Showing posts with label aesthetic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label aesthetic. Show all posts

Thursday, 16 July 2015

walking in place: footsteps in the forest

An ecological identity is driven by a sense of wonder, the sheer delight in being alive in a mysterious, beautiful world. David Orr, Ecological Literacy
A group of students crouch to inspect the large family of mushrooms that emerged since our last walk to the big stump, only days before. This tree has been a stump for years now, but the children know it as a living thing, where plant and insect life is always found tucked in around its edges.

My son's friend holds a very patient toad that we found in a dry creek bed section of nearby Etobicoke Creek.
My daughter and I splash our feet in the water beneath the waterfall on the creek, upstream from where we found the toad. A week later, after heavy rains, we can't access this spot due to the high, rushing water. Our relationship with the creek means we come to expect the changes, and also anticipate what creatures we might see: a glossy mink, a stalky night-heron, dabbling ducks.

   There are many ways to go to explore the beautiful Kortright Centre grounds, but it is this path that slopes steeply into the treed valley that always calls me first. Inviting in every season.



On May 23rd I attended an event, a day so touching and magical it seems wrong to call it by its proper title, "conference". This was a gathering of educators inspired by forest school teaching, outdoor education, Reggio-inspired pedagogy, and by the incredible author, Ann Pelo. It was in the middle of a very busy week, chalk-filled with exciting events that took me far and wide around Southern Ontario. There'd been a small dinner gathering of friends of the York Region Nature Collaborative (YRNC) on the evening before the conference, a fantastic trip with my teacher partner to visit the "Artists at the Centre" exhibit, and a delightful gathering of educators at Sunflower School's "Mystery of Materials" conference in Orangeville on the following weekend. As such it only remained a fond memory, a collection of images, tweets and videos shared once home (where the wifi is), until I was finally able to review the penciled notes I'd take that evening. My few notes brought back the sights and smells even stronger than the photos had - it was a full-bodied sensory experience of wonder, connection, and joy. Those notes begin the story as it unfolds, below.

Today was a timeless sort of day. It arrived after much anticipation, as I'd long been looking forward to this opportunity to hear Ann Pelo speak again. Last year I'd been so moved by her keynote address at the #BECS2014 "Unhurried Conference" at Charles Sturt University where she showed slides and read snippets of her beautiful book "The Goodness of Rain". Her book sold out that day, and as I was unable to obtain a copy, I decided to wait until her next visit so that I could purchase and have the book signed. Wanting to connect with her words, recently I delved back into her earlier book "The Language of Art" which is one of those transformational reads that seems to get deeper and more meaningful with every reading. I felt so connected to her message at last year's conference: teach with open heart, open ears, and open mind. Then to re-read the description of the atelier, a place to be mindful of every action and every material, to celebrate beauty and expression, it was almost too much to bear waiting.

As I arrived this morning, I drove up the long winding driveway to the Kortright Centre with the windows rolled down in spite of the chill in the air. I wanted to smell the air, feel the moisture, and hear the sounds in the hills around me. The Kortright Cente is a special place for me, a place I've been going for many years though it's not close to home, a place I love even more these last 14 years that I've had kids to share it with. Last year's event, “A Family Adventure Walk in the Forest” in October 2014, also hosted by the YRNC (which I am proud to support in any way I can) was one of the most magical days I've ever spent with children, and that's taking into account my baker's dozen years of teaching Kindergarten. I had the privilege of hosting one of the stations that day, a place to celebrate my passion for "looking closely". Mine was the pile of dirt with sticks for digging... wisely assigned because truth be told if I had been given another centre I'd had dropped what I was doing every time an interesting bird or insect came into my awareness. Allowing me to spend the afternoon looking closely around our little "mountain" of dirt was a gift. Being a supporting member of the YRNC (long distance and thus only when possible) has been a professional highlight, helping to further my own teaching practice as I collaborate with inspirational educators and ecological stewards.


Kortright splendour during the first "Family Adventure Walk in the Forest".


A moment that brought me to tears: my daughter spent much of the afternoon with a group of friends including some she'd met at the last YRNC family gathering, the "Forest School Taster" held in the summer at Lake St. George. When the group found this beautiful tree frog, they carefully captured it, created a safe transport (a leaf-lined paper bag), and ran through the woods and up the hill to my "look closely" station. Though the park was full of hundreds of people who were there for "Family Adventures", the girls decided that I was the one that would most appreciate their find. It made me very happy.

Some of the delightful creatures and people who appeared at my station during the "Family Adventure Walk". I was intrigued by the responses to this station: some adults stood back while the children climbed the hill and dug into the soft dirt, while other adults joined in with great relish, holding up worms or centipedes to the delight or fright of their children. Initial squeamishness at seeing the contents of our "mini-museum" (pictured above in the bottle sections on lids) usually gave way to fascination and even exploration.


As I got out of the car this morning for the conference, I was immediately drawn off the path and into the woods by the familiar spring sound of a bird I like to call "the monotonous robin". It returns every year and somehow every year I remember the song (like a faster, endlessly repeating robin song) but I forget the singer. I ran into the woods in pursuit of the song, hoping to catch a glimpse and thus identify the singer. No luck, it was evasive as always, but I found myself through the trees onto the great lawn, walking in warm sunshine up to the crowd gathering at the entrance. I saw so many familiar faces, both friends I've made in recent years and those faces I knew only from our twitter PLN. I likened it to being a bride: all the beloved people in one place but really wanting to dote on the groom. It was almost too much for me, as I wanted to chat with everyone but I was also in a special place that demands my full attention... a forest vibrating with life in every corner. I needed to be quiet, to listen, to slow down to be in forest time.

