A Place Where We "Finish" Using Stuff

Auke-Florian Hiemstra/Naturalis Biodiversity Center

There was a street light just outside the living room window of my second-story downtown Seattle apartment. On top of the light fixture were ugly spikes, fixed there to prevent birds from landing on it. As far as I could tell, it worked. Nearby trees were populated with urban birds, but they left this particular street lamp alone, even as just down the block an un-spiked light was home to a crow's nest for at least one mating season.

Not long ago, I read a fascinating article in The Guardian about corvids, crows and magpies in this case, using strips of these anti-bird spikes to construct their nests in the Netherlands, Belgium, and Scotland. What a stunning example of cross-species nose-thumbing! (If, indeed, corvids had noses or thumbs.)

The magpies seem to be particularly enterprising, building their dome-shaped nests while apparently positioning the spikes to project outward and upward in order to fend-off predators. It's almost like they took a look at our attempts to thwart them, thought "Good idea," and made it their own.

Birds are, of course, notorious for using human garbage in their nest building, just as rats, raccoons, cockroaches, hermit crabs, and other species have learned to thrive on our species' unique genius for producing massive quantities of waste. Homo sapiens have, throughout our 300,000 or so years of existence, always been prone to producing excessive amounts of waste. One of the primary ways anthropologists study our ancient ancestors is to study the kitchen middens (i.e., garbage dumps) they left behind. We don't know why this is the case, but my theory is that as we evolved the ability to perceive the arrow of time (something that physicists tell us doesn't actually exist) we began to prepare for the prospect of an uncertain tomorrow by producing more than we needed today instead of simply living in the "enough-ness" of the ever-emerging present as our animal sisters and brothers seem to do.

When I read this story, I couldn't help but reflect on the children I've observed playing over the decades on our junkyard playground. I always envisioned our school, and our outdoors space in particular, as a place where we "finished" using stuff that was otherwise on the way to the landfill. Just as corvids and other animals cleverly use our refuse, I've found that young children have a special genius for finding remarkable, creative ways to incorporate shipping pallets, old tires, parts of broken toys, containers, wine corks, bottle caps, and other societal garbage into their games. In fact, more often than not, when given the choice, they will prefer the "real stuff" of recycling bins, garages, cellars, and attics to the toys and games specifically manufactured for them. Oh sure, they've been taught to beg for the latest shiny toy and are thrilled to received it as a birthday gift, but we all know that by the end of the day, most children, most of the time, have at least as much fun with the boxes and wrapping paper, the excess we produce in the process of gift-giving.

Again, I don't know why young children, like corvids, so often express their genius through playing with our garbage, but I expect that the reason they prefer the boxes over the toys is that most toys (and most out-of-the-box playground equipment) come with a "script" built into them: there is a proscribed, or "right," way to play with them. Whereas when playing with refuse, children write their own scripts, and that, ultimately is the real story of human learning. 

In these magpie nests made from anti-bird spikes, I see the "nests" that young children create from the odds and ends at hand, the games they invent, and the stories they play using waste to create something new and meaningful. I see the power of a learning environment at work, supporting children to think critically and creatively, rather than directing them according to scripts. I see the opening up of new possibilities rather than the habit of the well-trodden ruts of "because we've always done it that way." I see the transformation of problems into opportunities -- anti-bird spikes into nests.

This is the natural habitat for learning. If you're interested in transforming your own space into this kind of learning environment, please join the 2024 cohort for my 6-week course, Creating a Natural Habitat for Learning (see below). This is the kind of open-ended, real world learning environment in which not just corvids, but all animals thrive, including humans. 

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If you're interested in transforming your own space into this kind of loose parts learning environment, you might want to join the 2024 cohort for my 6-week course, Creating a Natural Habitat for Learning. This is a  deep dive into transforming your classroom, home, or playground into the kind of learning environment in which young children thrive; in which novelty and self-motivation stand at the center of learning. In my decades as an early childhood educator, I've found that nothing improves my teaching and the children's learning experience more than a supportive classroom, both indoors and out. This course is for educators, parents, and directors. Group discounts are available. You don't want to miss this chance to make your "third teacher" (the learning environment) the best it can be. Registration is closing soon. I hope you join me! To learn more and register, 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!

Even Our Words Can Be Loose Parts

"No climbing to the top!"

