They Taught Themselves

Some time ago, we took the children on a field trip to the local post office. We were a group of some 20 children and eight adults. The woman giving us our tour introduced herself as Ms. Lui, before insisting that the children get in a line. It was an inauspicious start. The kids had no idea what to do. Even we adults were at a loss. Queueing up isn't part of what we do at Woodland Park.

I could see Ms. Lui was irritated with us. She tried to remain cheerful, but it was through gritted teeth. When I explained that we didn't know how to line up, I reckon she thought me the worst teacher in the world.

As a play-based educator, I strive, against a lifetime of training to the contrary, to resist the temptation to exert power over the children which is what we do when we insist on things like marching in lines or sitting in straight rows. It's what we do when we insist on zippered lips, dress codes, or asking permission to use the toilet. School is notoriously a place of rules and regulations, of teachers in the role of drill sergeant, or, if I'm being honest, prison guard.

I am responsible for the children's safety and general well-being, of course, and in that capacity there may be times when I cannot allow a child to do certain things, like jumping off the roof of a three story building, but by default, any power that comes my way by virtue of my titles of "teacher" or "adult" is to be returned to the children in the form of empowerment.

I can make an argument for this position from moral grounds, but my genuine motivation is simply to be a good teacher. I'm familiar with the research on the effects of people possessing more power than others and I've concluded that when I exert power over children, especially the capricious and arbitrary kind of power exerted in most classroom, I'm doing direct harm to the children's educational prospects.

As Rutger Bregman writes in his book Humankind: "One of the effects of power, myriad studies show, is that it makes you see others in a negative light. If you're powerful you're more likely to think most people are lazy and unreliable. That they need to be supervised and monitored, managed and regulated, censored and told what to do. And because power makes you feel superior to other people, you'll believe all this monitoring should be entrusted to you . . . Tragically, not having power has exactly the opposite effect. Psychological research shows the people who feel powerless also feel far less confident. They're hesitant to voice an opinion. In groups, they make themselves seem smaller, and they under-estimate their own intelligence."

That adults should exert power over children is so ingrained in us that many cannot imagine it any other way, but by doing so we make the children smaller, we make them feel ignorant, and we undermine their confidence. 

We've all experienced educators who are convinced that the children are lazy, that they can't be trusted, that they must be constantly monitored and managed. It's a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy. 

I asked Ms. Lui if we could just promise to stick together as a group. She didn't think that would work at all. She wanted us, on the spot, while on a field trip to a place of great excitement, to instruct them on how lines worked. Fortunately, there was a painted line on the floor so we asked the kids to stand on the line. Most of them tried it out for a moment or two, but as empowered children they were far more attuned to their curiosity than standing on a line. Some wandered off. Some pointed and asked questions. Others negotiated with their friends over their exact position on the line. After several minutes of this cat herding project, I turned to Ms. Lui and said, "This is the best we can do. Do you really need us to march in a line?"

It was a simple question, but it stumped her. After muttering something about "keeping order" she shrugged, adding, "Can you at least tell them not to touch anything?"

That I could do, although even then, I returned the power to these empowered children: "There's a lot of stuff around here that could hurt you. Ms. Lui wants you to ask her before touching anything." I did not command them, but rather gave them information.

She shook her head as she led the way. At every point-of-interest, from the sorting machines to the post office boxes, the children asked, "Can I touch this?" or "What would happen if I touched that?" At first her tone was slightly scolding, but gradually she began to relax, even seeming to take pleasure in the children's obvious curiosity, their confidence, and their willingness to voice their ideas and opinions.

In preparation for this visit, we had written letters addressed to ourselves. Ms. Lui showed us the outgoing mail slot and the children, unprompted, lined up, one-behind-another, to deposit their letters. She was by now in fine spirits. I joked, "See? We can line up."

She lowered her eyebrows at me, "I thought you said they didn't know how to line up."

I replied, "I didn't think they did. Maybe they just didn't need to know it until now."

This time when she shook her head it was with a sense of wonder, "I guess they taught themselves."