My nature self won over my social self before I became exhausted. I tuned my senses to the life everywhere around me.

Before the keynote I was able to ask Ann to sign my beloved copy of "the Language of Art". I thought it proper to offer a gift in exchange, and as I'd connected deeply with her idea of the belonging to a place, a pedagogy of place, since her keynote last year, I gave her the best gift I could think of: a small jar of beach glass and a fossil-filled stone from the shore of Lake Ontario. I find these treasures the nearby beaches along the western edge of Etobicoke, the shore where time seems to lose its grip on me. To my relief and delight, she was as curious about these objects as I am.


Sharing the story of my beach while Ann signs my book. Photo by Stef.

The full name for today's event was "Walking in Place: Cultivating Ecological Identity in Young Children - And in Ourselves". The title long but reflective of the connected elements at play: by sharing a point of view, a mindful awareness of our surroundings, together with children we develop a relationship with the natural world. Ann began her keynote by describing how she was "energized and curious" by the invitation to share her story in such a unique way, "walking in place" with the conference participants. She shared observations, personal stories, and quotes. In fact, the quotes used in this post are from Ann's handout, kindly shared with participants so we might enjoy her presentation in the moment without the need to scribe.




Once the keynote began, I took some notes but was grateful that Ann had thought to include her most touching quotes in a handout so that we the audience could simply be present without needing to capture words as they flowed by. I did, nonetheless, jot down ideas and my impressions as they came to me. Ann set the tone by having us join her in reciting a traditional Haudenosaunee Thanksgiving Address (adapted by Karen Kerney). Greeting each other, the earth, all beings alive, all materials that sustain life (water, sun, air we breathe) we came together to see ourselves as part of an enormous, organic whole. From there she began with the first step of our journey, figuratively - she asked us to consider the origins of the word "foot" which connect to planting - planting one's foot in place. The quote below struck me as true, as both obvious and deeply meaningful. At that moment I realized why I had fallen in love with my neighbourhood, and why I'm torn by the idea of leaving it just because our family has outgrown our home.
We do this walk several times a week. It's a way for us to load ourselves up with the feel of the landscape. The only difference between a place to live and holy land is the number of footsteps you've put into the ground. Marc Parent, Believing it All


As she continued, Ann made reference to some of the stories in her latest book, The Goodness of Rain, which is an intimate story of her year with Dylan. Dylan was a toddler, speaking few words when they first began to spend each day together. I remember being mesmerized with these stories when I'd seen Ann at Charles Sturt University last year, and was eager to hear more about that magical time they'd spend walking. As Dylan grew and developed words for what was around her, Ann captured the story of their daily walks and noticings. A particularly poignant image is that of Dylan and the apples - fruit of the tree they visit daily and thus become to know in its every state, from abundant to bare. I didn't capture her exact words, but loved her description of Dylan's joy at smelling, plucking, and eventually eating the apples. Ann alluded to the biblical tale of how apples came to be a symbol for the downfall of humanity, how we were banished from paradise after one taste. She described Dylan's astonishment and delight at finding this gift (paraphrase): "not a fall from grace, but a fall into grace... knowledge of connection to earth, to our growing... attuned to call of wild earth, we know the earth, taste it, feel it." She quoted David Orr, alluding to all that naturally grows out of being happily astonished by nature.
An ecological identity is driven by a sense of wonder, the sheer delight in being alive in a mysterious, beautiful world.
An ecological identity encompasses these qualities of knowing and living in a place:
  • learning how to read a landscape;
  • coming to know a place and its local ecology;
  • strengthening and being strengthened by a feeling of kinship with the living world;
  • developing an aesthetic appreciation influenced by the patterns, textures, colors, lines, forms of the natural world. David Orr, Ecological Literacy 

Ann spoke of the importance of our role as teachers, what it means for us and what we are trying to do (paraphrase from keynote): "We teach children the languages of art, writing, reading, maths - we actively cultivate knowledge. (We) also need to cultivate ecological identity - sense of self belonging in place." She went on: "Our culture celebrates knowledge, not experience, of ecology, of nature. (It is a) commodification, an intellectualization of nature, of knowing versus being. For the urban teachers, nature isn't a forest, but spiders in the playground, puddles in the parking lot, ants in the crack of a sidewalk."

She proposed principles for pedagogy of place, those outlined in her book but offered not as commandments, instead as an invitation for beginning our own personal journeys. Ann urged us to develop "a pedagogy of play... present, in unfolding time".


It was a powerful moment, one which caused a number of us in the room to choke back tears (or brush at those that escaped our eyes). Looking at the tweets later I found examples of this.