When our daughter was in kindergarten, her school installed an amazing rope-and-steel climbing structure. The kindergartners were forbidden from climbing to the very top, which meant that adults were always hovering around the thing, "reminding" the children when they got too high. 

One day, I asked her if she was loving the new climber. She replied, "It's kind of in the way. No one plays on it." When I asked her why, she just shrugged, "It's just not fun."

Yesterday, I posted some thoughts on The Theory of Loose Parts. Appropriately, it is an idea that has emerged from the field of architecture about how the best learning environments are those in which we have permission to shape and manipulate our surroundings, and the things found within our surroundings, to suit our needs, ideas and curiosity.

It's a theory that's generally thought of in terms of the physical environment, but no matter how loose the parts, no matter how flexible the space, if the environment does not grant permission to engage freely, then the children, as loose parts theorist Simon Nicholson puts it, will still be cheated.

That's what happened at our daughter's school. The adults, in their concern about safety (or perhaps liability), had sucked the joy out of it. They would have been better off not installing the thing at all. Or installing a shorter one. Or, the way we did it at Woodland Park, not have a climbing structure at all, but rather provide the materials -- scraps of wood, shipping pallets, car tires, ropes -- from which the children could build their own "climbers."

And at our school, that's what the children did. None so high as the one on our daughter's kindergarten playground, of course, but always just the right height for the children creating it. Not only that, these impromptu structures were never in the way because the moment the kids were done with it, the parts were on the move, being put to other uses. 

But this didn't happen just because we provided the parts. It wasn't even just because they were "loose." This kind of self-motivated loose play can only happen when children know they have permission to follow their curiosity.

At our daughter's school, the adults specifically forbid a certain type of exploration, but much of the time we let children know they don't have permission in more subtle ways. 

For instance, if you listen to the things adults are saying to children at play -- "Come here!" "Slow down!" "Be careful!" -- we hear mostly commands. Research finds that 80 percent of the sentences adults speak to young children are commands. And an environment full of commands is not an environment of permission.

We also hear a lot of school-ish questions, "What color is that?" "How many marbles do I have in my hand?" "Do you know what letter that is?" Implied in these types of questions is the idea that the adults know better than the children what to think about. But even more open-ended questions like, "What do you think will happen if you put one more block on your tower?" tend to steer children into adult approved "places" in which the parts are no longer loose. When we ask questions, we compel children to divert from their own course and onto the one we've chosen for them.

There are times for commands and questions, but if our goal is to create the kind of loose parts environments that allow children to learn at full-capacity, then we are well served to consider even our words as loose parts. When we strive to replace our commands and questions with informational statements -- "That color is red," "I have marbles in my hand," "This is the letter R" -- we are offering children information, facts, that they, like with any loose part, can use or not use.

Instead of the command "Get in the car," we might state the fact, "It's time to go" and let them do their own thinking. Instead of the command "Be careful!" we might say, "The ground below you is concrete and it will hurt if you fall on it." Instead of school-ish questions to which we already know the answers we might instead simply speculate aloud, "I wonder why the sky is blue," leaving it there for the children to consider . . . or not. 

Of course, we might also choose to just not say anything at all which is when our "third teacher," the environment, often does her best work.

We will be discussing this and much more in my course, Creating a Natural Habitat for Learning, a 6-week deep dive for educators, parents, and other caregivers who want to transform their classrooms, homes, and playgrounds into the kinds of "third teachers" that give children the permission to engage with the world through their curiosity, to experience the joy of self-motivated learning, and to become critical thinkers. Registration is now open for the 2024 cohort, click here to learn more. I'd love to see you there!

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If you're interested in transforming your own space into this kind of loose parts learning environment, you might want to join the 2024 cohort for my 6-week course, Creating a Natural Habitat for Learning. This is a  deep dive into transforming your classroom, home, or playground into the kind of learning environment in which young children thrive; in which novelty and self-motivation stand at the center of learning. In my decades as an early childhood educator, I've found that nothing improves my teaching and the children's learning experience more than a supportive classroom, both indoors and out. This course is for educators, parents, and directors. Group discounts are available. You don't want to miss this chance to make your "third teacher" (the learning environment) the best it can be. I hope you join me! To learn more and register, 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!