******

Hi, I'm Teacher Tom and this is my podcast! If you're an early childhood educator, parent of preschoolers, or otherwise have young children in your life, I think you'll find my conversations with early childhood experts and thought-leaders useful, inspiring, and eye-opening. You might even come away transformed by the ideas and perspectives we share. Please give us a listen. You can find Teacher Tom's Podcast on the Mirasee FM Podcast Network or anywhere you download your podcasts.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

She Would Have Just As Soon Continued Wondering

Dale Chihuly

One of my favorite science writers is Carlo Rovelli, the Italian theoretical physicist and author of a dozen or so books, most of which are concisely written with the lay reader in mind. What makes him compelling is that he writes about those places where the scientist must be a philosopher and vice versa. In our modern world, we've come to fetishize science as the arbiter of truth, but what Rovelli does is revel in the reality that much of science is the act of wondering about the unknown.

As musician Tom Waits puts it, "Everything is explained now. We live in an age when you say casually to somebody, 'What's the story on that?' and they can run to the computer and tell you within five seconds. That's fine, but sometimes I'd just as soon continue wondering. We have a deficit of wonder right now."

Nothing grinds my teeth harder these days than sentences that begin, "Science tells us . . ." I write this fully aware that I've penned dozens of such sentences right here on the blog. But increasingly I find that when someone, including myself, does this, when someone asserts something like, "Neuroscientist's tell us . . ." they are attempting, at least at some level, to replace wonder with certainty. The more I read Rovelli and others (e.g., Robin Wall Kimmerer, David Hoffman, Patrick House) who work on the cutting edge of science, however, the more I come to appreciate that actual scientists tend to begin their sentences with "Our theory leads us to think . . ." or "Anthropologists suspect . . . " or, best of all, "I've come to believe . . ." They leave the wonder in there.

This may not be satisfying to those pity-worthy people who crave certainty. Those who cling, for instance, to the snake oil that is being called "The Science of Reading," often smugly boast that "the science is settled." If it's settled, it's not science, it's dogma. And while dogma may give us the illusion of certainty, it always winds up standing in the way of truth.

Schooling teaches us that the point of questions is answers. Life itself teaches us that the point of questions is wonder.

We had an old-fashioned hamster wheel at our school. Every day, often all day, a child would stop to show their wonder about this strange, out-of-place contraption. It was used by some to explore centripetal force, others included it in their dramatic play, some turned it over and drove it like some sort of one-wheeled vehicle. There was always some new way to include it in their play. One day, as a girl was using the circular part of the wheel as fencing for her herd of little ponies, a well-meaning adult informed her that she was playing with a hamster wheel. The girl asked, "Do we have any hamsters?" When she learned we didn't, she took her ponies elsewhere. Unsolicited answers have a way of shutting down wonder. Like Tom Waits, she would have just as soon continued wondering.

Yesterday, I came across a recently published scientific paper entitled "On the roles of function and selection in evolving systems," written by a 9-person team comprised of astrophysicists, geologists, and philosophers. In it, they propose a "missing law of nature." Of course, a journalist writing about the paper immediately attempted to frame their "discovery" with certainty, saying they "claim they have identified a missing law of nature," when, in fact, they do nothing of the sort. They wonder about it.

From the abstract:

The universe is replete with complex evolving systems, but the existing macroscopic physical laws do not seem to adequately describe these systems.

". . . do not seem . . ." That is an assertion of wonder.

Recognizing that the identification of conceptual equivalencies among disparate phenomena were foundational to developing previous laws of nature, we approach a potential "missing law" by looking for equivalencies among evolving systems. We suggest that all evolving systems -- including but not limited to life -- are compose of diverse components that can combine into configurational states that are then selected for or against based on function.

" . . . a potential "missing law" . . ." "We suggest . . ." " . . . that can combine . . ." Wonder.

When we identify the fundamental sources of selection -- static persistence, dynamic persistence, and novelty generation -- and propose a time-asymmetric law that states that the functional information of a system will increase over time when subjected to selection for function(s).

They do not, as the journalist claims, say they have "discovered" anything, but rather wondered their way into a proposed "law." In other words, they have given the rest of us a hamster wheel to wonder about.

They call this "The Law of Increasing Functional Information."

Building on Charles Darwin's famous theory of natural selection, which suggests that function exists to ensure the survival of the fittest when it comes to living things, these researchers, astoundingly, assert that it may also be applicable to non-living systems. Holy cow! What an exciting idea!

