The Practical Wisdom of Living Virtuously

I recently ran outside in the middle of the night with a baseball bat to chase away an intruder who was obviously trying to do mischief.

My neighbors are torn over whether I was courageous or foolhardy.

Several have expressed the feeling that I was "lucky." The man might have been armed. He might have overwhelmed me with superior quickness and strength. I might have actually hit him with the bat, then faced legal liability for using "excessive force." 

On the other hand, one older neighbor insisted that if anything like that happened again, I was to call him and he'd join me with a "steel bar." He insisted that he would be "fierce." A woman, inspired, immediately ordered her own baseball bat. Many have thanked me for protecting "our community."

As I grow older, I find myself thinking more and more about the Ancient Greek concept of "virtue," and specifically about Aristotle's idea that all virtues exist on a continuum, one that is different for each individual.

Courage, for instance, lies on a continuum between cowardice and rashness (or foolhardiness). Generosity lies between stinginess and being a spendthrift. Truthfulness between self-deprecation and boastfulness. Friendliness between servility and sycophancy. We live in a psychological age, one in which we tend to view our behaviors, as a default, through the lens of our emotions. But I find a great deal of value in the continued practice of philosophy. Even as I wielded my bat, I was fully aware of my emotion (fear), but I was equally aware that hiding safely behind my locked door waiting for the police to arrive was, for me, the coward's option.

You can call it foolhardy machismo, and people have. I don't expect anyone else to behave the way I did. Indeed, I've talked the woman who ordered the bat into returning it. But there is always a price to pay for safety, or the perception of safety. 

Yesterday, I discussed bell hooks talking about our culture of fear and what it does to us both as individuals and as a culture. She writes, "Learning to face our fears is one way we embrace love. Our fear may not go away, but it will not stand in the way." To love in the face of fear takes courage. Being free takes courage. The courage comes first. As Doris Lessing asks, "What else is there for any of us but courage?" 

I worry that our obsession with safety is crippling us, and particularly this generation of young people. These children in our care are going to live their entire childhoods under adult supervision, forever being told to "be careful" lest they do something foolhardy. But courage, like every virtue, resides in each individual and the only way to learn what it means, for you, is through practice. And yes, this means, sometimes, perhaps often, erring on the side of rashness. Without courage, without knowing what it takes to be courageous in this world, one is left at the mercy of fear. And fear is the great destroyer of life.

Aristotle's assertion is that each of us must find, for ourselves, the mean between extremes. Living virtuously, he says, is an act of what he called "practical wisdom," the kind of thing that can't be taught, only acquired through the day-to-day practice of living. A life under constant adult supervisions, a life behind locked doors waiting for the police to arrive, never allows us to acquire this practical wisdom and to discover ourselves virtuous.

As Lessing goes on to wonder, "And perhaps (courage) is only a world for being prepared to go on living at all."

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Who do you want to be when the children arrive? The countdown for Teacher Tom's Summer Camp has begun. In this course you will learn how even seemingly small changes in how you speak with children can transform even the most challenging behaviors without the need for rewards and punishments. This is especially effective when the whole team is on board. And there's nothing like coming together with like-minded educators to get you ready for when the children arrive. To learn more and to register, click here. I hope to see you around the campfire!

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!

Playing With Social Arrangements

When the two boys played alone, they tended toward the art table where they would chatter their way through works of art that involved action -- superheroes mostly. Or maybe they would claim a corner of the rug where they built a fort or parking garage together. When they played this way, it was as equals, almost in the spirit of improvisational comedy, building their play one "Yes, and . . ." at a time.

They were also part of a larger group of boys that often played together. You would find four of them forming a team of some sort, usually involving costumes or carrying "blasters" they had made from Legos. These games were full of "C'mon everybody!" and "Let's go over there." Although at times they had to pause things in order to negotiate the exact nature of what they were doing, usually culminating a Eureka! moment of democratic synthesis with someone saying, "I've got an idea!" 

And sometimes they played in even larger groups, with up to a dozen kids, boys and girls, engaged in, say, digging ditches and holes in the sand, then flooding the area from the uphill side with water to see where it would flow. These games could involve a great deal of bickering, sometimes breaking up into factions, but usually coalescing around one or two children who directed while the rest set their own agendas aside, at least temporarily, for the greater good.

You could find these boys engaged in each kind of social arrangement over the course of any given week -- sometimes even over the course of a day. In fact, most of the children ebbed and flowed in this way, sometimes playing alone, sometimes in small groups, sometimes massing together. 