The Theory of Loose Parts

In 1971, architect Simon Nicholson wrote an article for a magazine called Landscape Architecture entitled “How Not to Cheat Children: The Theory of Loose Parts.” Perhaps it wasn’t the first time that the phrase “loose parts play” was used, but it was this manifesto that in many ways kicked things off. In the half century years since its publication, the idea has grown, first slowly, and then suddenly in recent years as more and more early childhood educators have embraced Nicholson’s theory a part of their play-based programs.

That the theory emerged from architecture is fascinating to think about. It echoes the work of Reggio Emilia founder Loris Malaguzzi who was at about the same time postulating that children had three teachers: adults, other children, and the environment, the environment being the primary purview of architecture. Nicholson’s theory, as he phrased it in that original article:

In any environment, both the degree of inventiveness and creativity, and the possibility of discovery, are directly proportional to the number and kind of variables in it.

Nicholson was not talking exclusively about early childhood, but about educational environments in general. He included playgrounds and classrooms in his discussion, but also places for all ages, like museums and libraries. His big idea was that we are most inventive and creative when allowed to construct, manipulate, and otherwise play with our environments. He argued that when we leave the design of spaces to professionals, we are, in effect, excluding children (and adults) from the most important, and fun, part of the process. We are, in his words, “stealing” it from the children.

Even if we haven’t consciously adopted the theory of loose parts play, every early childhood professional, even those working in otherwise highly structured environments, knows this to be true. None of us would, for instance, build a block structure for the children, then expect them to learn anything by merely looking at it and listening to us lecture. We know that the children must take those blocks in hand, must both construct and deconstruct, must experiment, test, and manipulate. We also know that their play, and therefore their learning, is expanded as we add more and varied materials to their environment.

The theory of loose parts applies the principles of the “block area” to the entire environment (which is, not coincidentally, the focus of my 6-week course, Creating a Natural Habitat for Learning) encouraging us to let go of our ideas of how a learning environment is supposed to be and to instead fill it with variables, things that can be moved, manipulated, and transported. This, as Nicholson points out, is where creativity and inventiveness live. It’s important to remember that his theory continues to be a radical one, even as aspects of it are becoming more mainstream. This is about more than tree cookies and toilet paper tubes and clothes pins. It’s about more than old tires, shipping pallets, and planks of wood. At its core, the theory of loose parts is a theory about democracy, about self-governance, and the rights and responsibilities of both individuals and groups to come together to shape their world according to their own vision.

The world is always ours to shape and when we are not shaping it, it is shaping us. Nicholson’s insight was that our environment is too often a kind of dictator, one that is restricting rather than expanding our possibilities. As we work with our “third teacher” it’s important that we keep this in mind and always ask ourselves, “Is this stealing the fun from the children?”

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If you're interested in transforming your own space into this kind of loose parts learning environment, you might want to join the 2024 cohort for my 6-week course, Creating a Natural Habitat for Learning. This is a  deep dive into transforming your classroom, home, or playground into the kind of learning environment in which young children thrive; in which novelty and self-motivation stand at the center of learning. In my decades as an early childhood educator, I've found that nothing improves my teaching and the children's learning experience more than a supportive classroom, both indoors and out. This course is for educators, parents, and directors. You don't want to miss this chance to make your "third teacher" (the learning environment) the best it can be. I hope you join me! To learn more and register, 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!

Why Do Orcas Sink Boats? The Same Reason Kids Put Underpants on Their Heads!

For the past few years, orcas off the coast of Spain and Portugal have been ramming and often sinking smaller boats. Back in the 1980's, pods of orcas in the Pacific Ocean made a fad of wearing dead fish on their heads. The leading theory for these behaviors is play.

The orcas don't need to ram those boats and bite at their rudders, although I imagine them cheering one another on. There's no apparent reason for orcas to wear a dead fish on their heads, and the same can be said for young children laugh themselves silly while sporting, say, underpants on their heads. 

In my course Creating Natural Habitats for Learning, one of the key things we will be exploring is how our classrooms, playgrounds, and homes can become the kind of environments in which young children know they have permission to play.

It's far easier said than done because so much of what school is about, so much of what playgrounds are about, is proscribed activities. You can climb this structure, but not that tree. You may slide down, but not climb back up. You can build with those blocks, but nothing higher than your head. 

And most manufactured toys come with "scripts" designed right into them. The fire truck is, well, a fire truck. That doll is from a Disney movie. Princess costumes, vehicles, action figures, tools, weapons, and pretty much anything made for kids "instructs" or "directs" the child's play. A creative child will, of course, find other ways to play with these toys . . . That is, if there isn't an adult nearby to tell them they're doing it wrong. 