One principle that I found deeply meaningful was that of "learning the names" of the flora and fauna all around us. In my last post, "a time to learn the names",  I related it to my own experience growing up with a strong ecological identity, though I didn't have a word for it, or recognize it as I grew up. It was simply something that separated me from most of my peers, and as such something I kept quiet about when I was young. No-one (outside of family) seemed to want to hear that the peeper frogs had begun singing that week, or that the milkweed seeds were still green, just right for eating (before turning brown and sprouting white fluff), or that the young puffball mushrooms were delicious sauteed in butter, or that the bird they thought was an owl singing in daylight was actually a dove - a lovely bird and my middle name.
Giving a name to something is a way of knowing it... People are unlikely to value what they cannot name. Elaine Brooks, in Richard Louv, Last Child in the Woods
Ann spoke about the people who "learn the names" because they fall in love with some aspect of the whole living, breathing ecosystem (birds, mushrooms, flowers, insects). She said, "I bought my first field guide and poured over it like a love letter". I identified strongly with those words. While listening to the keynote, I jotted down a note about my favourite non-translatable word, "komorebi". I wanted to share it with Ann after the keynote, though I missed the opportunity to do so. It is a word that I needed as a child, when I first fell in love with the Arctic as seen in images (National Geographic, at the McMicheal Gallery) and later on television (The Nature of Things). One day I imagined visiting the "land of the midnight sun" and talking those who lived there. I wondered what it would be like to grow up without trees. It actually pained me to think about it, life without trees: no dappled shade on a sunny day, no dazzling red fall, no sounds of leaves in a stiff breeze, no smells of pine after a rain, no boughs to climb in and hide. I wondered how on earth I could portray all this beauty and wonder with words. When, as an adult, I learned this wonderful word, it fit like a well-worn shoe.
Japanese: Komorebi This is the word the Japanese have for when sunlight filters through the trees - the interplay between the light and the leaves. Def. EF Sanders
Ann spoke of names, of the importance of knowing the names, not in a studious way in which we check off boxes and call it "done", but to discover new things and acknowledge them. She quoted Robert MacFarlane as a powerful call to action:
It’s a lexicon we need to cherish in an age when a junior dictionary finds room for ‘broadband’ but has no place for ‘bluebell’.
A place literacy is leaving us. A language in common, a language of the commons, is declining. The terrain beyond the city fringe is chiefly understood in terms of large generic units ("field," "hill," "valley," "wood").
Why should this loss matter? It matters because language deficit leads to attention deficit. As we deplete our ability to denote and figure particular aspects of our places, so our competence for understanding and imagining possible relationships with non-human nature is correspondingly depleted. Robert MacFarlane, "the word-hoard"




There was more to the story, not simply the loss of names but the loss of life - that knowing the inhabitants of our precious world would make an enormous difference in how humans treat the flora and fauna of the earth. Ann spoke of the pang of knowing the world and also knowing about the terrible impact of our human actions upon it.

Attention: the remarkable focused convergence of our senses, our intellect, and our feeling.

Paying attention to the more-than-human world doesn't only lead to amazement; it leads also to acknowledgement of pain. Open and attentive, we see and feel equally the beauty and the wounds, the old growth and the clear-cut, the mountain and the mine. Paying attention to suffering sharpens our ability to respond. To be responsible. Robin Kimmerer, "Returning the Gift" Minding Nature, May 2014

Ann invited us to "explore new perspectives. Name help us know but also grieve the losses. Marvel and despair". With that we were ushered out into the gloriously sunny day to enjoy time in the woods before lunch. Heads full, hearts open, we scattered into the outdoors.



After the keynote we were free to wander the sun-dappled paths and flowery meadows to visit the wonderful invitations set up all around the site. Our wandering was motivated by our own fascination with the spring flora and fauna all around us, and as such we didn't get to even half of the green-signed stations.
My joyful and curious companions for the day: (me), Karen, Tanya and Kim. The company of like-minded friends sharing a walk in the magnificent rolling hills and shady forests of the Kortright Centre made this an unforgettable event.


The beauty of the foliage and the delicate flowers blooming around the forest floor gave us all a sense of overwhelming beauty. It was as exciting to make new discoveries (such as this specimin above) as it was to uncover "old friends" underfoot such as herb robert, trilliums, and blood root.

Underfoot and overhead were many reasons to go slowly and look closely: blooming jack-in-the-pulpit lily, a swallowtail butterfly landing above us amid maple leaves, a tent caterpillar along the path, delicate flowers on as-yet unknown plants. We were hungry to learn the names.

As we walked down the long, steep incline into the forest, our senses grew attuned to the life all around us. Though there were inviting activities set up for us to enjoy, we found our own rhythm following butterflies, stopping to admire caterpillars, listening to songs in the trees. Partway down to the valley floor I was stopped in my tracks by a familiar (but long unheard) sound: an ethereal, reedy song like a wooden flute. I halted our group and opened up my trustworthy iBird app, hunting the right bird. I tried veery, but no. The other forest-dwelling thrush with such a haunting voice, then: a hermit thrush. My companions were amused, and then amazed, when the song in the iPod was identical to that we were hearing overhead. I'm cautious about using the app in this way, knowing it's possible to upset nesting pairs or simply annoy the very creatures I wish to observe. Once identified, we walked on, meandering from one side of the path to the other as some new sighting caught the eye of one of us. May in southern Ontario is a spectacular time for a phenology fan; everywhere leaves are fully grown on most deciduous trees, meadow and shade flowers everywhere are in bloom, frogs and birds are singing their mating songs. No words can capture the smell of the woods at this time.


Green in so many lovely shades. Mid-spring is a time of rapid change in nature. At the campfire station, we marveled at the textures, patterns, and variety of sizes amongst the leaves on the forest floor. At the top, bloodroot and trilliums. In the bottom-middle panels, the wondrous mayapple in bloom.