Of course, it was rarely quite this clear-cut. At any given moment, someone was getting frustrated that their ideas aren't being considered. Or there was someone on the outside biding their time for their bestie to break away and join them in something more intimate. There might be someone trying to figure out how they could fit in with the glamorous team that was swooping about the classroom, or someone else who had broken away for solo play that was destined to become the next great fad.

In many ways, this sort of experimentation with social arrangements, the question of what is the "best" way for humans to live together, stands at the heart of what makes our species unlike any other. In their book The Dawn of Everything, the Davids Graeber and Wengrow, an anthropologist and archeologist respectively, point out that a fish or a hedgehog exist in a "state beyond good and evil" and therefore have no need to ask such questions. They organize themselves as their instincts guide them. But humans have evolved the capacity to be moral and social beings, which makes us unique in the animal kingdom. We can choose how we are going to organize ourselves.

Not everyone believes this, of course, there are many who insist that we are evolutionarily hierarchical and that civilizations always progress from the "primitive" to "civilized" in a predictable way. But Graeber and Wengrow beg to differ:

"(A)rcheological evidence is piling up to suggest that . . . our remote ancestors . . . shifted back and forth between alternative social arrangements, building monuments and then closing them down again, allowing the rise of authoritarian structures during certain times of the year then dismantling them -- all, it would seem, on the understanding that no particular social order was ever fixed or immutable. The same individual could experience life in what looks to us sometimes like a band, sometimes a tribe, and sometimes like something with at least some of the characteristics we now identify with states . . . our remote forager ancestors were much bolder experimenters in social form, breaking apart and reassembling their societies at different scales, often in radically different forms, with different value systems, from one time of year to the next."

Graeber and Wengrow have re-interpreted the anthropological and archeological record of our species, finding this phenomenon on every continent (with the obvious exception of Antarctica) across millennia. They show that many Indigenous societies deliberately shifted social forms, often on a seasonal basis. A community might be relatively egalitarian during one season and highly hierarchical during another, depending on what they were trying to accomplish. Hierarchy was never an inevitable or permanent state, but rather a tool, adopted for a time, to get certain things done. 

Our habit of considering our ancestors to be "primitive" in comparison to us tends to blind us to the fact that they were not just our cognitive equals, but our intellectual peers too. "Likely as not, they grappled with the paradoxes of social order and creativity just as much as we do; and understood them -- at least the most reflexive among them -- just as much, which also means just as little. They were perhaps more aware of some things and less aware of others . . . equally perceptive, equally confused."

In a similar way, I sometimes think, our habit of considering young children as less cognitively capable, likewise blinds us. When they engage in these kinds of social experiments, these ebbs and flows, they are following in these same footsteps, grappling with the paradoxes of social order, creativity, and what it means to be both free and connected. The Davids argue that our present social order where we see nation-states and hierarchy as inevitable, is unnatural, that we have become "stuck," and that this is the source of many of the world's most pressing challenges. There is no room for the natural ebb, flow, and experiment.

In her Canopus in Argos pentology (five book series), Doris Lessing explores a similar theme, but at the level of consciousness rather than political organization. She creates a mythology based on Sufi philosophy, in which there are six zones, each representing a specific level of consciousness. As moderns, our habit is to rank these zones, ranging from the most earthy to the most Devine, but she shows us that healthy development requires movement and exchange, like the circulation of blood, between the zones, or levels, or ways of being with regard to the other people. 

Otherwise we stagnate. Otherwise the blood clots.

As moderns, we've come to understand freedom as freedom from the control of others, but maybe, as our Indigenous ancestors seemed to understand, freedom is the ability to move between social arrangements, not the obligation to live perpetually under one "ideal" system or another. 

When children are moving like this, between self-created social arrangements, I see a healthy classroom. I see children moving fluidly between moments of complete autonomy, collaborative negotiation, and, hopefully rarely, situations in which an adult must temporarily take charge because the moment calls for it (like when safety is at stake). This may be one of the biggest challenges for us adults: remembering that our moments of authority must be temporary.

The health of any community lies not in its commitment to one governing principle or other, but rather in its flexibility. That is what the children are playing with as they circulate and move, enjoying the fruits of one way of being together, bumping up against the paradoxes, and then trying something else again and again and again. Perhaps it's only when we become stuck that we have a problem.

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Books have a way of transforming us unlike any other media out there. Be it fiction or non-fiction, a books has the power to fully immerse us into a world in ways that makes us come out the other side a changed -- and better -- person. I've put together this list of 16 books that have done that for me. They are intentionally not early childhood books, although each one has, in one way or another, profoundly transformed my work with young children. Maybe you'll find a few new ones here that will do the same for you. To download the list, click here.