But even when the adult stays out of it, researchers find that young children tend prefer the boxes the toys come in. The wrapping paper. The twist-ties and rubber bands and other packaging material. This tendency, what we call "loose parts play," frees children from the scripts and expectations, allowing them to fully engage in the deep, genuine learning that takes place from exploring without artificial constraints.

The best habitats for learning are those that embrace the promise and genius behind loose parts learning. There is far more learning in the recycling box than the toy box.

If this sounds like the kind of learning environment you want to offer to the young children in your life, please consider joining the 2024 cohort of Creating Natural Habitats for Learning.  This 6-week course is a deep-dive into the impact of the environment on how and what young children learn, including the theory and practice of loose parts. It’s a course for early childhood educators, directors, and parents of young children who are interested in creating environments that inspire self-directed learning. 

Meanwhile, if you find yourself in a small boat off the Iberian coast, just hope the orcas are playing the dead fish on the head game that day, because otherwise it's liable to be a bit rowdy!

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If you're interested in transforming your own space into this kind of learning environment, you might want to join the 2024 cohort for my 6-week course, Creating a Natural Habitat for Learning. This is a  deep dive into transforming your classroom, home, or playground into the kind of learning environment in which young children thrive; in which novelty and self-motivation stand at the center of learning. In my decades as an early childhood educator, I've found that nothing improves my teaching and the children's learning experience more than a supportive classroom, both indoors and out. This course is for educators, parents, and directors. You don't want to miss this chance to make your "third teacher" (the learning environment) the best it can be. I hope you join me! To learn more and register, 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!

Change the Environment, Not the Child

I was recently leaving a downtown store. When I came to the exit door, I saw that it had a handle. I grabbed and pulled. The door didn't budge. I then, counter-intuitively, pushed and the door swung open. This is a prime example of a failure in design: a handle means "pull" and a push plate means "push." Indeed, every time you see a sign on a door reading "push" or "pull," you're looking at a design flaw that someone has clumsily attempted to correct.

Design flaws are all around us. My local supermarket began offering discounts to "members." To take advantage you open an app on your phone, then hold the bar code under a scanner which is located beneath the checkout screen. There is no beep, no green light, or any other indicator that your code has been read, which means that every single person who uses it winds up fuddling around, trying their phone at different angles before finally, in frustration, engaging the cashier in the following conversation:

"Did it work?"

"What work?"

"My app thingy."

"You mean your discount code?"

"Yes."

"Let me see . . . Yes, it worked."

And you thought the "Paper or plastic?" question got old.

This too, is a design flaw that a simple beep or bell or light would fix. 

Every time you see that pedestrians have worn a path through a lawn instead of sticking to the sidewalks, you're seeing evidence of design not working. My father was a transportation engineer who was fond of pointing out how design flaws were causing the traffic jams we were experiencing. He would say, "I'm sure it looked beautiful on the drafting board, but the engineer forgot to consider how actual people behave."

When I first started teaching, I set up our classroom as I would have a living room, thinking in terms of seating and "traffic flow," making sure the passageways were wide enough, that there were no places where one could get "trapped," and so forth. The reality I discovered once actual children were on the scene was that I'd created a race-track that said, quite clearly, "Run in circles," and that's what they did. After weeks of scolding the kids about running inside, I finally re-arranged the furniture and the behavior disappeared.

One of the aspects of the Reggio Emilia model for early years education that I think about often is the concept of the three teachers: 1) the adults, 2) the other children, and 3) the environment, which is where design comes in. Quite often, I've found that repeated troubling or trying behaviors have little to do with the children themselves and everything to do with an environment that forgot to consider how actual children behave. Things hanging from above tend to tell children, Jump or Swing or Hang. Long open areas say, Run. Echoey spaces say, Shout. Dark and confined says, Giggle and Whisper. Bright and busy creates a different vibe than muted and uncluttered. And design flaws are not limited to the physical space. Sometimes the aspect that needs tweaking has to do with the schedule or the expectations or even the school's philosophy, all of which I consider to be part of the children's environment as well.

This is the thinking behind my 6-week course, Creating a Natural Habitat for Learning. It's a tool to help educators, parents, and directors to think comprehensively about how your classrooms, homes, and playgrounds as a "third teacher" (see below). It's amazing how much as well-considered, adaptable, child-centric learning habitat can free you up to be the kind of educator or parent you always wanted to be.