Down in the valley where the campfire was burning (and where every year my family goes to enjoy the maple syrup demonstration), we paused to rest a while. I spotted a flycatcher of some sort. Excited, I ran to get a better look. I couldn't get close enough, but underfoot was an amazing variety of plants that one can only see in mature, deciduous forest. I recognized some but many more were unknown to me. I thought of Ann's comment, falling in love with a field guide that gives her names, a literacy or a language with which to speak in the natural world. Nearby at the campfire was a fellow YRNC member and Kortright's Program Manager, Adrian O'Driscoll. I knew him to be a keen observer of the nature, so I invited him to help us identify some of the mystery foliage we were seeing. He pointed out several, but the one that I remember most vividly was the utterly enchanting "mayapple" (above). This intriguing plant had an umbrella-like circle of leaves nodding atop a long stem. From above, it was interesting, but from below, it was captivating: a single white flower presented like a face, peering out at us. We all knelt down for a better look. Then I remembered the song that had me mystified. I described to Adrian the "monotonous robin" that we had been hearing. "A vireo, perhaps?" Just like that - without hearing the bird, merely from a description, he solved my mystery. I shall never again forget the name of the red-eyed vireo, the singer that often makes himself heard but rarely seen.


This plant captivated us when we were out on our walk. Kim had shown me a picture of it earlier on, asking if I recognized it. I didn't, but spotted it on our walk. Such a delicate and complicated flower head, unbeknownst to us, ready to bloom. It was a new find, and we had to uncover its story.

As the stations closed and the call went out to go for lunch, we made our way back up the hill. Out in the meadow I was stopped again, this time by a bird I knew well and could call into view. I whistled a response to the singer, and sure enough, the brilliant orange oriole appeared from within a leafy hiding spot (click here for snippets: mayapple, leaves in the breeze, the song of the oriole). We felt so much in forest time, so connected.

After lunch we re-convened for Ann's summation. It was a different mood in the room, now, a place buzzing with conversations about the morning amongst friends. It was uplifting, even before she spoke. She invited us to bring the feeling we had to our daily lives, to step out with awareness and kinship with life.


It wasn't easy to leave. Many participants dawdled on their way out to the parking lot, and more still walked right back out to the paths. My companions and I took our time, stopping to chat with some chickadees and enjoy our final moments in the forest. We talked about our own teaching and learning in nature, and what we hoped to do from this day forward. We thought about how we could share this feeling. Leaving Kortright was hard that day. I was still feeling very much attuned to my outdoor surroundings when I arrived home, so I took my daughter to a nearby for an evening walk along the shore. As she ran over rocked and danced along the edge of the waves, I felt hopeful that she would grow up knowing the landscape as her natural place.

The next day, stories and images from the conference continued to be shared on twitter. I had worried, during our play amongst the trees, that my companions might regret having missed all the stations set up around the centre. As I saw the beautiful pictures later on twitter, I experienced a twinge of regret that we hadn't made it to the mandala station, for example.


The responses from friends changed my mind. The way it came together so perfectly for us, traveling together through that sacred space, made it magical. I am grateful to my companions on that day.

 Ripples were carried outward as our sheer delight left traces throughout our PLN. Many messages such as the one below made me hopeful for continuing the conversation.

"I bought my first field guide and poured over it like a love letter". I remembered those words the next day as I began to read her book, and found myself fighting back tears. Her year with Dylan was told as a story full of emotion, raw and tender and utterly reverent. I thought about it throughout the day. I thought of how the children in my class responded to scenes of injustice to their environment: litter found in the beloved "no-mow zone", plastic bags and fabric strewn along the creek's banks, park furniture broken or defaced with graffiti, trees with branches snapped in half and left dangling. I knew that they were becoming aware of the many lives with which we share the school grounds. I thought perhaps the best message I could take with me from the conference, Ann's book, and all of the wonderful experiences with children outdoors was this:

We do this walk several times a week. It's a way for us to load ourselves up with the feel of the landscape. The only difference between a place to live and holy land is the number of footsteps you've put into the ground. Marc Parent, Believing it All

A spring walk: we're peering into the gently moving water of Cooksville Creek.



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Sunday, 28 June 2015

a time to learn the names

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One Sunday last month, I hopped a train to visit my teaching partner, Pooneh, for a trip to the annual "Making Learning Visible" Exhibit by the Artists at the Centre. I was excited to finally make the trek to Hamilton to see this work, inspired by the glimpses shared at the "Documentation as Relationship: #BECS2015 Conference at Charles Sturt University back in March. I was also still full of images and ideas from the day before, Saturday May 23rd (the post about that day, a conference featuring Ann Pelo, will be written next). I had a wonderful time with Pooneh, first at the powerful little exhibit where visiting families and educators alike were warmly greeted by Karyn Callaghan. Karyn had just returned that weekend from traveling with a group of educators on a tour of Reggio Emilia. Evidence of Reggio-inspiration was all around: beautiful invitations for the visiting children to create works of art, photos of children deeply engaged in projects, stories beautifully told by their teacher-collaborators, and most fascinating to me, a group of educators who were sitting together looking at a video and discussing the content. The video depicted a small group of toddlers or preschoolers playing with paper. They weren't sitting at a table drawing or using scissors, but instead engaged in full-body exploration of large sheets of paper. It was boisterous and joyful and messy. I was immediately drawn in (and thus also a bit embarrassed because I knew I shouldn't intrude on their sharing) by the way the teachers were critically discussing the materials, the student relationships, the way it might look to a visiting parent or other adult. Here was an example of what I'd heard and read about in Reggio Emilia preschools: teachers engaged in research, decomposing experiences together. It was entirely energizing to be there with my teaching partner, with whom I've begun a journey of co-teaching and co-learning about sharing pedagogical documentation. I have no photos of the exhibit because this was documentation of children's words and work, including names and identifying features. I have only the photos of the building facade and memories of mesmerizing photos and stories, but one can see some of the artifacts on the exhibit catalogue page.