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!

"There is No Evidence That Children Learn Through Play"

An early childhood educator recently told me that if "playwork" was a viable career option in the US, she would have pursued that rather than "play-based preschool teacher."

I get it. Over the years, I've had the opportunity to work with and alongside several highly regarded playworkers in the US, Europe, and Australia. I've always felt a strong affinity for their way of working with children, far more so, in fact, than I do with most "preschool teachers."

If you're not familiar -- and if you're in the US, you might not be -- playwork emerged from the adventure playground movement, beginning with Denmark's Emdrup "junk playground" in 1943. It spread to postwar Britain, most notably through the work of Lady Marjory Allen. Playwork is explicitly not about educating children. It is about respecting children enough to create and protect spaces for freely chosen, child-directed play with as little adult intervention as possible. Today, especially in Britain, it has evolved into a distinct profession and philosophy.

Play-based learning has a longer pedigree, with its roots in the work of Friedrick Fröbel, who created kindergarten in the 19th century around the idea that play is central to children's development and learning. This concept was later picked up by such thinkers as John Dewey, Maria Montessori, Jean Piaget, and Lev Vygotsky who connected children's active exploration and play with intellectual and social development. 

Obviously, there is a great deal of cross-over, but there is one significant difference. As one crotchety play worker once said to me after listening to a talk I gave at a conference: "There is no evidence that children learn through play." Not only are those fightin' words, but it's empirically not true. There is plenty of evidence that children learn through play.

At the same time, I feel like I know what he means, even if I object to the specific thing he said. He was raising a philosophical objection disguised as an empirical one. Playwork Principles say that the play process is paramount and that the role of a playworker is to guard against adult agendas that disrupt the process. I don't think this playworker doubts that children learn through their play, but rather he sees an adult agenda in the word "learning" and, in my experience, he's not wrong about that.

Throughout my decades working with young children, I've experienced, time and again, adult agendas disrupting play. I've seen well-intended adults unilaterally solve "problems," not allow children to struggle, pepper them with questions, and simply take-over the play. The adult agendas of efficiency, conflict resolution, schedules, learning, and adult-direction, are all play disruptors. I felt like my main job as the "teacher" of our cooperative preschool was teaching the adults how to get out of the way and simply be amazed by what they witness.

I suspect that the main thing about play-based learning that rubs playworkers the wrong way is that instead of approaching childhood play as a "pure good," they see us as subordinating play to the adult agenda of "learning."

And that definitely happens in many, maybe even most, play-based environments. There's a lot of talk, for instance, about "making the learning visible," and "scaffolding" the play, and (the phrase that really gets my goat) "guided play." Some of us do it because, frankly, we don't, deep down, trust play, and by extension, we don't trust young children. Some of us do it because we have an agenda (self-imposed or imposed from above) of what the children are supposed to learn and by when. Some of us do it because we see ourselves as "teachers" and that's what teachers do. Others do it because parents are watching and when we "loiter with intent" we worry it looks like we're not doing anything at all.

When children play, really play, learning has nothing to do with it. Not from their perspective. They are learning, of course, but the process of play is the only thing that matters to the people who matter. When adult's enact their agendas they are making it about themselves, their needs, wants, and fears.

I call what I do play-based learning for one reason: marketing. It's strategic language. I find myself "selling" play into a culture that believes, cruelly, that children, even very young ones, must always be producing something that can be measured. "Just let them play" doesn't sell because it sounds too much like nothing is happening. When I say "they're leaning through play" it reassures adults enough to, I hope, leave the children alone. 

The playworker critique applies far more devastatingly to academic-style schooling. We know children are learning something in those schools, but we have no idea what any given child will learn. Ever. We can know what being is taught. We know what they can reproduce on demand (testing). We might even know what they can recall a week later. But learning itself is always largely invisible and wildly idiosyncratic. School children can sit through the same lesson and learn entirely different things. One learns long division. Another learns that they're bad at math. Another learns that adults become irritated by certain questions. Another learns how to cheat without being caught. Another that they must sit still and quiet. Yet the test only asks about long division.

So perhaps the intellectually honest claim isn't "Children learn through play," but rather, "Children are always learning. Play simply gives adults less control over what." And maybe that's what bothers everyone.

