wabi sabi

My daughter and other children climbing on the "best part of the park" after hours of walking through the spectacularly beautiful Stanley Park in Vancouver, BC. There are beaches, swimming pools and splash pads, winding mountain trails leading to breathtaking views of the ocean. The park is filled with play structures, a fantastic aquarium, and the beaches with waves. This downed tree, however, an artifact of a terrible storm that took down several "grandfather trees", was her favourite when we last visited two years ago. It took a few minutes to capture a photo without a crowd of kids, all ages, hanging from all the branches or scooting along the trunk. Here's another view, complete with crowd.

The softened bricks that once were buildings, then landfill used to create the land that became Colonel Sam Smith Park - they invite visitors to touch, sort, play. Their broken edges, rounded corners, and various colours and sizes make them challenging and fascinating loose parts for building. They are undeniably beautiful, yet seen out of context, might seem broken and useless.

It is a hot, indeed steamy day today as I sit to write. I spent part of the afternoon out on my bike with my daughter, riding up the local ravine through which the Etobicoke Creek flows, sometimes slowly, but today noisily after last night's wild thunderstorm. Everywhere we looked there were signs of the violence of the storm: deep brown, churning water flecked with white foam, downed boughs clogging the creek where it widens down by the lake, smashed flowers and leaves on the footpath, leafy boughs and refuse caught in branches hanging over the creek, evidence of the higher water level carrying flotsam and jetsam high above the banks. We paused awhile in the forest, up past the cascade that today rushed loudly like a waterfall, around the bend where the trees arch over and it feels like the city is far, far away. The rain was long gone, now, and a hazy sunshine beat down through humid air, but when the wind blew it dislodged droplets from the leaves overhead and it rained anew as we took refuge in the shady forest path.

The creek, usually clear, looked brown and frothy after last night's storm. Look closely at the water's edge right above the straw bale (another gift from the storm? It appeared since my last visit days ago) to see the night heron fishing in the cascade. All over this spot, one sees evidence of storms past: cracks in the pavement above, whole sections broken off and washed downstream, chunks snapped and resting precariously like the one on which the straw bale rests. It is a reminder of the power of water, and fragility of structures that seem unbreakable. The cascade is a favourite resting spot for birds and people alike. Click here to see the heron lift off and fly away, after catching a fish.

I am always struck by the beauty of the ravine, though it is not landscaped or kept clean like the beautiful Marie Curtis Park at its very southern end. It is a wild place, but there is evidence of people all around, too: broken glass, plastic bags caught in trees, shopping carts barely visible below the water's surface in the shallows below the first cliff. One hears planes fly overhead, trucks rumble by on nearby roads, distant dogs barking, and occasionally music drifts down from homes high above on the eastern edge of the valley as we ride along the trail.

One of the shale banks on the western side of the creek, where mink scurry, tiny bank swallows swoop in and out of holes in the wall, kingfishers fly noisily by, crayfish hide under rocks, and fish dart about around one's feet. Also here: a shopping cart (under the water, half buried in the silt), broken glass, crushed beer cans, burnt wood from campfires, a torn shirt, vertebrae from some small mammal. The cliff is a visual reminder of the passing of time, the lives that have lived here (especially those encased in the fossils found all along the creek) and the durability of life. The trees cling at marvelous angles, and it is easy to forget that the city exists just beyond these hills.

There is something rather remarkable about an urban ravine, a place that is both wild and also entirely constrained. Back at home, nearby, the city trucks come by and remove the dangerous, the ugly, the roadkill, the garbage. Here in the valley we see it all, and watch it change and sometimes become something beautiful. Downed trees become a bridge to climb on, broken concrete a new challenge to explore. A bloated carcass of a raccoon loses its hair, then its shape, and much later, appears as scattered bones and teeth, often with traces of gnawing or scraping by scavengers.