We spend a good long time poring over the photos and artifacts at the exhibit, and then headed out to Pooneh's back yard for a cup of tea and some time relaxing in the shade. As we chatted and watched wildlife scamper and fly all about on the sunny afternoon, the wave of thoughts I'd had on the train trip out that morning were long gone.

A little green inchworm dropped on the table as we sat. Naturally we had to
 look closely, and take pictures to share with the kids back in school.


It wasn't until much later, when I reopened the notepad I carry with me, that I rediscovered my notes from that trip. I'd been thinking about the conference I attended the day before, and had finally the time to open the pages of Ann Pelo's latest book, "The Goodness of Rain". I was only a few pages in when the emotion of it hit me and I had to put the book down. It may have been in the book or a memory of her keynote talk from the day before, but I connected deeply with the idea of "learning all the names" of the living world around us. It was a gift from my mother that I only in adulthood saw as a gift. I dug out my notebook and a pen and I started to write. What follows is that stream of consciousness connecting of present and past and familiar and new, seeing patterns and making sense of why I'd been so inspired by outdoor educators and environmental focussed learning. I was having a realignment, a cognitive reassignment of ideas to wider areas, to charge deeper meanings, or shining light on ideas that were hiding in shadow. It was a moment of enlightenment, about my life, and my life-work.


Ann Pelo's intimate and reverent story of learning to love one's living place.

Here's what I wrote, as close as I can capture it (some corrections necessary for grammar or repetition removed):

Why outdoors? How is this conference and this trajectory of mine a part of a "kindergarten life"?
We as teachers learn a lot about teaching at our Bachelor of Education courses: literacy, numeracy, special rights or needs, organising a classroom, "classroom management" ideas, theories of education, and more. But there is little danger of this knowledge being lost. We are a literate culture, whether on a device or paper in a book, we are voracious consumers of sign and symbol. We make and consume text daily. We treat schools as places to sit and listen, look and hear, focusing on language as transmission of knowledge.

Indeed, language is powerful to carry ideas and transmit to others. But language doesn't replace experience. We cannot know a child because we know their name, its only a beginning. Our senses are highly attuned to taking in information from all sides and all sources we can identify. Those of us who are thin-skinned, sensitive, distractible and yet highly-focused (sound like ADHD? I'm beginning to hate the label even though I have begun strongly to identify with it as a viable explanation of my social difficulties as a child). We have skin and nerves all over, not just in our heads. Smell is information. Sound is information. Taste is information. Sights are information. A sense of balance, a feeling of chill in the breeze, warmth of the sun on skin, or of a rock warmed by sun but now in the shade... all telling us to be mindful and pay attention to the world all around us.

While it's been years since I've sat to meditate, I do try to retain a mindfulness/awareness practice in my day. Walking helps me retain my equilibrium, helps me remain very present. Riding my bike connects me to my local environment where I can see the growth and change in trees, the creek, the bird inhabitants of the forest, and feel the breeze on my skin. So, where does this fit, again, in "this kindergarten life"? My path as teacher is tied to that of my learning partners: my students over the years who've shown me the greatest growth during outdoor exploration or while reflecting indoors on outdoor memories; that of my own children, and to my new teaching partner Pooneh (who I can scarcely believe is new, as it seems we've been together for years) who also embraces outdoors as a place full of potential for our daily curriculum. An outdoor pedagogy... something I've been working towards for years now, with my involvement in the York Region Nature Collaborative (YRNC) and relationships I cultivate with an outdoor learning PLN.  First of these PLN relationships has to be with the incredible Rob Ridley whose #EnviroEd chats and weekly blog posts help educators in Peel and around the world to unpack our outdoor education backpack, and to think critically about how we can do more.

As I scrawl these words in a notepad, I stopped. A movement caught my eye outside the train window. A huge shape soared over - a great blue heron! It slowly crossed over the parking lot of Oakville Go Station and swooped down out of sight to the river beyond the trees. I gaped, then looked around me. No one noticed, not anyone on the ground, nor anyone on the train car I'm in. This habit of stopping everything to attend to nature unfolding before me: a smell on the breeze, a deer jumping across a the path far behind me (announced by the crashing of tree branches and snorting breaths), a bird soaring overhead or singing, unseen, in a tree nearby, a change in the wind... this habit has always made me seem "weird". As a child I learned to squelch my exuberance but not my attention; I didn't yell "chipmunk!" at school but I definitely felt the pull to follow it with my gaze, no matter what I was supposed to be doing. I felt like an oddball, one who didn't want to participate in the "normal" (boring) world of kids my age who could talk sports or tv, for example.
As an adult I appreciate my mother's gifts: fresh grown greens from our garden, names for wildflowers, trees, insects, and always, always time for the birds. We would sit on the rooftop together, calling birds we could mimic like cardinals, mourning doves and robins. We always delighted in their response, especially when they'd fly closer to inspect where the sounds were coming from. She gave the world such meaning. She let us play in the rain, and in the mud. She let us wander out long after dark, knowing the mosquitoes would eventually chase us inside. Even now, a visit home is a visit to the land - I always take a walk, no matter the weather.

I came to grips with the idea that my parents are not with me forever, when my mom's cancer returned recently. In remission now and stronger, but not to be taken for granted... I cling to every visit and try to make sure my kids get time on the hills and paths, in the pond and the gardens. Here, the best tasting apples, there, the spot to catch fireflies. Here, where we skated on the pond, there, where we'd catch tadpoles.
I model my teaching on my many heroes: those who see the capable child and help children see both the wonder in the woods and in themselves. But truly it is my mom who was my first teacher, she who gave me all the names.
It was my mom who helped me forge my own ecological identity, and my inspiring colleagues who helped me see the value in sharing it with the very young. It wasn't something to be spurned (as it seemed when I was in school) but something to be nurtured, our place in the world.