Play is what children do when left to their own devices. It's how humans have evolved to spend large swathes of their early years. Adult agendas tend to rob children of their right, their need, to explore, manipulate, and live in the world. All mammals, birds, and even reptiles play when they are young. Some have even found evidence of what could be called play in invertebrates and even, stretching things, plants. The leading theory for play's existence is that it is how young animals practice for the future, which is to say learn in order to survive and thrive.

We are at our best as play-based "educators" when we create beautiful spaces in which children know they have permission to play. The learning, whatever that entails, is none of our business.

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The Preschool Autism Summit is already underway, but it's not too late. Our understanding of autism and educating autistic children is changing almost daily. I can't wait to dig into all 30 of these sessions. I know I'm going to learn a lot . . . And I know I'm going to be a better teacher for it. And it's FREE . . . So why not join us for 3 days of outstanding summer PD? Get your free pass right here.

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!

Knowing How to Play This Game

"Wait a minute! I know how to play this game."

The children were standing around a table upon which were the tokens, dice and other parts and pieces from the board games Monopoly and The Game of Life. The night before, I had discovered, in my building's garbage room, that one of my neighbors had thrown out these brand new board games. I assume that it was the young couple from down the hall who had been talking for some time about hosting a game night for their friends. 

And as a preschool teacher, I'm not above a little dumpster diving.

If you're familiar with these particular classic games, you know they aren't designed for preschoolers, but I thought the kids would nevertheless get a kick out of the little houses and cars, the roulette wheel spinner, the stacks of phony money and whatnot. I had set the actual game boards aside, replacing them with a piece of white mat board that a previous group of children had used for an art project involving table and crayons.

"I know how to play this," the boy insisted, as if convincing himself. He was taking in the scene, his eyes and hands darting from piece-to-piece, "I know how to play this." 

Of course, he could not possibly know how to play this game because there was nothing to know; there was no game there. It wasn't a game at all, but rather a collection of game pieces. What he was reacting to was the idea of a board game, something he derived from previous experiences with these same, or similar, game pieces. He was making connections between his memories and the present. He was seeing patterns, interpreting them through the filter of experience, and, right there in front of everyone, constructing knowledge. "I know," he said.

Humans are born knowing no visual stories so the world they see is just a bunch of blobs. Likewise, smells and tastes begin as meaningless sensations. Newborns have, however, had the experience of listening to their world in utero, muffled by the womb, and so they are born knowing to attend, for instance, to their mother's voice: they turn their heads toward the familiar sound because a story about that voice has already started to form. 

The human brain is a pattern-recognizing machine, one that cannot abide a story vacuum. So, just as the boy constructed the story of a game from those mixed up pieces, a baby begins, from the moment of birth, even before, constructing the story of mommy, connection, and love.

As adult humans, it's obvious to us that the raven in the tree over our heads is not actually smaller than the raven in the grass near our feet. Indeed, we treat perspective as a scientific and artistic truth, but the ability to perceive that is a story we constructed for ourselves. It's a story we've learned. 

Not all the stories we tell ourselves throughout our lives turn out to be true. The patterns we think we've identified, the connections we've made between things, might turn out to be wrong, or at least not the same as the way other people do it, resulting in a different story. Our conflicts are always disagreements over stories.

By the same token, our greatest achievements emerge from working together to fill the vacuum with a common story. As the boy began to share with the other children about this game he "knew," they began to join in, asking questions, making their own assertions, and even negotiating exactly what this game was all about. The story of the game that emerged was not the one that we adults with our more detailed experience with board games in general, and these board games in particular, would have told. This was a fresh, new story.

So much of what passes for education is adults trying to tell their same, old, tired stories to the children. Stories that may or may not be true. A play-based curriculum is one in which the children are free to do what our brains are designed to do, which is to construct their own learning. This is how our species progresses.

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Books have a way of transforming us unlike any other media out there. Be it fiction or non-fiction, a books has the power to fully immerse us into a world in way that makes us come out the other side a changed -- and better -- person. I've put together this list of 16 books that have done that for me. They are intentionally not early childhood books, although each one has, in one way or another, profoundly transformed my work with young children. Maybe you'll find a few new ones here that will do the same for you. To download the list, click here.

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!

"Since We're Neighbors, Let's Be Friends"

For the past several years, I've been limiting my news consumption to about 5 hours of local news a week, usually "watched" while I'm preparing dinner. 

Yesterday, there was a story about a nearby town's preparations for the nation's oldest continually running July 4 parade. From the looks of it, the parade is mostly local groups, marching through the streets, making their music, performing their dances, and waving their flags, while the rest of the town comes out to wave their own flags and cheer. The key figure in the story was an older woman who has been part of organizing the festivities for the past several decades. The story concluded with her saying, "We're just as excited today as they were back then."

