Sacred Circles

There's an elderly man who walks in circles every morning in the small park near my home.

Last year, the parks and rec department built a large stone circle near the playground equipment, about the size of a tether ball court. Even before that, this man walked in circles in that same spot every morning. I don't know how he knew to walk there. For all I know the circle was built because he walks there.

He also exercises there, stretches and the like, in that circle, usually standing somewhere around the edge, but sometimes in the center, ritualistically going through his daily routine.

For a time last summer a pair of women joined him, about his age. The women voicelessly imitated everything he did as he ran though the workout, finishing with walking the circle, not particularly briskly. I imagine they were relatives visiting, but whatever the case I haven't seen them with him in awhile.

I've written before about Seattle Center's International Fountain, a piece of public art that I hold in high esteem. This massive fountain is shaped as a deep bowl, at the bottom of which is a huge silver dome that spouts water, most often choreographed to go with various musical soundtracks. I read a story one time about the guy who programs the system built in the early 1960's. He has to shimmy into the dome itself like into a crawl space. I love that about it.

I also love that it's a place for the people of Seattle to play. It doesn't have to be a warm day to find people running up and down the steep concrete slopes, getting doused as they try to dodge the water plumes. But the meaning of this circular fountain is deeper than that. Last weekend, on a morning when there really wasn't much going on at Seattle Center, I stopped by the fountain. There were several dozen of us there, spread out around it's circumference, our eyes drawn to the common center, our bodies drawn there with our backs to the world, looking inward, together.

I once heard an interview with landscape architect Richard Haag, the chief designer of Gasworks Park at the north end of Lake Union, around which I live. It's an unusual park because it really shows no public face, but rather is more or less sealed off from view until you fully enter it, enclosed by trees to the north and water on its other sides. As Haag described his original vision he spoke of how cultures around the world consider these inward looking, circular spaces to be sacred.

When we play with circles yesterday in preschool, I thought of the old man who walks in circles, of the International Fountain, of Gasworks Park, of these and other circles in the day-to-day world. Circles are more than mere shapes: they are, I think, the shape, not just of man, but of nature, of life. Circles are indeed sacred. I don't think it's an accident that of all the infinite number of shapes possible, the circle is the one almost all children learn to recognize first. We sometimes argue about squares, triangles and rectangles, not to mention pentagons, hexagons, and octagons, but we all agree about circles. 

We provide precious few instructions for children when it comes to using art materials, but I'd expected our Pre-3 class to use our lid collection to make circular prints on paper, knowing that for some, as always, it would become a finger painting project, yet as they played several of them began to create their own circle. Without speaking, without words, they painted themselves up to the elbows, meditative about the the process of paint mixing on their skin, then taking themselves to our water filled sensory table to wash off, only to return to the art table where they painted themselves again.

Around and around they went, finding a sacred circle of washing and cleaning washing and cleaning. Around and around: a sacred circle.

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I Got Up And Went Someplace Else

I was looking for a way to be useful yesterday and plopped myself down on the carpet between Cai and Audrey, each of whom seemed to have been playing in their own little worlds for quite some time. I thought maybe they needed me, if only as a playmate. 

Audrey had collected a number of animal figures, which she had arranged together in a single room of a doll house with which she played. 

I picked up a zebra saying, "I have a zebra for your house."

She looked from the zebra I held in my fingers, to my face, to her doll house. She said, "I already have a zebra," then returned to her game.

I reclined myself on the rug and rolled toward Cai. He was playing with a parking garage, repeatedly making a soft, high pitched sound. I said, "I hear a siren! It's an emergency," trying to join in his game.

He stopped, looked at me blankly for a moment, then smiled as if he suspected me of a joke, "It's not a siren." He then went back to making his sound while pushing cars on the ramps.

I then noticed Audrey standing beside me. Sometimes kids use adults as an avenue by which to enter into play with another child. I thought I'd help that along. I said to Audrey, "I thought Cai had an emergency, but I was wrong." It was then that I realized that she wasn't looking at Cai, but rather at me where I sprawled out on the floor, and I got the idea that I was in her way. "Do you want me to move?"

She answered, "Yes," so I sat up, curling my legs under me. She then went to Cai and asked, "Do you need to go to the hospital?" He answered, "Yes, I'm crashed," handing her one of his cars, which she then carried to her doll house. It was then that I noticed a collection of cars tucked into another room of the house.