Of course, it's not always about design flaws, but whenever I find myself forever correcting the same behavior over and over, I begin to suspect that's what it is. Instead of looking to change the child, I start by wondering how I can change the environment. It's amazing how often even a small change, like moving the furniture or replacing a handle with a push plate, can make all the difference in the world.

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If you're interested in transforming your own space into this kind of learning environment, you might want to join the 2024 cohort for my 6-week course, Creating a Natural Habitat for Learning. This is a  deep dive into transforming your classroom, home, or playground into the kind of learning environment in which young children thrive; in which novelty and self-motivation stand at the center of learning. In my decades as an early childhood educator, I've found that nothing improves my teaching and the children's learning experience more than a supportive classroom, both indoors and out. This course is for educators, parents, and directors. You don't want to miss this chance to make your "third teacher" (the learning environment) the best it can be. I hope you join me! To learn more and register, 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!

"How Many Times Have I Told You Not to Run in the Hallway?"

A friend recently purchased a new home. The first thing she did was paint the walls, because, as she said, the old color depressed her.

We all know that our surroundings can have a significant impact on how we feel and even behave. And this is even more true for young children.

A long unobstructed hallway “tells” children to run.

A mobile hanging from the ceiling says to jump, or climb, in order to reach it.

Furniture arranged in a circle suggests a race track.

A room that echoes, urges children to shout.

Sand and water say, "Dig!" and "Build bridges!"

In frustration, we say things like, “How many times have I told you not to run in the hallway?” because, indeed, we’ve said it countless times, while the hallway itself is telling children just the opposite. No wonder they often look so confused when we scold them.

Our classrooms, playgrounds, and homes are in constant communication with the children, but the best learning environments are ones that engage in a two-way dialog. 

As an educator, I begin my day before the children arrive, working with my environment – “the third teacher” – to make sure that we are on the same page. When we can offer children the kind of safe and beautiful place in which they are free to engage, in which the messages they receive are consistent, and where learning – not behavior – stands at the center, we are offering children what I call a natural habitat for learning.

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If you're interested in transforming your own space into this kind of learning environment, you might want to join the 2024 cohort for my 6-week course, Creating a Natural Habitat for Learning. This is a  deep dive into transforming your classroom, home, or playground into the kind of learning environment in which young children thrive; in which novelty and self-motivation stand at the center of learning. In my decades as an early childhood educator, I've found that nothing improves my teaching and the children's learning experience more than a supportive classroom, both indoors and out. This course is for educators, parents, and directors. You don't want to miss this chance to make your "third teacher" (the learning environment) the best it can be. I hope you join me! To learn more and register, 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!

"That Microscopic Utopia that is a Moment of Kindness"

The boy was on his knees, sobbing. I don't know why, but I also did nothing because there was already someone caring for him. Two people, in fact: girls, his classmates, children who rarely played with him, but down there with him nonetheless, hands lovingly across his shoulder, on his knee, talking soothingly into his ear.

When I first started writing this blog, I did it for myself, but as people started reading and responding, as I began to see my words and ideas impact people, and especially as I began to see that the profession of early childhood education is full of people who see the world, or the prospects of a world, the way I do, I got the idea that maybe I could make a difference in how children everywhere experience childhood.

Yes, I'm a utopian. Yes, I've experienced the reformer's zeal. Call me naive, but even as I look around and see that there have been as many steps back as there have been forward, I remain convinced that a more beautiful world is possible. The news discourages me, but my job, the time I spend amongst the newest humans, convinces me that utopia is possible.

In her memoir Recollections of My Non-Existence, Rebecca Solnit, writes of "that microscopic utopia that is a moment of kindness." People use the word "childish" to refer to adults who behave in petulant, self-centered ways, but these microscopic utopias are also, even mostly, what I've discovered during my decades on my knees with children. Another book by Solnit is A Paradise Built in Hell: The Extraordinary Communities that Arise in Disaster, in which she shines a spotlight on the countless examples of temporary, but real, utopias that predictably emerge in the aftermath of earthquakes, fires, floods, and other traumatic events. While we focus on the pain and suffering, we too often miss the kindness that is our greatest and most childish glory.

The utopias, heavens, and nirvanas of our imaginations are perfected places, impossible in a world in which our fellow humans so often find themselves on their knees, sobbing. But what I've learned from my years with children is not a destination, but rather an act of one human caring for another in their time of need. Actual utopia is created in moments of kindness.