Our ride today wasn't a long one, as the heat was oppressive and the water too busy to stop and soak our feet at the cascade. I thought of how Cooksville Creek beside our school might look, as it is also prone to flooding after a storm. I wondered if the no-mow zone was again littered with debris from the high water, or if any students were watching the creek gush past under their feet from the bridge beside our school's driveway. Thinking about our tiny, concrete-bounded stream which gurgles past the yard with litter and wildlife alike, I thought of how lucky I was to teach at a school with something wild right beside it. Not perfectly wild, to be sure, but living water nonetheless. It made me think of an idea I'd tucked away last year, a blog post I had started by saving a storify conversation. I've long been attracted by the idea of "wabi sabi" but at the time was beginning to see how it was a part of my teaching practice. So it was last year I left myself the fragment in blue below, along with the photo of the beach glass and ceramics I'd gathered that day. I remember it struck me, as I picked up and turned over each piece I found on that sandy, stony beach, that this favourite pastime of mine was a metaphor for learning and growing, the way one turns over ideas, tosses back those that no longer make sense (and on the beach, that I always toss back the rough, too sharp pieces which need more time in the waves) and makes room for new ideas. Left in draft so long ago, now when I came to revisit I know I've forgetten many of the ideas that circulated when I left these traces. New events touched on old ideas and they became changed, grew a part of how I understood the challenges I faced over the year: saying goodbye to our beloved cat after fourteen years; seeing our class grow, shrink, and grow again as students moved away and others took their place; welcoming students whose families had fled Syria and learning so much about resilience as we played together, grieving for my uncle who passed this year but learning to appreciate him so much more as I listened to his stories from friends and family at his memorial; losing my teaching partner at the end of this year as she moved on to help open a new class. Naturally I look at the handful of glass now and see with different eyes. But my understanding of what is beautiful, what is worthwhile sharing with students and families, and what is worth celebrating... that only grows. My understanding of what matters, and how learning happens, has grown tremendously.

the convo that led to a new understanding...

Finding beauty at the beach - pondering the beautiful colours and mysterious origins of the treasures I found this week at the water's edge.

I know the beach glass represented, as it does for me still, the beauty of something transformed by relationship - broken, discarded, and yet made precious by its time tumbling in sand, stone and waves. I have collected treasures such as this on my local shore for many years now, for loose parts creative play and for giving away. Those pieces, each a shard of something that was whole, now a part of a collection, represent belonging.

Now I am aware that all this preamble might seem completely unrelated to teaching and learning, the stated theme of my blog. It is, however, entirely related to how I see learning and growing. As a child I was concerned with "getting things right" at school, that is to say, following instructions and getting good grades. I wasn't a success socially, not during elementary school, but academically I fit right in and it made me feel safe (recess was another matter entirely). I had glimpses of a bigger world, through travel to France and Spain as a teen. I experienced "otherness" and the feeling of not belonging, not being able to express myself in my new surroundings with my limited language, thinking teachers must think me dumb. But the stakes were low: my marks at home were fine and my time in Spain wasn't going to count against me. It wasn't until later, in university, that I discovered my ability to fail. I found it terrifying at the time, but not understanding what was expected was a gift, one that allowed me to begin to look critically at what mattered. Studying post-structuralist thought made me panic, as though the cognitive dissonance I felt was actual walls coming down around me, and not merely old ideas crumbling. I found that I couldn't look at anything the same way once my eyes had been opened to the world, my small-town view bust wide by my big city surroundings and multi-cultural friends. Most painful was a new way of looking at "whiteness", from the myriad points of view as I made friends from various continents including aboriginal Canadians. Seeing racism directed at friends made me fiercely protective and yet terribly hopeless. I didn't want to be a part of it, but didn't know where I fit. My own family home was a safe haven, a place of guests and stories and generosity and fun. But when I looked at myself with this new lens, of not-white, I couldn't see beauty anymore. I felt broken. It took time to find the beauty in that break.