They point out that the universe is made of complex systems, from entire planets to atoms, that perpetuate themselves in ways that look strikingly like Darwin's theory. You can read the paper for yourself, but the part that jumps out at me is their suggestion that one of the ways that the natural selection of systems takes place is through "novelty generation." Dynamic systems of all kinds "explore new configurations which can lead to surprising new behaviors and characteristics." 

Isn't that exactly what children do when they are free to play: Explore new configurations which can lead to surprising new behaviors and characteristics? We know that many, if not most, animals play. Indeed, we are increasingly coming to believe that play is a key driver of evolution in animals. There are even those who have suggested that plants play. And now here we are considering the amazing idea that all of nature's systems -- living and non-living -- play. Not only that, this behavior that, at a minimum, shares a great deal with what we call play, behavior that is on its face non-functional, may be a key part of a foundational "law" describing how the entire universe functions.

That's something cool to wonder about.

******

Hi, I'm Teacher Tom and this is my podcast! If you're an early childhood educator, parent of preschoolers, or otherwise have young children in your life, I think you'll find my conversations with early childhood experts and thought-leaders useful, inspiring, and eye-opening. You might even come away transformed by the ideas and perspectives we share. Please give us a listen. You can find Teacher Tom's Podcast on the Mirasee FM Podcast Network or anywhere you download your podcasts.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

The Magic Circle of Play

"You have to go around that tree."

The boy was telling a friend how to run the obstacle course he and the other kids had created. After running around the tree, there were some stairs to climb, a clamber through the sand pit row boat, a scamper up and a slide down the concrete slide, a stop in the garden to pick a ripe berry ("or something else to eat"), a jump off of something, a balance across something else, and so on until you arrived back at the starting point. 

It was even more elaborate than my explanation and the boy being instructed listened with an intensity, asking for clarifications, obviously wanting to get it right. Then he was off as the others cheered him on. "You forgot to ring the bell!" "It's okay, I couldn't find any berries either!" "Hurry!"

He was flushed and panting by the time he'd completed the circuit. Now it was time for someone else: "Go!"

As the next child rounded the tree, the others cheered. The boy who had just joined the game, likewise joined in the cheering, naturally, because that too was part of the game, an unspoken, but nevertheless vital rule of this game of obstacle course running.

This was a game that emerged entirely from the children themselves. It was not urged upon them by an adult, although the physical space of our playground may have suggested it to them. Indeed, it was clearly a game that emerged from these children's interaction with our junkyard-like outdoor space. They had been coming here for some time. Ethologists tend to distinguish between "exploration" and "play," although I've always considered the two behaviors part-and-parcel because one so often leads to the other. Exploration is the evolutionarily functional process of answering the question of "What is this?" while play asks the open-ended question, "What can I/we do with this?" On this day, the thing they found to do, their play, was this game of taking turns running a course.

In his 1938 book Homo Ludens, Dutch historian and cultural theorist Johan Huizinga theorized that play is the primary and necessary condition for the creation of culture. He argued that while play is a self-selected activity, one that is entered into via an exercise of free-will, the space in which it takes place (in this case, our playground) becomes circumscribed by a "magic circle." Inside this circle, there are rules that exist by agreement of the players as long as the game continues. Those who violate those rules and refuse to mend their ways, are either expelled from the game or, if they persist, the game comes to an end. Everything that is outside this magic circle becomes irrelevant for the time.

There were no rule breakers in this game on this day, but had there been, had there been a conflict over the rules of this game, for instance, I might have felt compelled to step inside the circle which would have, in an instant, destroyed the magic. If the conflict turned violent, I would have had no choice but to intervene, but short of that, I try to allow conflict to play itself out. Often, beautifully, it results in some sort of compromise. Sometimes it leads to the formation of a second magic circle in which the rules are completely different. And sometimes it leads to, as Huizinga suggests, the exclusion of someone from the game.