Many years ago, a grade school teacher rather unkindly dubbed my best friend and I "Parrot" and "Wiggle Worm". Not yet double-digit in years, sitting quietly in a desk was beyond our reach - for her to sit in the desk was exhausting, so she'd climb over, crawl under, wobble sideways. Me? Never could keep a thought to myself, always the volcano mouth. Being shamed didn't help, for I couldn't stop myself. It did, however, make me feel embarrassed and unlikable.
To this day I love words - they tumble out of me and make patterns as they fall, like raindrops forming a puddle. I adore hearing words, connecting to others in my mind, jumping at them like a cat swatting flies. I love the language of bird calls and waves lapping the shore and dry trees rattling in a stiff breeze. I think as a teacher I'm learning to gather words, not just scatter them, and to truly listen. But there's time for both... like Ann's proposed principles of ecological entity:
a time to practice silence
and
a time to learn all the names.


My mom cradles a tiny toad we found in the cool shade in the garden.

That was all I had written in my notepad. I realize that my story ended rather abruptly, perhaps when I stopped to look out at the beautiful view of Lake Ontario that one so often sees on the Lakeshore West Go Train line, or when I picked up Ann's book to read again. It isn't an ending, merely a pause in the story that unfolds with each new affirmation, realization or connection made. Ann Pelo's book gave me the words "ecological identity" to help me frame what is most meaningful to me, but the journey of learning how it matters to my teaching practice continues. It was at the first "Reggio-Inspired Summer Intensive Course" that I began to tell my personal stories more freely, about my disconnect with people (though I felt deeply connected with the group who became known as the ever-growing #ReggioPLC) and the solace I found in nature. I see traces in my documentation of that realization. Like during my last two summers, this August I will take part in another weeklong #ReggioPLC summer intensive course, "The Rhythm of Learning in Nature", but this time it will be a wonderful meeting of Reggio-inspiration and ideas and practices from the Forest School movement. This summer I will also be in a different role, with my daughter along to share the joy of being in the forest. There will be time to learn the names... and time to listen.
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Monday, 20 April 2015

Artfully engaging play


A visual metaphor for my impulse upon entering the beautiful play space set up at a ThinkinEd thinkshop.

 In March I was asked to participate in an incredible exhibit experience held by ThinkinEd. This was no small honour for me, a fan of their work. Their loose parts playscapes are always a multi-sensory, deeply thought-provoking invitation to celebrate creativity. I am so inspired by all that they do with their professional play experiences that I attend as many as I can though they're usually located an hour or more away for me. ThinkinEd takes something I've been actively engaging in with my students for several years now (playing, creating, thinking through use of loose parts) to a level I rarely see anywhere: their invitations are somehow transcendent, sweeping up participants in a feeling of utter delight. The thought that goes into the materials is art itself, and the participants become artists, architects or magicians simply by engaging in the experience. Below are images from some of the different events I've been fortunate to attend. 


June 2014: My daughter surveys a landscape she created with Aviva's daughter. The surprising reflection changed their play and their focus. At the joint Hawkins Exhibit & EdEx pop-up event at Black Creek Pioneer Village.
Click here for an interactive version of the photo, including audio.

August 2014: An invitation to play with the elements of design as used in Canada's most iconic and beloved artwork, that of the Group of Seven. At the incredible "Open House" pop-up event at MacDonald Art House in Vaughn. 

My response to the invitation above: I was joined by my friend's daughter as we looked carefully at the painted image for lines and colours to echo with the fabric swathes. 

While we were recreating the fall scene with fabric, my friend Helen got up close to a pair of snails (one large, one very tiny) with her older daughter. The snails soon became a living loose part, joining in fairy stories outside in the large wooded lot at MacDonald house. Like in an emergent curriculum classroom, there may be many threads of inquiry going on at the same time. Being able to wander from room to room, to follow one's own interest, made the experience personally meaningful to all.

My favourite room at the Open House event (and they were all inviting so this wasn't an easy choice). It wasn't simply the sense- and thought-provoking materials and set-up, but also the connection to the discovery made by our daughters at the EdEx event that made extending the play more meaningful. 


         
A closer look at the description in the reflections room. This particular scene with the trees and water intrigued me when I found it. I could see the images from the painting wonderfully captured with the tiles and stones, but it seemed incomplete somehow, not related to the mirror against the wall. So I experimented by turning their creation a full 180 degrees in order to orient the reflection as I saw it in the painting. It took that change for me to realize that unlike the other paintings, the reflection in this image could not be captured in the same way, with the island above and below in the water. Again, the play of reflection became a deeper exploration when something surprising happened. I realized my error, and laughed out loud.