I got up and went someplace else.

I found River and Calder in what appeared to be a conflict over a toy "boulder." Oh good, I thought, I can be useful here and took a seat beside them.

Calder had lowered his brows fiercely and in a steady, firm voice said, "I want it . . . please."

River answered, "I'll give it to you when I'm finished with it."

"But you'll take a long time."

There were several other boulders scattered around the rug. This was not a one-of-a-kind item. I said, "I see more boulders over there."

The boys looked at me blankly for a moment, interrupted in their negotiations.

River then turned to Calder and said, "I'll take a short time."

And Calder answered, "Thank you."

I got up and went someplace else.

Connor was playing alone in the corner of the rug with another of our parking garage toys. He looked frustrated, muttering intensely as he attempted to wrest or push or otherwise force something to move that wasn't moving. I dropped to my knees, thinking I could at least use my superior physical strength to dislodge whatever was lodged in there. "Your cars are stuck."

"The cars aren't stuck, Teacher Tom, they're having a traffic jam. That's why they have to drive slow."

"Your face looks frustrated."

"It's a traffic jam."

I got up and went someplace else.

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Two Roads Diverged

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

~Robert Frost 

I was talking the other evening with a man about 15 years my senior with whom I've chatted on an irregular basis for the past decade. I don't know him well. Most of our relationship is based on sidewalk conversations about politics, although this time we were talking about a mutual acquaintance. I mentioned her career aspirations and he responded by telling me that, as a young man, he'd been accepted into the Air Force Academy, but had turned it down, in part because the Vietnam War was such "a horrible mess," but mostly, it seems, for lack of enthusiasm. 

"I could be a retired fighter pilot right now. It's funny how your whole life is changed by decisions that seem so little at the time."

I said what you're supposed to say, reminding him of the life that would not have been had he opted for the Air Force. "Exactly," he said, "I would have probably died in Vietnam. Still, you wonder."

The road not taken calls us all, although speaking for myself, I didn't always stand long and look as far as I could. Impetuosity drove most of the major turning point decisions of my life. I was young. It's in the nature of youth to leap. That's the way we're designed. If by some strange magic we could arrange life by which we got to make all our big choices in the ripeness of our maturity, nothing would ever happen: we'd all still be living in basement apartments in our parents' homes.

But I know what this would-be-retired-fighter-pilot was talking about. I sometimes wonder what might have been had I, say, not turned in my baseball cleats after a senior year in which I'd struggled at the plate, shrugging it off as not fun anymore. One guy I played with back then wound up with a Major League career. We weren't that far apart back then: that could have been me.

Of course, had I gone that way, I could also be dead, but who knows? I might also be a great and humble Hall of Famer who then chose to spend the 20 years of his retirement in a second career as a preschool teacher in Seattle with the exact same family I have now!

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference. 

As the parent of a teenager, I'm quite conscious these days of the decisions I made around her age that set me on the path of my life. She seems more clear sighted than I was, but really, no one can see beyond where it bends in the undergrowth. The parents of one of her friends recently complained of her son's perceived lack of direction, rolling her eyes, "He told my husband and me that we had it all wrong: he says we need to learn to not take everything so seriously." I didn't say it, but from where I sit a half century in, the kid's got it about right. Youth is the time to follow passions; to chase dreams. You've got nothing to lose and everything to gain. Believe me, there will be plenty of time later to worry about paying bills.

Whether road less traveled or no, we must each be left to make our own decisions when we come to those turning points. It's foolishness to suggest that the wisdom of age has any advantage over youthful impetuosity: a clear sight behind ourselves sheds no special light on the path that lies ahead of another. And besides, if there's anything I've learned, it's that the measure of a life well-lived is not calculated in the rightness of decisions, because in the long run it always comes down to the flip of a coin. No, the better part of living well means making decisions, embracing them, then making a life of the consequences. It's only in knowing this that we old folks have something to teach the kids, and even then most of what they learn of it is by watching how we live with the consequences of our own decisions.

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You'll See This Is True

Remember then: there is only one time that is important -- Now! It is the most important time because it is the only time when we have any power. The most necessary man is he with whom you are . . . and the most important affair is to do him good, because for that purpose alone was man sent into this life!  ~Leo Tolstoy

Increasingly, I spend my time watching children play. They already know everything worth knowing about the meaning of life. 

The things we feel we need to teach them are about mere survival. 

They already know about Now.

