes, five children began to engage in pretend play. They were a family of sheep, with the girls taking care of their three baby sheep. The play was gentle, filled with language, and beautiful to watch. 

I went into the pretend play space in our classroom and brought back a basket of scarves. Laying them over one of the climbing frames - one sheep noticed.

Soon, more of the children settled in under their canopied home. And I brought them a few more items as unobtrusively as I could.

The sheep slept and were gently taken care of by their caretakers.

This play emerged an hour into our school day. They needed that time to run, jump, explore, and climb in order to settle into this lovely play scenario. That big play in the space also allowed them to know this space and explore it's potential. They discovered it is a space conducive to fast crawling for little sheeps, thanks to the soft mat and that it is filled with home-like spaces where five or more children can nestle together. 

I'm thankful for the freedom I have to give children the time they need to play for sustained periods of time. I still ring the chime and there are still 'hard' transitions in our day. I do sing songs during transitions as Hanscom mentioned in the article. I know that the soft lull of a tune can help children by adding a softness to a moment that can feel...well, not soft.

For now, it is important I consider time, space, and the rhythm of the day I craft with the children in my care. And to bring softness to the edges of our day.

Where does your day with young children lay on the time and space continuum? 

open. upward. forward. okay.

Lisa Congdon: one of my favorites <3

My family and I just recently made a big move from The Netherlands to China. I’ve been thinking quite a bit about our last transition, six years ago, when we made the move to The Netherlands from New York City. I’ve searched my brain – was it this challenging? The short answer is no, it really wasn’t. We moved to a country where English was widely spoken. There were many cultural similarities. And in the classroom, roughly half or more of my students spoke English.

Yet, ‘no’ is not the whole truth. The transition to a new school culture was challenging. Learning how to work with new colleagues in ways that were unfamiliar to me was challenging. Transition is about finding your place in a new puzzle. It doesn’t work to press, push, and jam a puzzle piece. No, it needs to be looked at carefully,  turned around a few times, and hopefully makes a snug fit.

It’s helpful for me to remember this – to see the pattern – that transition simply is a challenge. Whether the move is bog or small, moving countries, cities, or moving to a new school. While it can feel like a thick, muddy, get-me-out-of here existence in the throws of transition. It is also lovely.

 Lovely? Yes, I really said that.

Why?

Well, the Buddhist saying “the tender heart of sadness” has bubbled up in my mind these over these weeks. There’s a softness to sadness. A vulnerable heart can also be an open heart. Through my sadness, and wish-I-were-anyplace-else moments, I could feel that tenderness and sit with it. It was actually a little warming, cathartic, and welcome this sadness.

I didn’t muffle the sadness. I embraced it. “How is your day?” an unknowing colleague would ask. “Not so great. I’m struggling” would be my response. The jury’s still out on how absolute honesty will pan out. But, it felt good to own the truth that transition is hard.

Then like a light being switched on in a darkened bedroom first thing in the morning, the intensity of my sadness was gone.

Okay, that sounds a little too good to be true.

Maybe it was a nightlight – not a bright and luminescent overhead light. Not the natural glow of the sun. Yes, a soft and pale light.

But that is okay. It’s light!

And each day since (it’s been about three days) has been a bit better than the previous day.

Back to China and being the puzzle piece. Here is what I know. We all have something unique and valuable to bring to the table, or the puzzle so to speak. Not only is it in our best interest to adapt and find our fit – when we do we also help complete that beautiful 500 piece puzzle.

I’m still thinking and looking at the puzzle. Seeing where I fit to turn the least number of times. But I will fit and I do want to be a part of this puzzle.

Transition can feel down right traumatic.

We tend to those wounds and move forward, eventually. For me, it has been a little over a month and I am just turning the corner. Around this corner I have a glimpse of acceptance, new growth, and a lovely puzzle.