 To see why I so connected with these pop-up events, I looked back to posts I'd written a few years ago when I first thought to look closely at what was happening in my evolving program. I went from having "centres" or areas for certain materials to a more organic space where students and materials were freed up to move and combine as desired: 

I have been experimenting with loose parts as artistic expression for a few years, more on my own or with my children, but as I learned about Reggio-inspired classrooms and saw images of students creating installation-type artwork in primary classes, I began to see the possibilities for my Kindergarten class. Another way I like to think of it: I stopped putting out glue as a way to capture natural materials in artwork, and started playing with balance, pattern, movement and time. (from "balance, pattern, rhythm and awe")

 I learned from students who once rushed through drawings and gave scant details ("It's my house. That's the roof.") and who now were telling elaborate stories with characters and setting. There is something very powerful about paying attention to the choices students make in what, where, and how they decide to spend their time. This might be more a function of leaving behind "must-do" tasks and less about the materials in use, but what I was seeing was evidence of "the environment as third teacher". I was seeing students in a whole new light, getting to know them as I hadn't been able to with a teacher-lead lesson followed by "play" (which wasn't nearly as engaging because I didn't yet know how to extend it). Later that same month, two years ago, I described how it changed student behaviour overall:
Loose parts art invites collaboration and problem-solving. Sometimes it looks like several students working on their own little pieces in frames but sharing bowls of materials, chatting about their designs, offering each other new parts to add or asking for someone to pass them another item. Perhaps it is because I have been collecting so many materials to use, or perhaps it is the sheer pleasure gleaned from playing with beautiful, tactile materials, but I rarely see arguing over materials even in such close quarters... 
Sometimes it looks like one child beginning a small pattern and then, slowly or all at once, being joined by several more students bringing more materials. Time after time I have watched students enter into a process already begun, adding their ideas, sometimes knocking things over, sometimes changing the story or design quite radically. (from "loosely told stories")

These ideas permeated my overall view of teaching young students, but it took learning about the work of David and Frances Hawkins later that summer for me to realize how meaningful the ideas are for us adult learners, as well. It was at the Reggio Inspired Summer Intensive in July 2013 where I met Simone, one half of ThinkinEd.

Pride and delight as we finally get our marble run working. From left: me, Simone, Cheryl. At Richland School during the Reggio Inspired Summer Intensive.

It was there I began to deeply relate to the messages from Reggio Emilia, through exploring the ideas of Via Vecchi, Lella Gandini, and Loris Malaguzzi. Perhaps that's not giving a proper description of how the week worked, though. We did have readings to do each day before our session, however we did little "studying" once at our session each day. Instead we explored ideas by engaging in hands-on play, and reframed our experiences afterwords by touching on the readings as we reflected on what had transpired.

It was also at the summer intensive where I was first introduced to the transformative ideas of Hawkins-inspired learning (and that is a post of its own, someday) including the necessity of "messing about" with materials and ideas for educators, not just for their students. The big picture was beginning to come into focus.

For tweets from this exciting exhibit, explore the hashtags here and here for week of March 17-21.

ThinkinEd is the creation of two incredibly inspiring friends, Simone Speigel and Aviva Fudem. I became friends with Simone during our week together (the impact of which took four posts to share and I felt I'd only scratched the surface with my documentation) and I was in awe of her artist's eye. All the participants (including the host teachers) were surrounded by beauty and wonder each day, but when Simone documented the experience she somehow translated it with a bigger perspective. Aviva, her dear friend and partner in ThinkinEd, is also incredibly talented at seeing artistic potential in what might seem like mundane materials. Together they see the vision of Hawkins-inspired learning come to life in pop-ups, thinkshops and exhibits for all ages. See more about their vision and wonderful programs on their blog & website. The quotes below illustrate to me why their work is not "professional development" but something much deeper:

Meaningful learning opportunities for educators need to reflect the unchangeable fact that idea sharing and knowledge co-construction are the key to progress. (from "back to the drawing board")
The very essence of our human existence is the ability to create – to create life, to create thoughts, to create ideas, knowledge, you name it. So imagine what you'd learn about yourself if you went beyond observing and reflecting on your individual learning journey and moved closer to genuinely embracing and understanding your creative journey. (from "imagining impossible things")

Embracing that challenge, to understand our creative journey, I've been thinking about play. Play, not work, is the stuff of constructivist learning. Work to me means finishing an assigned task, completing a job. Learning is not inherent in the process, in fact what is produced might illustrate knowledge from long ago, or worse, mimic understanding but instead demonstrate an ability to follow instructions. Play, not the creation of something to demonstrate learning, but actual engagement in meaning-making, is the stuff of learning. I've read it over and over said different ways, from great thinkers as far back as Dewey, and more recently like Lilian Katz. The most quoted in relation to early years learning is Loris Malaguzzi who speaks of pleasure and research in the same experience of learning:

The art of research already exists in the hands of children acutely sensitive to the pleasure of surprise. The wonder of learning, of knowing, of understanding is one of the first, fundamental sensations each human being expects from experiences faced alone or with others. 

What stands out for me, from reading and from my own teacher-research in the classroom (now shared with my wonderful teaching partner Pooneh Haghjoo whose observations add exponentially to my learning) is that when loose parts are involved, the focus shifts away from "what will it be made" to "what is". The mindful awareness that can come from exploring materials collaboratively is how students can come to understand ideas I once thought too deep, too abstract for young learners.

Last year, just before the EdEx event, Simone and Aviva visited Thornwood PS where I work with a team of educators whose dedication to emergent curriculum equals my own. It was a joyous day, with our students taking on the role of tour guides, showing off the most exciting or meaningful parts of their classroom and outside environment. After their visit Simone wrote about the day, in a touching post with many photos from Lada Duric's room (a place down the hall I visit often for inspiration and thoughtful advice too). In that reflection she had an "aha" moment that resonated powerfully for me: 