This is the hard one for early childhood educators because, in the backs of our minds is the idea that no one be excluded. "You can't say you can't play." But what of the player who, say, refuses to start by going around the tree? What of the player who decides to spontaneously add tackling to the game? Certainly, they can suggest these changes, discuss them, negotiate, but if the rest of the kids are against it, it would be grossly unfair of me, the adult, to insist that the newcomer and their unilateral changes be included within the magic circle. In fact, to do so would, again, destroy the magic. I can suggest to the child who has been excluded that they create their own game, to attempt to circumscribe a new magic circle with it's own rules, but if the goal is to be part of the culture that has sprung up around the obstacle course game, then the only choice is to abide by those rules.

I like this idea that play is the source of culture, but it does require adults who see and understand the magic circle, who are able to treasure it from the outside, because like a soap bubble, the act of crossing the barrier usually makes it disappear. We can't, of course, always stay on the outside. And sometimes, on the best days, we're invited in.

"Teacher Tom, do you want to try it?"

As I ran around the tree, I heard the children cheering, but I knew it wasn't for me. It was for all of us. That's the magic conjured inside these circles -- the magic of us.

******

Hi, I'm Teacher Tom and this is my podcast! If you're an early childhood educator, parent of preschoolers, or otherwise have young children in your life, I think you'll find my conversations with early childhood experts and thought-leaders useful, inspiring, and eye-opening. You might even come away transformed by the ideas and perspectives we share. Please give us a listen. You can find Teacher Tom's Podcast on the Mirasee FM Podcast Network or anywhere you download your podcasts.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

The Best World We've Ever Made

I was working a floor puzzle with one of the kids. It's a popular puzzle, one with fairies, unicorns, and a castle, but everyone else was busy elsewhere so we were one-on-one. Soon, however, we were joined by another girl, and together, the three of us fit the final piece into place. Then we began admiring our handiwork, as one does.

"I'm that one," said one of the girls, pointing at a fairy.

"Okay," answered the other, "Then I'll be that one."

When I didn't say anything, I was invited, "Which one are you, Teacher Tom?" I picked one to be "me."

"And this is my pet," the first girl said, pointing to one of the unicorns. Her friend picked out one of the butterflies to be her pet, while I opted for a ladybug.

"Where do we sleep?"

"In the castle, silly."

"Oh, right," then bending over the puzzle, she pointed to one of the windows on the distant castle, "That's my bedroom." So we each selected our bedrooms.

"You're room is right next to mine, Teacher Tom!"

"And mine is right above yours!"

"We can have a castle sleepover!"

"I'm just going to dive right into our land." She pretended to plunge into the picture.

"Me too!"

Then in mock panic, "But how do we get back out? How will we get back to our real homes?"

"We just say the magic word . . . Flower!"

"Flower!"

"Flower!"

"We're back home again."

As we played at diving into our magic world, another girl approached, using the language of a master player, "I want to play too."

"Sure, we're just diving into our kingdom"

"But first you have to pick a fairy." The newcomer picked her fairy.

"Then you have to pick a pet." She picked a unicorn.

"Then you have to pick your bedroom." When she did, the others gushed, "You're right beside me for the castle sleepover! We're going to have movie night!"

"Let's dive in!" and we all dove in.

We wove a story together about our magic world, forgetting that we were all fairies, switching our identities to princesses and queens. I was assigned, "The old grandpa king." I was told, "You have to be jolly."

As we played, I mentioned that we had another castle puzzle and so we decided to work on that one together as well. As the puzzle came together, we agreed that, when completed, we would combine it with the first puzzle to make our magical kingdom even bigger. Once the two puzzles were side-by-side, however, we had a problem.

"But, how to we know if it's night or day? This puzzle has a sunshine and this other one is nighttime." After a moment of study, we decided that the nighttime puzzle was where we slept and the daytime puzzle was where we played.

There was one more puzzle on the floor. This one was Halloween themed. "Let's make that one too. Then we'll have day and night and Halloween!" By the time we had pushed the third puzzle over to become part of our story, we had been at it for the better part of an hour.

As we stood admiring our work, we drew a crowd with a half dozen other kids gathered around. We explained our kingdom to them, who we were, what pets we owned, and where we slept. We invited them in by showing them how to dive in and return back home. We explained about day and night and Halloween, the three seasons in our magic place.

We watched our classmates playing in this place we had created together. Then one of the girls said, "This is the best world we've ever made!" and her friends agreed.