There was another "World Cup" adjacent story about a young teen whose health issues have made it impossible for her to play her beloved soccer. She has now started a drive to raise money to help others in her situation. The concluding thought from this girl, "I'm just happy I can help others."

There were more stories, of course, but I'm going to stop there because I'm tearing up as I write this. I often find myself tearing up as I watch my local news. There are, of course, darker stories. There was, for instance, the frozen food warehouse that recently burned down. That story was mostly interviews with the people who live around the facility. The smoke was bad, but some of the people say that the stench of tons of rotting food is worse.

But compared to national news, the overall slant of my local news is much more positive, probably because it's always about my "neighbors." Even national news stories are offered from a local perspective featuring interviews with local people whose lives are directly impacted. This is so much more elevating than professional pontificators who seethe and shout based on some sort of abstract political theory or other. As you know, national news tends to thrive on setting up everything as conflict and performative debate between partisans. It raises your blood pressure, but otherwise goes no where. 

What I enjoy about my small doses of local interviews is that the people on my screen aren't shy about not having all the answers, of being internally conflicted between this or that approach, and overall showing their genuine emotion and concern. Even when I suspect they don't vote the way I do, I still get to see their fuller humanity on display, which naturally allows me to better understand where they're coming from. This is what it means to me to be well-informed about the issues.

This is why I get teary. I get teary because these are the actual people amidst whom I live. And I like them. I like that they're my neighbors. Every year, right around the 4th of July holiday, I find myself getting teary. I know our great "experiment" in democracy is far from perfect. I know that people continue to be poor, oppressed, and left out. I feel for them and strive to use my own political agency to rise them up, set them free, and bring them in. I've shared many of these actions here on the blog over the years, for what it's worth.

I get teary because despite our ongoing failures, I'm moved and even amazed by this audacious thing we are trying to do as a nation. For 250 years, a relatively short time in the scheme of human existence, we have, in our way, as a nation of we the people, attempted to self-govern. It's messy, even ugly at times. And the way our media, politics, and technology has evolved makes it even messier and uglier. But when I turn to my neighbors, when I turn to the people amidst whom I actually live, I continue to be inspired by what we're capable of striving toward, who we are capable of being. Democracy will always be an experiment. It will never be perfect. The promise isn't happiness, but rather the collective pursuit of happiness.

This weekend, I'll be celebrating, not with family, not with old friends, but with my neighbors. 

Among my greatest inspirations is Mister Rogers' whose work with young children was rooted in the metaphor of the neighborhood. In his daily program Mister Roger's Neighborhood, he gave us a blueprint of how the medium of television could be used to pull people together rather than divide them. "Since we're neighbors, let's be friends." It's both a simple and breathtaking aspiration.

It's the neighborhood, the people amidst whom we live, the people we see at the local coffee shop, grocery store, out walking the dog, for which we are made. When I think of democracy, that's who I think about. When I get teary, these are the people, these every day people full of doubts, emotions, fears, and passions, that touch me the most. 

I worry that so many of us don't have the privilege that so many people my age had of growing up in real neighborhoods. They still exist, but they're much harder to find these days.

This is why I believe that the central purpose of every preschool is to be that local community for this generation of young children. To be a place where we learn about and from real people, rather than the cartoon cutouts that come to us through a media that thrives on stereotype and division. Our preschools can be the place where young children first learn that the messiness of self-government need not turn ugly; where empathy and compassion grow best; where real people come together to talk about their concerns, their ideas, and their needs; where negotiation, compromise, and ultimately agreement stand at the center of our relationships with one another. Our preschools can be places in which young children are marinated in community.

I've always approached preschool as an experiment, both for me, and for the children, because that's what our democracy is: an experiment in living together. It's an experiment in which the beaker sometimes blows up in our faces, in which the results are not always what we expected, and in which we the people are the only ones who have the power to do something about it. It's from this foundation of being good neighbors that we can hope for a better tomorrow.

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Books have a way of transforming us unlike any other media out there. Be it fiction or non-fiction, a books has the power to fully immerse us into a world in way that makes us come out the other side a changed -- and better -- person. I've put together this list of 16 books that have done that for me. They are intentionally not early childhood books, although each one has, in one way or another, profoundly transformed my work with young children. Maybe you'll find a few new ones here that will do the same for you. To download the list, click here.

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!