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Just a heads up that we will be opening registration on Saturday for the 2024 cohort of my course Creating a Natural Habitat for Learning. This is a 6-week deep dive into transforming your classroom, home, or playground into the kind of learning environment in which young children thrive; in which novelty and self-motivation stand at the center of learning. In my decades as an early childhood educator, I've found that nothing improves my teaching and the children's learning experience more than a supportive classroom, both indoors and out. This course is for educators, parents, and directors. You don't want to miss this chance to make your "third teacher" (the learning environment) the best it can be. I hope you join me! To learn more and register, 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!

Novelty is the Essence of What it Means to Learn

Kleo

I often watch the Great British Bake Off, a competition show that good-naturedly pits amateur bakers against one another. I don't bake myself, but I find the show relaxing. After 13 seasons, there are no surprises, the jokes are predictably corny, and the contestants, hosts, and judges seem like kind, bland, well-intended people. Each episode runs about an hour. It's been years since I've made to the end of one before dozing off. In other words, it's a program I choose to watch when the goal is an early night.

Recently, however, I chose to watch a German revenge thriller called Kleo. I've never seen anything quite like it. It is complex and strange. I was so eager to know what was going to happen next that I was up half the night.

In other words, the first show tends to turn my brain off, while the second definitely turns my brain on. In the most basic vernacular, I would say that I've grown bored with the baking show, while the thriller offers me something new. There was a time when I found GBBO more stimulating, when I might watch several episodes back-to-back, but the novelty has worn off.

In Christine Caldwell's book Bodyfulness. She writes:

"Researchers have found that the learning process begins when the nervous system, which monitors our inner and outer environment largely below our awareness, senses a contrast . . . This novelty wakes up certain parts of the brain, which then focus attention on the new stimuli and gather sensory data about that new thing . . . if it creates a contrast with what we are used to, then our conscious brain lights up and we start focusing our senses toward that new experience. We consciously take in the new experiential data, and if we feel sufficiently drawn to it or emotionally invested in it, we will commit this new experience to memory, which is another way of saying that we have just learned something. This also explains why we have difficulty learning things that we don't care about."

Novelty is an under appreciated aspect of how humans are designed to learn. I often think about how I learned to drive a car. As a 16-year-old, I really cared about learning to drive. The first time I got behind the wheel of our family car, however, I nearly drove into a ditch. In the beginning, the novelty, or contrast with what I was used to, was rather extreme. I had to concentrate on everything -- which pedal to press, operating the turn indicator, my speed and direction. But as I committed these new experiences to memory, as I learned to drive, I found that I needed to commit less and less conscious attention to the routine tasks to the point that I could carry on conversations, fret about homework deadlines, or anticipate the weekends. Some people have become so "bored" with the process that they text message or watch videos while driving. It's such a problem, in fact, that we spend millions a year on public service campaigns designed to remind people to pay attention as they drive.

We are constantly surveying our environments in search of novelty. Our first filter is whether or not the new thing poses a danger. After that, however, our next filter is whether or not this new thing is in some way relevant to us. Is it interesting? Confusing? Exciting? Useful? Is this new thing or stimuli or experience or person something I want or need to understand or learn more about? If so, then learning is a natural self-motivated process. 

If our brains determine it is not relevant, however, which is the case with a large percentage of the crap we're taught in school, then learning becomes a heavy lift for both teachers and children. Since we've decided that the hierarchy gets to decide what the children must learn, and by when, we drain the process of the natural motivation triggered by novelty and relevancy. We then have to refill it with a system of rewards and punishments. We scold teachers to to make otherwise boring stuff "relevant," pitting them against Mother Nature. And worst of all, when a child can't learn what we want them to learn, we set them to tasks of mind numbing repetition and rote memorization.

School is not typically set up around the concept of novelty. On the contrary, our idea of school tends to be one of predictability and uniformity. Even our curricula tend to be based on the idea of slowly building learning one step at a time, meaning that we rarely create the contrasts that our brains are designed to seek out as opportunities to learn. This is probably why children seem most "alive" (often interpreted as misbehavior) when the tedium is interrupted by field trips, substitute teachers, or broken water mains. It also probably explains why recess is many children's favorite part of the day: this is the one part of their day where they are free to pursue novelty, not as a break from learning, but as the essence of what it means to learn.