Throughout the day, I heard Laurel remind her students to "look closely". This had the wonderful effect of slowing them down and pushing their thinking. When I got home – with those words echoing in my head – I took the time to "look closely" at the photos from our visit. Here's what I noticed: Hands appear in almost every photo – maneuvering lights, creating patterns, touching, moving, poking, sorting. As I put together this PicCollage of images, a thought popped into my mind: We use our hands to think!
That got me thinking about the moment Lada announced she had captured a loose butterfly from their collection and wanted to release it into the (amazing) no-mow zone out back. The excitement of holding the butterfly in her hands, of gently opening her hand in the sunlight and releasing the butterfly onto a dandelion brought so much joy and wonder to us as adults, I can only imagine how it must feel for a child. (from "thinking with our hands")

As so it is that when I was asked to collaborate with these friends to create an exhibit highlighting my favourite invitations, I jumped at the chance. Their "Art of Play" exhibit ran all through March Break. As a happy accident, we would up settling on an auspicious date for my part in the exhibit: March 20, United Nations' "International Day of Happiness". That we met at a Reggio-Inspired course, where we daily explored Loris Malaguzzi's vision for teaching: "Nothing without Joy" made the date deeply meaningful.




My selection of materials included those I've used many times before in everyday play and in special provocations to further explore ongoing ideas in class. As I spoke to Simone and Aviva about my vision for the playscape I wanted to create, I looked to an artist (and long-distance friend) Ranjit whose playful sound and materials installations always make me wonder "how did he even think of that?" and as such who had inspired me to "mess about" and create. While I have no knack for electronics and I have yet to learn how to be truly handy with tools, I have taken from Ranjit and others the need to throw out the rules of "what" and "how" common materials are to be used. Wooden blocks become a xylophone, nesting kitchen bowls become floating drums, ice becomes a slow-motion, suspenseful noise maker, water becomes both a background and an instrument. The only new item I added to the collection was an antique washboard found earlier in the week that I expected would be a wonderfully noisy addition to the play. 

I gave the materials list (those I would bring and those I would need to borrow, like an array of glass jars) as Simone and I discussed what it was I intended to inspire with the wood, metal, glass and water/ice. She wrote the educator profile (below) after we spoke, and I must admit I was at a loss for words to see it summed up so perfectly. Simone's vision is so clear. I also adored seeing the moment used for the picture was that reflections room play where I connected my own learning to student misunderstandings, and the importance of cognitive dissonance.



Everything packed and ready for a day of noisy exploration at MacDonald House.

To see a stop-motion-animation of the art of sound room as we set it up, click here. It's a fascinating look at how my helpers and I set up one half of the exhibit (the other half being out of view of the photographer). 

The description Simone wrote for participants to think about while in "the art of sound" room. The invitation at the bottom sums up succinctly what took me many more words to explain to her. 

The sunlight added another dimension to the beauty of the room and the simplicity of the materials. For a long while, everything seemed to glow.

        


Watching as different players engaged with the materials, I saw new combinations I didn't expect. Stef's tower cascade, a child's design to shower marbles into the bowls through a tube, a design and re-design of the tubing waterfall in the trellis.. ideas expanded and the music changed.  My big takeaway from using materials I'd played with before (with students over several years) was how differently the various players approach the invitation. Some young children embraced the noise and action fully, rolling large jingle bells into the water bowls, swinging the makeshift drumsticks, spinning the ice sculptures, pouring water from high up to affect a dramatic splash, jumping for joy when a particular sound was achieved. Other young children approached cautiously, careful to stay dry in a very watery room, and treated the delicate materials with respect and even reverence. This wasn't the surprise, though, as I've come to understand that children bring their whole self to such deeply sensory play, and personality naturally shines through. The surprise for me was the way in which the older children engaged with the materials. I loved seeing a boy persevere for over an hour when he discovered he could alter the shape of the water trellis, and thus the flow of the water. I was fascinated by the thought that went into design decisions when large tubes were used to funnel marbles into the various floating bowls. I appreciated the time taken by some older children who were supportive of what younger children were attempting to build. I especially delighted in seeing my Peel colleague and friend, Stef, who approaches loose parts provocations much like I do... without hesitation. She created a beautifully towering bowl cascade that provoked the others in the room to look at the materials in a new way. It was Hawkins-inspired learning in a multi-age room - joyous learning indeed.




*Note: click to play, and again to stop the vine clip. 
For sound, click the speaker icon, click again to mute. 






Early in the day the sunlight on the clear water in the makeshift xylophone was simple and inviting.

A request for colour like (here and in the water bowl tubs) changed the scene to a beautifully colourful expression of different pitch.

Meanwhile, elsewhere much magic was happening all throughout the historic MacDonald House. 

A welcome at the door.


The simplest materials, perhaps, but the strongest impact for me. My mind raced with possibilities for students, especially tying to ongoing inquiries in class such as our look at the structures in our neighbourhood.

This enticing lighted darkness was mesmerizing. My daughter spent much time here, as well as outside in the puddles and visiting the YR Nature room. I had only a few minutes to explore here (click for video clip) but the colours, reflections and shadows were enticing. I could've explored for ages. 


A calm and inviting space set up by Diane Kashin and Diana Fedora Tucci of York Region Nature Collaborative.


In "the art of line" room there were traces of the amazing Jessica who had been artist in residence days before but whose invitations and collaborations with ThinkinEd inspired a gallery of beautiful artifacts.


Traces of several days' worth of play with line. The shadows playing lines across the floor just added to the experience of looking closely at line. 

My day playing with sound, time and basic materials was fast-paced and fun. I left with my head spinning and my daughter still giddy from all she'd explored. I saw people of all ages connect to big ideas, simply by playing... playing with their own bodies in space, discovering possibilities and passions and even unknown talents. It was, as always, a deeply wholistic way to think about art and beauty. I am ever grateful for the opportunity to join in the play.




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