"A Deep Sense of Who You Are"

As a child, my family moved around a lot. I'd called four places home before my first day of kindergarten. I attended three different elementary schools and three different middle schools. My parents, themselves, had grown up in a small, tightly-knit farming community in which everyone knew everyone. To this day, they are still in touch with some of their childhood friends. In contrast, I'm in touch with none of mine. In fact, I can't even remember the names of some of the kids I once called "best friend."

I sometimes wonder if I've missed out on something, especially when my wife gets together with her lifelong besties, but the experience of being the "new kid" is so much a part of who I am that I can't really imagine what it would be like to share such a long history with anyone other than family members. My greatest life lesson, I think, was how to make new friends wherever I go.

For this I credit my mother. Mom was determined that we would have friends wherever we went. If the new neighbors didn't show up on the front porch with casseroles, she would make her own casseroles and show up on theirs. She went out of her way to connect with other families with kids. As we got older, she signed us up for team sports wherever we moved, not as a way to learn the dubious lessons of competition, but rather so that we would have the opportunity to make friends. 

Not everyone enjoys sports, but fortunately we did, and throughout my childhood, my social life tended to emerge not through school, but rather through baseball, soccer, football, basketball, and swimming. Of course, there was competition when another team would come to play, but the core of the experience was daily practice where we built relationships with one another around the cooperation of teamwork. There was never any expectation that we would go on to become professional athletes, nor were we graded or tested. The idea was to have fun with friends.

Some time ago, before I began my journey as an educator, in the spirit of paying it forward, I volunteered to coach what is called a "select" baseball team comprised of middle schoolers only to find that youth sports have changed in horrible ways. These kids and their parents already had their eyes on the big leagues, or missing that, at least college scholarships. It was an unpleasant experience for me, but even more so for the kids who, frankly, demonstrated very little joy, and even less friendship. This wasn't the baseball I grew up knowing. When I tried to lighten things up, parents would pull me aside to let me know that they appreciated the sentiment, but really, they didn't want their child to "miss the opportunity," so, you know, knuckle down. Ugh.

One of the foundations upon which our educational system is built is the myth that we live in a "competitive society" so we must get the kids ready for that. Now, I've never been a stock market day trader, nor have I had the misfortune of being part of a corporate hierarchy. I've never been a professional athlete or a contestant on RuPaul's Drag Race. Indeed, the only time that I found myself in genuine, ongoing competition with my fellow humans was during my time in school and only then when I began to understand that I was being judged (graded, tested) in comparison to my classmates. But outside of school, I've found that competition beyond the occasional friendly board game, is not a meaningful part of my life.

Mister Rogers once said, "You rarely have time for everything you want in this life, so you need to make choices. And hopefully your choices can come from a deep sense of who you are."

Competition only gives us, at best, a superficial sense of who we are. It teaches us that if we aren't a winner then we're a loser. But even more harmful is competition's lesson that our fellow humans are impediments, stepping stones, and rivals. It makes "things" of them, it dehumanizes them, and it ultimately prevents and perverts our relationships. What my mother knew was that the only way one can ever discover the key to that deeper sense of self is through relationships.

For the most part, those of us who work with young children understand what my mother understood: relationships are the foundation for any life worth living. When we observe children at play, we see that they are driven, not to competition, but rather to cooperation and teamwork. That is where they find joy. When competition emerges, it always does so as both a threat to their games as well as their relationships. In these cases, when we allow the children to solve their own problems, the unpleasantly competitive games either come to an end as children exercise their freedom to quit, or, impressively, they scramble to remove the prospect of winners and losers, restoring the cooperative balance to their game. 

This, not competition, is the reality I've discovered everywhere I've gone in life. It's inhuman systems, like conventional schooling, that create the illusion that competition is everywhere. When it's just us humans playing together, the only thing that matters are our relationships, built through cooperation and teamwork. And through that our deep sense of self emerges as the only guide we will ever need to make choices that will bring us joy.

******

Books have a way of transforming us unlike any other media out there. Be it fiction or non-fiction, a books has the power to fully immerse us into a world in way that makes us come out the other side a changed -- and better -- person. I've put together this list of 16 books that have done that for me. They are intentionally not early childhood books, although each one has, in one way or another, profoundly transformed my work with young children. Maybe you'll find a few new ones here that will do the same for you. To download the list, click here.

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!

Practicing Courage

A little over a week ago, my wife Jennifer shook me awake shortly after midnight. "Someone is outside!" 

Sure enough, there was person just outside our bedroom window, which is a glass slider, dressed in black from head-to-toe, including a balaclava covering his face. Classic "bad guy" attire. I banged on the window, shouting, "Get out of here! Get out of here!" He glanced my way, but otherwise ignored me as he went through our stuff.