What if instead our schools were set up as environments in which novelty was allowed to fulfill its natural role in learning? What if our classrooms, playgrounds, and other learning environments were beautiful, child-centric places in which children were free to explore, through their curiosity, the contrasts that motivate them? These are among the questions we will be asking ourselves in the 2024 cohort of my course for educators, parents, and directors called Creating a Natural Habitat for Learning (click the link to learn more and register). What if we allowed learning to be the natural self-motivated process is was meant to be?

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Just a heads up that we will be opening registration on Saturday for the 2024 cohort of my course Creating a Natural Habitat for Learning. This is a 6-week deep dive into transforming your classroom, home, or playground into the kind of learning environment in which young children thrive; in which novelty and self-motivation stand at the center of learning. In my decades as an early childhood educator, I've found that nothing improves my teaching and the children's learning experience more than a supportive classroom, both indoors and out. This course is for educators, parents, and directors. You don't want to miss this chance to make your "third teacher" (the learning environment) the best it can be. I hope you join me! To learn more and register, 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!

What I Learned from Candyland

When I was a preschooler, I'd beg my mother to play the board games with me -- Candyland, Chutes & Ladders, Hi-Ho Cheerio -- games in which skill was not pitted against skill, but rather luck against luck.

Mom was a good sport, but she was grateful when my younger brother was finally old enough to play with me. Any adult who has ever played any of these games knows the feeling. They are all frustrating, meaningless, pointless exercises in which the draw of a card, the roll of a die, or the vagaries of a spinner can, from one moment to the next, send you right back to the starting line. In theory, these games can go on forever, and, for adults, they often feel like they do.

To mom's credit, she never complained, although I understand now why she was so eager to teach us card and other games in which skill, strategy, and experience played a part. And that's probably why my memories of playing those games are all positive, explaining why I, as a parent, fell so easily into the the mistake of introducing our daughter to these games in which the thrill of winning is replaced by fervent prayers against bad luck.

Some games of Candyland would last literally for hours. Time and again, one of us would, turn-after-tedious-turn, move our little gingerbread markers toward the ultimate goal only to, crushingly, be sent back to square one. It was the myth of Sisyphus in microcosm, the players doomed to roll that damned boulder to the top of the hill only to have it, each time, roll back to the bottom . . . for eternity! 

These board games wound up in the preschool, where they made regular appearances in the classroom, although my instruction to the other adults in the room was that they didn't have to play the game with the children unless they, and the children, really wanted to. I only asked that they keep an eye on the game parts so that at the end of the day we could return them all to the their proper boxes. Occasionally, an adult would take on the challenge of participating, only to discover the same grind of meaninglessness that both my mother and I had encountered. 

One day a group of four-year-olds set themselves up for a round of adult-less Candyland. One of them had played the game before, so took on the role of explaining the rules and managing the turn-taking. I was only half paying attention, but was surprised when, moments later, a winner was declared. What good luck, I thought. Then a few minutes later, another winner, followed by eager chatter about playing again.

This time I paid attention and quickly understood. They were simply ignoring the bad luck. No one had to go back to square one, no one had to miss a turn, and everyone was allowed to take the shortcuts. They even played a round with only one gingerbread man pawn, all of them sharing in the journey to the candy castle. They even moved the piece together, each of them pinching a little arm or leg or head to move it forward to the next colored square.

In the big game of life, no one wins or loses. In the end it's always a draw. It's always the myth of Sisyphus, pushing the boulder up the hill until the game is over. That's how my mother and adult me had experienced Candyland, but as I watched these kids play with one another, I realized why children keep coming back: playing with others is the only way to make and find meaning in life. It is the play, not the winning or losing, that matters. 

These kids understood, in their hearts if not their heads, that what they were doing was not trivial or frivolous, and it certainly was not meaningless. When we play with one another it is the only time that we truly come together as free people. These children had chosen to play together and choosing to play together, whatever we play together, is the the definition of human freedom. That is how we make our lives have meaning, which is the only way anyone has ever won.

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Registration is now open for the 2024 cohort of my course Creating a Natural Habitat for Learning. This is a 6-week deep dive into transforming your classroom, home, or playground into the kind of learning environment in which young children thrive. This course is for educators  parents, and directors. You don't want to miss this chance to make your "third teacher" (the learning environment) the best it can be. I hope you join me! To register and to learn more, 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!