******

Hi, I'm Teacher Tom and this is my podcast! If you're an early childhood educator, parent of preschoolers, or otherwise have young children in your life, I think you'll find my conversations with early childhood experts and thought-leaders useful, inspiring, and eye-opening. You might even come away transformed by the ideas and perspectives we share. Please give us a listen. You can find Teacher Tom's Podcast on the Mirasee FM Podcast Network or anywhere you download your podcasts.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

If It Isn't Purposeless, It Isn't Play

"Octograbbers" was a game that the children played for months on end. It involved possessing two shovels, one for each hand, then using them like pincers to dig, pick things up, and occasionally, in the spirit of fun, menace one another. 

We'll never know who invented the game of "octograbbers," but we can be pretty certain that it didn't emerge from Darwinian evolution. Or rather, not directly. It's not one of those things like walking or talking for which most human's are born with the biological programming. Octograbbers was what could be called a cultural phenomenon, one that was conceived by children at play. It then spread from child to child to the point that any newcomer, within a few hours of involvement with us, would be fully versed.

Everyone in our community knew about octograbbers. Someone might ask, "Where's the dump truck?" and someone would answer, "Over there by the octograbbers." This would have communicated nothing to an outsider, but within our community, everyone, child or adult, understood instantly. A parent would ask their child at the end of the day, "What did you do today?" And the answer, "Octograbbers" made perfect sense. 

Scientists who study animal behavior in the wild, ethologists, generally define play as behavior that is purposeless (nonfunctional), voluntary, obviously unlike the animals' typical behavior, involves movements that are repeated with modifications and variations, and that is undertaken by animals that are well-fed, safe, and healthy. I might quibble with this definition, for instance, I would add that play is always open-ended, but for most purposes it's workable. And the game of Octograbbers fits this definition in all its particulars.

We've taken it upon ourselves to point to learning that takes place as children play, even going so far as to assert that learning is the purpose of play. And these children were certainly learning, or at least practicing, skills that would serve them in the future, most notably cooperation and teamwork. By self-handicapping -- replacing their arms and hands with shovels -- they were forced to consider the physical properties of the world from another perspective. And, of course, given that we didn't have enough shovels for everyone to play the game at any given moment, there were likely lessons in supply-and-demand economics to be found in the game. But the game itself had nothing to do with learning. It was just play. And while the game itself did not emerge from Darwinian evolution, the urge to play most certainly did.

Many believe that one of the most human activities of all, making music, is the product of play. There was no obvious purpose for early humans to begin singing or tapping out rhythms. It was most certainly voluntary, it was behavior unlike the usual functional behaviors like hunting and hiding, and, of course, being music, variation and modification is essential. And, naturally, no one makes music when they are sick, hungry, or under threat. It was not inevitable that humans would make music. In the beginning it was, like octograbbers, a cultural phenomenon that spreads from person to person, and continues to spread from generation to generation. 

Unlike octograbbers, music has obvious adaptive advantages. It clearly facilitates the bond between caregivers and infants. It unifies us as members of cultures, clubs, and religions. It enhances our sexual attractiveness. All of which promotes the survival of the species. But it is not behavior that would logically emerge from the imperatives of survival, although, in the same way that octograbbers most certainly spurred learning, our invention of music has enabled, over eons, the proper neural circuitry needed to make and process music. 

The children playing the game of octograbbers, like those humans who first made music, were doing it simply because it was fun or pleasurable. The learning and the unifying, however valuable, is a side-effect of our urge to play.

"Organic evolution" is the term scientists use to describe this phenomenon. There is regular Darwinian evolution, in which our biology causes us to do things like breath, eat, procreate, fight, fly, fawn and freeze. And then there is organic evolution which is how we effectively direct our own evolution through play.

The game of octograbbers disappeared at the end of the school year. I imagine some of the more avid players sought to recreate it in new settings, and maybe the game is still bubbling away somewhere under the surface of society, but it's unlikely that it will be as universally impactful as the playful invention of music. Still, the two are of a type -- music and octograbbers.

Critics of play almost always base their arguments on the premise that it is purposeless or nonfunctional. "It's a waste of time," they insist, but that's exactly the point.