As Jennifer called 911, I ducked into the closet where I keep a baseball bat. For the better part of four decades, I've joked that this was our "security system," but this was the first time I'd resorted to it. I returned to the window, hoping that the sight of me wielding a bat would suffice. I banged on the glass again, warning him we were on the phone with the police. He completely ignored me as he moved about looking, I assume, for something to steal. I wouldn't have cared so much if he'd just taken something and run off, but his continued, unconcerned presence felt dangerous. 

I waited until he moved away from the door, then flung it open and stepped outside. Jennifer later told me I "leapt" out shouting a fierce line from the Quentin Tarantino movie we'd watched together before going to bed. I don't remember that. All I knew was that I needed to be ferocious and loud. 

Over the years, I've occasionally imaged how I'd use that bat to protect my family, but the reality was something else. Instead of backing away or running off, the man came toward me, taunting, "I'm sooo scared." In that moment, I recognized the situation I was in. There was a very real chance that he would wrest control of the bat from me. In a flash, I realized that my only hope was to swing as hard as I could. 

I've played a lot of baseball in my life (hence the bat) and I put everything I had into it, aiming for his head. His hands came up protectively, but I could also see that he meant to grab the bat. Fortunately for both of us he withdrew his hands and dodged away only to then immediately take another step back toward me. But I was ready, bat poised. He took a couple steps back into the lawn, staying out of reach, then began to dance about a bit, again taunting, "I'm sooo scared. I'm sooo scared."

I know I spoke to him. Probably something like, "The police are on their way." Finally, he danced off, then cockily, over his shoulder, he called out, "Have a nice night!"

I imagine that some of you, having read this, are thinking, "Well, that was stupid" or "Teacher Tom got lucky." You might even be thinking, "Good thing he didn't have a gun." And you're not wrong. But still . . .

The Ancient Greeks, and Plato in particular, identified what they called the four "cardinal virtues": wisdom, justice, temperance, and courage. In our psychological age, we tend to think in terms of temperament, our innate tendencies, but the ancients spent more time considering character, those qualities we cultivate.

The interesting thing about these virtues is that they all exist at the mid-point of a continuum. In the case of courage, it stands between the extremes of cowardliness and rashness. It might have all gone terribly wrong, but had I stayed safely inside shaking my fist, I suspect I'd not be feeling so good about myself. And I do feel good about myself. I've felt particularly alive for the past week or so. One after another, my neighbors have told me that I was both a fool and a hero. 

Goethe wrote, "Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it." I've been feeling the reality of that.

We tend to avoid talking about "virtues" in the modern world. That's probably because Christian philosophers like Thomas Aquinas adopted and adapted Greek philosophy for theological purposes and in our secular age, especially in our schools, we steer clear of anything that smacks of religious indoctrination.

That said, we continue to value wisdom, justice, and temperance, even if we don't use those labels, while courage is something that's been, in many ways, commandeered by the kind of machismo found in movie action heroes. It's almost embarrassing to talk about courage. Even writing this, I worry that I'm coming off as boastful.

I'm not sharing this story here to encourage anyone else. In fact, I've already talked one neighbor out of purchasing a bat of her own and told others that I'd never do it again. I'm telling this story because I see how narrow our definition of courage has become. As the Ancients understood it, courage is that trait that's called for whenever we face uncertainty. It's not an absence of fear or doubt, but rather, an action in the face of fear and doubt. When a child climbs a tree, when they ask another child to play with them, when they attempt new things, they are being courageous. And each act of courage leads to another. That's where the magic is.

None of us are courageous, but rather we practice courage. It doesn't mean that we must all take up bats to chase away intruders, but rather that when we're faced with uncertainty our best bet is to swing as hard as we can. It might not always go to play, but the more we practice, as with all the virtues, the better we get at it. This is what our children are doing as they play together, practicing courage and discovering the genius, power, and magic it brings with it.

******

Books have a way of transforming us unlike any other media out there. Be it fiction or non-fiction, a books has the power to fully immerse us into a world in way that makes us come out the other side a changed -- and better -- person. I've put together this list of 16 books that have done that for me. They are intentionally not early childhood books, although each one has, in one way or another, profoundly transformed my work with young children. Maybe you'll find a few new ones here that will do the same for you. To download the list, click here.

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!

