Planks!

Last week, the four and five year olds discovered our long, wooden planks. People often insist that our outdoor space is anchored by the cast iron water pump set in the upper level of a two level sand pit, and that is probably the feature the kids mention most, but I'd say that our planks are every bit as important to how we play together outdoors.

Six to ten feet long, there are a half dozen of them out there. I like that they're unwieldy, usually requiring at least two kids to move from place to place, which means they're usually found in the midst of high level cooperative play.

This wasn't the first time they've been used as seesaw-style "catapults," but it's the first time I've seen this sort of set up, involving three planks, side-by-side over a single pvc pipe fulcrum. 

They were filling buckets with water, setting them on one end of the plank, then launching the water into the air, sometimes dramatically, by jumping on the raised end. It was one of those magnificent activities in which they engaged in an ongoing negotiation with one another, disagreeing and agreeing as part of the natural flow of play.

Making it even more challenging was the fact that they had set things up adjacent to the swings, which were in pretty much constant use the entire time. I made a few informational statements, like, "The swings are almost hitting you," and "If you moved everything over that way a little you wouldn't be so close to the swings." 

A couple of the kids took the time to sort of visually acknowledge what I was saying, but obviously they didn't assess the risk as I did, and, to their credit no one was bumped, although there were a few close calls. The swingers occasionally took a splash of water on their backs, but none complained.

Meanwhile, a couple of other planks had been dragged over to the short flight of stairs at the top of our space. One of them had been set on the stairs like a ramp and the kids were taking turns using it as a sort of downhill "trampoline," bouncing their way from the top of the stairs to the bottom.

Beside that, the second plank had been wedged under the gate, allowing it to cantilever out over the stairs, which they were using as a "diving board."

It was almost as if they had set up a beginner and advanced version of the game. Most of the kids started out testing themselves on the inclined board, only moving on to the "high dive" once they'd mastered the low one.

Between these two impromptu plank-play stations as many as a dozen kids were involved, doing things together that have never been done under the sun.

This wasn't about risk taking, although there was some of that in both the catapult and bouncy board play. This was, like most thing are when groups of young children come together with time, space, and materials with which to play, a full-body social and scientific engagement, the sort of things to get lost in with your friends, which is a place of deep learning.

As we were wrapping up at the end of the day, I mentioned that one could use these "catapults" for painting, which, as I was hoping, was met with enthusiasm, so on the following day, we re-set the rig in our art area.

We employed the kids pvc fulcrum technique, then lay a piece of canvas across the planks.

We were using secondary colors, mostly because that's what we have the most of in our storage room at present, and diluting it with a lot of water in yoghurt containers.

The kids queued up on their own. When it was their turn to jump off the table onto the raised end of the plank, they were offered a choice about where on the plank the projectable paint was to be positioned.

Through a process of trial, error, and observation, the kids soon figured out that the most spectacular results, meaning the most flying paint, resulted from placing the container at the farthest end of the plank.

In the end of all this plank play, we wound up with no injuries, at least of the sort that rose to the level of adult involvement, and only one broken plank: the diving board cracked mid-jump.

The school year is young. I reckon we'll lose a few more along the way. I can't wait to figure out how we're going to break them.

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Something New To Add To The System

I really like working in the classroom with the parents of my students. They teach me as much as the kids.

"It's pink."

I worry sometimes that I'll somehow become calcified over time. When I first started teaching 14 years ago, I joked to parents, the owners of our school, "Shape me now, because before long I'll think I know everything." I've long been trying to somehow inoculate myself against it, by thinking about it from the very start.

"I'm doing some pumpkin."

I'm so enjoying my workmates these first few weeks of school, looking forward to seeing them almost as much as the children. Perhaps most of all, I appreciate how they help me de-calcify. 

"Dinosaur. It's a meat eater."

Honestly, I do think I know the best way to do things. Ask my wife. I'm either really good at, or annoying about, "systems." That's right: systems. Around the house, I've "engineered" all our shopping, cooking, laundry, and for what they're worth, cleaning systems, which function for us -- at least I have no complaints, perhaps because I take responsibility for making the systems work. I tend to do the same thing around the school, creating systems, which is mostly a good thing, but does also trend over time in the direction of calcification. 

"Just all green."

"Just all green again."

Parents decalcify me by making me realize ways to improve the "system," usually through their own enthusiasm for working with the kids.

"Bloss."

For instance, I think I know everything about how an art station should work, but last week a parent, on her own initiative, took the time to record what some of the three-year-olds had to say about their watercolor paintings. It's not the first time that's happened, of course, I've often discovered notes scribbled across the bottom of artwork, especially when a child really goes deep, but we've never made it a regular part of what we do. And why not? I have an "art parent" there every day escorting the kids through their processes. How hard would it be to just ask them to jot down any pertinent quotes from the kids about their thoughts or intentions or process or discoveries? Something new to add to the system.

"So many colors."

As a teacher, these meager snippets provide insight into intention, inquiry, and process. As a parent, I imagine these words leading to conversations about a child's day. What does "bloss" mean? Where did all those colors go? Who are is you?

"That's you!"

Yes, the kids keep it fresh, but so do the parents, maybe because it's all just as new to them, and in turn they keep me from calcifying in my systems, which is a perfect inoculation against calcification. Just another reason I love working in a cooperative.

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"Unscripted" Costumes

Costume play has always been a fairly significant part of life at Woodland Park, or rather, I should say we have a lot of magnificent gowns and crowns, and we have an assortment of capes, all of which get quite a bit of use in the expected ways, while our animal, vocational, and other costume bits tend to get the short shrift. 