They already know that the most important person is the one at their side.

And they already know that helping the other people is the reason they are here.

Get out of their way, watch them, and you'll see this is true.

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Regarding Your Opponent As An Ally

Victory can only be claimed with both sides can say the same. ~Ghandi

Regard your opponent as a potential ally. ~Ghandi

Jack was sitting in a Playhut cube on top of a pile of giant plastic insects. In fact, it was a pile of all the giant plastic insects. He’d collected them while the other children were busy elsewhere and now he was “using” them.

Earlier in the day Charlie had developed an attachment to the giant grasshopper. When he spotted his prized insect in Jack’s pile he did what most young 3-year-olds would do: reached in and grabbed it.

This apparently wasn’t the first attempt by a child to separate Jack from his collection, and having learned to be vigilant, he laid a firm hand on the grasshopper as well, letting out a fierce wail.

Not to be deterred, Charlie held on, saying softly, “I want it.”

It’s a scene played out daily in preschools around the world. Sometimes it’s a child who uses all the blocks and simply can’t spare any for other builders. Sometimes it’s a play dough horder or a plastic fork aggregator or a baby doll adopter. The common characteristic is that while they may have acquired these monopolies fairly, they aren’t playing with the toys as much as simply defending them. It may have been fun cornering the market, but the joy is lost in the serious game of protecting the pile.

We’ve all found ourselves, often inexplicably, backed into a corner, defending an untenable position. As adults it usually involves knowing that we’ve lost the argument, but being unable in our emotional state to admit it, we get louder, less reasonable, and bent on changing the subject to something we can be right about. We find ourselves chosing to be miserable rather than admit to being wrong. The only way out of it is time for reflection (followed by an act of contrition) or better yet, an “opponent” who offers us a safe landing place.

I put my hand on the grasshopper and stated, “Jack had this grasshopper first.” Charlie released his grip, but not without saying again, “I want it.”

Jack tucked the grasshopper firmly under his knee. He was clearly miserable, which is the natural state of anyone protecting a hoard. Charlie was upset at not attaining his prized grasshopper, which is the natural state of the disappointed.

I described the situation as clearly as I could: “Jack has all the bugs. Charlie wants to play with the grasshopper.” I had no idea what was going to happen next. After making the statement, I just let it hang there.

We all sat in the silence. Jack’s insects were no longer under attack, which must have given him enough emotional breathing space to move out of the corner into which he’d retreated. After a moment, Jack pulled the grasshopper from under his knee and handed it to Charlie. Charlie beamed. Jack beamed back at him. Charlie then climbed into the Playhut cube with Jack and they sat there together for several minutes, still beaming, handing out giant plastic insects to whoever asked.

Ghandi is often said to have devised the “win-win” model of conflict resolution. There is no better win than one that makes your opponent your ally. Win-win feels good and when we feel good, we do good.

(This may be totally unrelated, but I suspect not.) Later in the day, Peter removed himself from the classroom and sat on the steps just outside the door. He looked sad. I went to sit beside him and Charlie followed me. I said, “Peter, you look sad.”

He answered something about a friend, but I didn’t quite make it out. Before I could ask him to repeat it, Charlie took Peter by the hand, walked him through the classroom, and up the stairs into our loft. Charlie put his hands on the side and started jumping up and down. Peter, smiling, started jumping beside him.

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Gathering Leaves In The Fall

One of my Fall traditions is to go hunting for leaves to use in various ways in the classroom. Our outdoor classroom has some nice trees, but they're cedars and lilacs, neither of which produce the exciting colors of the season. I like to have some color around, even if it's just to form into piles for jumping.

Some years I've driven around the city with big, black garbage bags on the seat beside me, scanning what canopy we have in the city for bursts of yellow, red, orange and purple, stopping and scooping up armfuls of the seasonal vegetation. Other times I've taken my bags for walks with the dogs through our city's incredible parks, especially the arboretum, where the variety is spectacular. This year, I made a couple hikes around The Center of the Universe with the kids, setting our pirate and princess play aside to "ooh" and "ahh" as if watching a fireworks display. I'm always inspired by the enthusiasm young children, in a world of toys advertised on TV, for such a simple thing as leaves.