"Natural selection," writes science journalist David Toomey in his new book Kingdom of Play, "possesses a number of specific and well-defined characteristics. It is, for instance, purposeless. It has no intention, and no objective, and as Darwin averred, it "includes no necessary and universal law of advancement or development." It is provisional. The evolution of any organism is a response to whatever conditions are present at a given place and moment. It is open-ended. The evolution of an organism has no moment of arrival and no end point -- a fact highlighted in the final paragraph of On the Origin of Species, a slow building crescendo whose final note hangs in the air and never quite resolves: the forms of life, in concludes, are even now "being evolved." In all these ways, natural selection is like play . . . (I)f you could distill the process of natural selection into a single behavior, that behavior would be play. Alternatively, if you were to choose an evolutionary theory or view of nature for which play might seem to be a model, it would be natural selection . . . Life itself, in the most fundamental sense, is playful."

******

Hi, I'm Teacher Tom and this is my podcast! If you're an early childhood educator, parent of preschoolers, or otherwise have young children in your life, I think you'll find my conversations with early childhood experts and thought-leaders useful, inspiring, and eye-opening. You might even come away transformed by the ideas and perspectives we share. Please give us a listen. You can find Teacher Tom's Podcast on the Mirasee FM Podcast Network or anywhere you download your podcasts.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

Littlewood's Law

I know the secret to making your dreams come true.

In an essay written for New Philosopher magazine (content not available online), Oliver Burkman discusses what's called Littlewood's Law, named for a British mathematician by the name of John Edensor Littlewood:

Let's suppose . . . that you're awake and active in the world -- as opposed to sleeping or resting -- for a mere eight hours a day. Suppose furthermore that a tiny 'event' of some sort occurs at the rate of once per second during those hours: you see someone in the street, you read or hear a sentence, or have a thought, and so on . . . Crunch the numbers on that basis, and it turns out you can expect to experience a one-in-a-million occurrence -- the kind of odds most of us would call miraculous -- roughly every 35 days.

So, simply from a mathematical perspective, each of us experiences a very lucky moment on roughly a monthly basis; unbelievably lucky, astronomically lucky, a miracle. The thing is, we don't get to choose what that specific lucky moment is going to be and because most of us are intent upon chasing a specific kind of luck, which we often label our "goal" or our "dream," we don't recognize those one-in-a-million occurrences.

When I graduated from college, my first employer was so impressed with my ability to write "proposals" that my unpaid internship turned into a paid one within months. I had been taught in school to write clear, unequivocal mission statements, followed by goals and objectives, supported by strategies and tactics, all in the service of that original mission statement, the idea being that if we just followed our plan our business dream would come true. Those plans helped us secure business, they helped us get going, but I soon came to realize, first with despair and then with a shrug, that our beautiful plans were almost immediately relegated to the file drawer in light of real events and real people. I realize now that those plans, far from helping us achieve our goal (which in business is always to make money), were really just blinders that pretty much guaranteed failure -- or at least a success far beneath the one postulated in the mission statement. The more seasoned businesspeople around me knew this already, at least in part, which is why my beautiful plans wound up by the wayside as we took the more certain path of making it up as we went along with varying degrees of success.

When I was young, before the pressures of "getting real" were upon me, I dreamt of being a superhero and a saint, of a life of hedonism and of adventure, of building things and tearing things down. I saw myself by turns a spelunker, baseball coach, architect, firefighter, daddy, hobo, titan, jewel thief, politician, archeologist, tinker, tailor, solder, and spy. I imagined myself living a life of ease and great striving, both poor and rich, complicated and simple. I toyed with all of those ideas for myself, each holding special charms, then, as I approached that arbitrary point we call adulthood, I pretended to focus on one of them. I was going to, one day, be the creative director of a Madison Avenue advertising agency. I know, pathetic, right? Even I didn't fully believe in it, although I had a "plan" for making it happen.

I really beat myself up about it, but by the time I had graduated from university, I was certain that I didn't want to be one of those Mad Men, so it was without enthusiasm that I continued to work that damned plan, which landed me with that first employer who was impressed by my ability to write plans: that employer, by a one-in-a-million chance, turned out to be the woman to whom I've now been married for the past 35 years. I don't know if I even recognized it at the time, but my dream had come true: I was and still am the luckiest man alive.

And I don't mean that in the usual sniveling, husbandly way, even though I know how it sounds. I don't care. It's true. I'd always dreamt of finding a true life partner.