To Live an Abundant Life

The four and five year olds started their days on the playground. Some would take a moment to greet me, but most barely paused to shed their backpacks and jackets before plunging into their play. That might mean manning a position at the cast iron water pump, digging in the sand, swinging, racing up and down the concrete slide, hunting out a favorite loose part, or gathering with friends to plot and plan together, inviting one another with the most beautiful sentences in the human language, the one's that start with the contraction, "Let's . . ."

"Let's pretend we're pilots!"

"Let's all be baby animals!"

"Let's go over there!"

Most of the four and five year olds I've ever taught had been together in school for a couple of years already. They knew me, they knew the other kids, they knew the environment, and they knew how to derive satisfaction from playing together. They did it effortlessly and without prompting. This was life as they knew it, a formula of their own collective and ongoing distillation. Of course, they knew there would be conflict, even pain, because they had already learned from experience that the permission to learn from pleasure always includes the possibility of pain. That's perhaps the lesson of life, not this artificial pain that is imposed by schools in the name of teaching children the harsh lessons of the workplace: do what you're told even when it's mind-numbing and soul-crushing.

In our school, the children knew that they were free to pursue, both individually and together, a life in which their work was their play and vice versa. 

"(M)ost individuals today are born into serfdom to Factory Earth," writes historian Peter Stearns in his book From Alienation to Addiction. "With factory industry, most people, for the first time in human history outside of some forms of slavery, could never aspire to work without direct supervision."

The adults at Woodland Park performed their ancient role of caretakers, protectors, and occasional advisors, because the goal of education as we saw it is to allow young humans to seek their one true path, the one they follow, for a day or a week or a lifetime, out of curiosity. In our way of doing it, curiosity stands in the stead of the factory floor boss.

What do you do that is as effortless and unprompted as the four and five year olds playing together at Woodland Park? What is it that you do that doesn't need to be put on a "to do" list because you will do it anyway? As adults, many of us have forgotten what it means to live in this way, looking inward and asking ourselves what would give us permission to play-work-live like these children? People often envy these young children who are, quite frankly, living a life of abundance and purpose. It still surprises me how many feel they need to put a stop to it, "for their own good." They can't just go through life doing what they want. It's the grim view of life as a factory. A place where no one has ever found abundance and purpose. As the Greek philosopher Epicurus wrote, "Not what we have, but what we enjoy, constitutes our abundance." 

But life can't just be about enjoyment! If it feels good, it must be bad. If we do it just to satisfy our curiosity, it must be a waste of time. Curiosity kills the cat. What's good must be hard and painful. Pleasure is only a dessert, something to be limited and saved for last. 

The novelist Edith Wharton asks, "Why do we call all our generous ideas illusions, and the mean ones truths?" Why indeed.

I've spent my adult life trying to learn the lessons of humans for whom pleasure and curiosity stand as the pure goods that they are. These are the people who are living, not happy lives, but abundant ones. At the end of life, no one wishes they had worked harder. If they have any regrets it's that they didn't love and play more. Why is it that we only seem to understand this central truth at the Alpha and Omega of life, whereas during the journey in between we treat it as, at best, a hinderance and at worst a devil that must be kept down lest we . . . What? Find purpose in life before it's all over? Sounds pretty good to me.

I know why, of course. It's fear and doubt. We've been taught by years of schooling, both curricular and extracurricular, that the floor bosses know best, that we are here to serve Factory Earth, and that anything that makes our hearts sing is a secret evil. It's reinforced every time a child is reprimanded for daydreaming and not paying attention. It's taught each time children are scolded for chatting amongst themselves instead to listening to the teacher's instructions. We've been made to feel afraid of ourselves and our own desires because they have no place in the factory.

As I spent my days amidst these self-directed humans who had permission to work-play-live, I knew that they would inevitably leave Woodland Park where they would begin their training for Factory Earth. Soon enough they would come across those who would direct them "for their own good" and make them feel guilt or shame over those things that bring them joy, and pride in doing the things against which their souls rebelled. I found my joy in the moment; the now of this community of children. I will always have the satisfaction in knowing that for a time, on that playground, the four and five year olds knew they had permission to live abundantly in a world in which "Let's . . ." was the sacred a call to live together with a purpose all our own.

I can dream that one day we will come to understand that this should stand at the center of education. Until then, I'll just live it.

******

Books have a way of transforming us unlike any other media out there. Be it fiction or non-fiction, a books has the power to fully immerse us into a world in way that makes us come out the other side a changed -- and better -- person. I've put together this list of 16 books that have done that for me. They are intentionally not early childhood books, although each one has, in one way or another, profoundly transformed my work with young children. Maybe you'll find a few new ones here that will do the same for you. To download the list, click here.

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!