The leaves, especially the maple leaves, have been particularly beautiful this season, mottled with a tie-dye of brilliant hues. Of course, it could be that they always look like this, made the "best ever" simply by virtue of being before my eyes again after a year's wait. But others have commented on it this year as well, which I don't remember from years past: "I've never seen leaves so vibrant." But then the next word out of their mouths, invariably, as been, "It's probably because we had such a long drought this summer." I don't know if there is a connection between the colors and the weather, although it seems like a logical theory.

The weather on our planet it changing and it is largely due to the activities of humans. The severity of storms is increasing, temperature and precipitation records are being broken around the globe, people are dying, ways of life are being destroyed. The US seems to be the only major nation on Earth that is in denial about that because we've allowed ourselves to be propagandized by nihilistic ideologues. Our city recently banned the use of plastic grocery bags and is charging a tax for every paper bag used by customers, simply in the common sense effort to get people in the habit of using re-usable rather than energy consuming disposable bags, yet there are those calling us commies or "freedom haters" for the effort. 

Our city has placed an emphasis on getting people to consider bicycle commuting, working to make it an easier and safer option. Yet there are those, like the man who a couple weeks ago tried to run me off the road, then rolled down his window to say, "I'm sick of you cyclists. Roads are for cars. Next time I see you I'll kill you." I was so shocked I didn't think to get the license plate number before he zoomed off toward the freeway ramp that would take him out of the city on his long daily commute to where he lives some ridiculous distance from where he works.

Our entire presidential election has taken place over the course, really, of a year and a half, punctuated by a "Frankenstorm." Neither candidate, in all those months, has even mentioned climate change, which is a crime given that the US, of all nations, is the single most responsible for the environmental irresponsibility that has brought us to this Fall with bizarrely colored leaves. I'd like to blame the politicians, but damn it, they both made the calculation that we wouldn't vote for them in large enough numbers if they told the truth about ourselves.

I'm not a screaming, radical environmentalists who dreams of an earthly Pandora. I'm just a guy who believes in science and wants clean air to breath, clean water to drink, and a future in which my child and grandchildren can gather leaves in the Fall. 

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!

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These Artistic Pioneers

I've used a 2-inch circle saw to cut a couple rather large holes in the bottom of our sand pit row boat, but the water still isn't draining from it. It must be that the sand beneath it has become so compacted that the water can't get through. This has not turned out to be a problem for the kids, especially the older ones, who are treating it like a huge mud puddle.

Over the last week, they've been positioning some long planks, first as wobbly bridges that shifted and tipped as the kids crossed them, then as a kind of teeter totter catapult, which they've used to launch buckets of water into the air by jumping on one end, hoping to land them in the giant puddle.

These photos really don't do justice to the kind of "risk taking" that was taking place.

It's the kind of wild, outdoor play that borders on too dangerous, with the the planks constantly shifting on their pivots as 2, 3, 4 and more children balance along them, constantly redistributing their weight along its length causing sudden tips this way and that. No one has gotten hurt, although a couple have taken seats in the puddle. We adults have been monitoring the play closely, expecting, I think to spy something beyond the pale, but instead seeing kids playing right on the edge of their physical capabilities, which is where, frankly, we always learn the most.

I mentioned yesterday that a couple of the children have been talking about the methods of artist Andy Goldsworthy, and in another recent post how Duncan taught us about the painting techniques of Jackson Pollack, which we interpreted as paint throwing. It was time, I thought, to try a hand at inventing our own way of making a painting, based upon the game the children had invented.

As the kids had been doing, we set our longest plank over a log so that it tipped like a teeter totter, then positioned a pieces of canvas under one end. We then added a splash of paint to some large yoghurt containers and swished in some water. (I suppose this would have produced a more spectacular finished product had we used undiluted paint, but we don't have the budget for that!) Putting a container on the canvas end of the plank we invited the kids to jump on the other end.

I had anticipated that they would use the ground as their starting point, but they opted instead to jump off a nearby table, queuing up for the opportunity, launching the paint into the air, often several feet into the air, sending plumes of color across the canvas. We quickly realized that much of the paint was being lost on the plank itself, so we added a second sheet of canvas over the top of the plank as well.

At first we were launching one yoghurt container at a time, but soon the children were requesting 2 and 3.

After a full hour, during which the teeter totter catapult was in continual use, we had three soaking wet, but wonderful canvases, created by a method that as far as I can tell was invented by the children of Woodland Park, these artistic pioneers.

We left the canvases draped over tables outdoors. The last two days of rain has washed them clean. I guess we'll be doing it again today.

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!

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