Among those bits that haven't been fully "discovered" are some colorful pieces made by an Icelandic company called Fafu. Unlike the other costumes that lend themselves fairly unequivocally to princess and super hero play, these are a sort of blank-slate approach to children's dress-up clothing. You might say they're "unscripted" costumes. Check out their website to see what I mean. I really like the quality of their stuff. Some of the felt pieces have endured outdoors in our wet climate for two years. And Fafu has, in my view, consistently demonstrated a strong commitment to children and creating high-quality, play-based environments for them.

All of us adults are enchanted by these Fafu items and over the years, many of our two-year-olds have allowed themselves to be dolled up in them, but when the older kids are making their own choices, they've almost always gone for the scripted stuff. 

We've started this year, however, engaged in a sort of informal experiment with our environment. We've removed the scripted costumes from the room, leaving only these unscripted Fafu creations. 

I'm planning to let the experiment run at least through October, possibly through the end of the year, depending on what transpires.

Being less than a month into the school year, it's too early to draw any conclusions, of course, but I am watching a few things already. 

Typically, I would have expected full-on princess play by now, at least with the older girls, with some amount of competition over the most prized dresses, and some amount of bonding over favorite Disney characters. I've heard no mention of Frozen.

Typically, I would have expected full-on super hero play by now, at least with the older boys, with some amount of intensive classroom discussion about the "rules" that go with that sort of play, and bonding over favorite Marvel or DC characters. I've heard no mention of Spiderman.

It may well be a coincidence, of course, the fact that we've started our year without princesses and super heroes. I have nothing against either, but it's interesting nonetheless.

Instead, these Fafu costumes have been used more as toys or enhancements to the regular flow of play. Yesterday, a group of boys donned some of the felt hats and hands and got a little wild dancing and just generally messing with each other. A couple of girls, both big time princess players in the past, put on the hats and hands to explore the coffee beans in our sensory table, challenging themselves to engage in fine motor manipulation without the full use use of their fingers. There have been more costumed animals than we've had in the past, like frogs and octopi and sharks. And the younger children have been using the "hats" for carrying collections of small objects around the room.

Interesting, huh?

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Without Hesitation, Beaming

He was playing with our classroom baoding balls, a pair of those Chinese meditation balls that we keep nestled in a fancy box. They're special things by virtue of that box, of being shiny, and of being a scarce resource.

A young three-year-old, he was delighting in opening the box, fondling the balls, shaking them to make them chime, then returning them to their velvety nesting place.

She is also a young three-year-old. Spying the boy playing with the balls, she made a grab for them saying, "I want that." It wasn't an aggressive act as much as an assertive one, a direct, impulsive, logical way to cross the bridge between her desire and its attainment.

He reacted instantly in defense of his treasure, slamming the lid of the box with one hand while fending off her outreached one with the other.

In a flash, their hands were in one another's faces, him a silent defender, her shouting, "I want it!"

I moved my body between them in such a way to end the fisticuffs, placing a hand on the box, while allowing each of them to keep their own hands on it. Just the day before, the children had begun making their own classroom rules, one of which was "no hitting." I said, "I saw you hitting each other. We all agreed, no hitting."

"I want it."

"We also all agreed, 'no taking things from other people.'" I nodded toward the list of rules we've taped to the classroom wall, drawing both of their attentions toward it. I then added, "He had the balls in his hands. I saw you try to take them."

She removed her hand from the box, saying, "But I want them."

"If you want them, you can ask him for them, but we all agreed you can't just take them."

"I want them."

"If you want them, you can him ask for them."

"I want them."

"If you want them, you can ask him for them."

Meanwhile, he was clutching the box tightly, shooting a rather severe face in her direction.

After three repetitions, she got it, finally speaking directly to her colleague, "Can I please have one?"

Without hesitation, he opened the box and handed her one of the balls. Without hesitation, beaming.

Another girl who had been observing the interaction asked, "Can I please have one too?"

Again, without hesitation, he opened the box and handed her the second ball. Without hesitation, beaming. Then he turned and without a word, only a smile, showed everyone his empty box.

I walked away then, wanting to just get out of their way, almost overwhelmed by the epiphanous dawn I felt growing within me. What had I just been a part of? When commanded, he fought with ferociousness; when asked, he gave in joy. It was as if I'd been standing with the soul of mankind or something.

I've been reflecting hard on this moment for the past week or so. You don't need to read here long to know that when commanded or demanded or coerced I tend, as this boy did, as most of us do, to react in opposition, to put my hand in the face of my perceived tormentor. But what has happened to the other side? Living in the city, for instance, I'm asked every day, often dozens of times a day, for one of my metaphorical meditation balls, yet I too rarely hand it over, and even when I do it's not usually with the fully open-heart I saw at school last week. I'm sure I once had it because I can find vestiges of the emotion within me. Where did it go?

I want to blame "society," of course, that convenient scapegoat for all the world's ills, telling myself it would be much easier if everyone could just become enlightened at the same time. There's a fear there that stops me, I guess, one that makes me recoil at that idea of scarcity, of that empty box: that if I give it away I'll wind up with nothing. Yet here was this boy, joyful in his empty box, beaming, a true possessor of everything, while I suffer in my lack of faith in my fellow man, myself, and the universe.

Is this simply part of the curse of growing older and wiser? In having developed the capacity to worry about more than the immediate future, am I robbed of the profound joy of an empty box? I reckon so, to a certain extent, although I'm also aware that this is not the end of my road, at least I hope it's not. There is even greater wisdom ahead, I'm sure, and I'm thinking I'd be served for the time being to keep looking for it in that empty box.

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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