One of my thousands of dreams was to follow in my own mother's footsteps, to be a parent and homemaker, something that had seemed an impossibility given the gender of my birth, yet, as luck would have it, I found myself in exactly that role when our daughter was young, just as I'd dreamt.

At some point, in my infinite list of youthful dreams, I'd fantasized about being a teacher and by the unpredictable turnings of fate, via a one-in-a-million long shot, someone asked me at just the right moment, "What are you going to do with your life?" And when I didn't have an answer, she replied, "You should be a preschool teacher." And that's what I did. What incredible luck! My dream came true!

In pre-Covid times I found myself traveling to places around the globe, self-indulgently "suffering" the toils and uncertainty of travel, speaking to audiences of colleagues who seemed to find me both entertaining and informative. This was another of my dreams coming true. I'd often romanticized the life of a traveling minstrel, roaming from town-to-town with nothing but a rucksack and a song. I was living the dream.

For a long time I dreamed of being a writer, and now here I sit, writing every day and people actually read it. My dream is reality.

It's all been pure luck. And please don't try to spoil it by insisting that it was luck made by hard work, diligence, and putting my nose-the-grindstone because despite popular mythology, that has had absolutely nothing to do with it. I've not worked hard: I've been lucky because I have dreamed a million dreams. 

And so that's my secret to making your dreams come true. Dream a lot. Dream often. Dream like a child, every day, passionately, then hold onto that dream even as you dream the next one. Because for every new dream you dream, you increase the odds that your monthly allotment of one-in-a-million long shots will be the one for which you've been waiting. It's this lesson, not the one about grindstones that I want to teach the children in my life.

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Hi, I'm Teacher Tom and this is my podcast! If you're an early childhood educator, parent of preschoolers, or otherwise have young children in your life, I think you'll find my conversations with early childhood experts and thought-leaders useful, inspiring, and eye-opening. You might even come away transformed by the ideas and perspectives we share. Please give us a listen. You can find Teacher Tom's Podcast on the Mirasee FM Podcast Network or anywhere you download your podcasts.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

"The Mind at Three Miles Per Hour"

"The Thinker," Auguste Rodin (The worst possible way to think?)

"(S)it as little as possible," writes German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, "do not believe any idea that was not born in the open air and of free movement."

Nietzsche was notorious walker and hiker, a man seemingly always on the go, yet he's known as a thinker, one of the most influential of the 19th century, a mustachioed ponderer of the big questions about life and the universe. 

He's not the only one of our great "brainiacs" to credit their bodies with their best thinking.

Essayist Rebecca Solnit, one of today's prominent thinker-walkers, writes in her book about walking, Wanderlust, under the inspired chapter title, The Mind at Three Miles Per Hour, "Children begin to walk to chase desires no one will fulfill for them: the desire for that which is out of reach, for freedom, for independence from the secure confines of the maternal Eden." 

"Exploring the world," she writes, "is one of the best ways of exploring the mind."

There are exceptions, of course, but humans, from Socrates to Virgina Woolf to Richard Feynman, have understood that brains work best while bodies are in motion. That is until our current era of schooling in which our children, despite their Devine urge to move, are trained from an early age that their thinking is best done while seated, assembly-line style, quietly, listening passively, and moving only when told, and then, only in approved ways. It defies everything we know about how human minds work, and an hour of PE is not going to fix what's wrong, although more recess -- a lot more recess -- might.

Neuroscientist Patrick House asserts that "the entire purpose of the brain is to make efficient movement from experience, and everything else, including consciousness, is downstream of these efforts."

We must be taught to sit quietly because it goes against the very nature of life itself. Our brains are a part of our bodies and bodies are meant to move, preferably at three miles per hour. It's even better when that movement happens outdoors. 

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Hi, I'm Teacher Tom and this is my podcast! If you're an early childhood educator, parent of preschoolers, or otherwise have young children in your life, I think you'll find my conversations with early childhood experts and thought-leaders useful, inspiring, and eye-opening. You might even come away transformed by the ideas and perspectives we share. Please give us a listen. You can find Teacher Tom's Podcast on the Mirasee FM Podcast Network or anywhere you download your podcasts.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!