“There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.” Leonard Cohen

Safe to say what I experienced is not uncommon for any small-town kid who goes too far from home and doesn't know where "up" is. It took time for me to connect to what matters most to me, what I missed most about home - nature. I learned to see the life heaving in every corner of the city, not just in the big parks or along the shore. I learned that I remain passionate about equity and it has a place in my teaching practice. I learned that breaking isn't a bad thing, if it means letting the light in. Learning involves letting go, and assimilating, and growing. For that reason, I connect deeply with the idea of wabi sabi, as I understand it. A few years ago I found a beautiful book written for children, touching on the meaning of wabi sabi. I was so delighted, I immediately bought more copies, knowing it was a concept I shared with others in my Reggio-inspired PLN. It resonated with me as deeply as the poem, the 100 languages. It struck me that embracing a wabi sabi view of learning was the only way to ensure all voices could be heard, all those 100 languages and 100 more. Being appreciative, rather than fearful, of things unexpected... leads to wonderful collaborations through playful inquiry. Being brave, that is, unafraid to make mistakes and face the consequences - that was not possible in a "lessons first, play as reward" classroom as I first saw and practiced when I began teaching back in 2003. Seeing diversity as much more than culture, language or colour, but encompassing ways of being beyond what is "neurotypical" - allows me to understand my own thinking better as I learn to understand that of others. Not having a set idea of how our classroom "should look" helps too, though I am often struck with self-doubt upon entering rooms of peers who manage to make their space showroom-perfect. Negotiating our space with students, talking about how we use our materials and our furniture and our bulletin boards - curriculum emerges as does the look of the space we share. 

 Back in the spring I tackled this idea as well, this question I have about the meaning of beauty and how (or if) is it meaningful to teaching and learning. In describing it as one part of a "tangle of spaghetti" I was attempting to unravel, I said:

One such "noodle" running through my mind was the idea of beauty: What is beauty? What does it mean to enjoy something beautiful? Is beauty important to play? Is beauty important to learning? Are there shared ideas of beauty across the diversity of human cultures and across age groups? Do our notions of beauty change as we grow and learn?

I continue to ponder this idea, but without a perfect description of what it is, I still think seeing beauty in what might otherwise seem mundane leads one to see possibilities everywhere. Seeing beauty in others, especially when they are unable to see it themselves, is one of the greatest gifts we can give to a child or adult.

"Using spare text and haiku, Mark Reibstein weaves an extraordinary story about finding real beauty in unexpected places."

Below is the conversation that grew around the idea of being a courageous educator. Being courageous, being willing to accept other ways of seeing, remains the best way to learn alongside our students and partners every day. I'm grateful to the #ReggioPLC for this (and many other) critical conversations about our beliefs. Please note: the story has a second page, you will need to click through after reading the first.

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A favourite page from "Wabi Sabi".

A favourite photo of mine, capturing fall (above and below) on my street after a heavy rain. Autumn often evokes strong emotions, because the beauty is so fleeting, and carries with it the poignant reminder of life's passing. The reflection within further adds to the idea of finding ourselves in the cycles in nature, that we grow and shed and grow anew as we learn about life.

As I think of my relationships with students, teaching partners, and the larger community that come together around our Kindergarten class, I am struck by how much reflection goes on as we examine our world together. We find meaning through our interactions, and through remaining open to a world of natural beauty, we learn so much more than is possible in an organized, sanitized version of teaching in which only the proper, good, clean, pre-made materials are considered for use.

“We do not learn from experience... we learn from reflecting on experience.” John Dewey

Several days' worth of dandelions, lovingly collected by students during the first few weeks the flowers emerged. Treasures from nature always wind up on the "look closely" table under the window.

Dandelions, like fall leaves, become a part of play and exploration for weeks. They decorated "sand cakes", became necklaces and crown, were rubbed onto drawings to impart their golden glow, added to the snail globe to "give the snails something nice to eat and smell", places in vases, dried and ground up in the mortar and pestles, added to potions.

A common description found online. It seems a perfect way to leave a thought that I haven't finished yet.

what a puddle taught us

 "When a curious child and a knowledgeable teacher explore the phenomena of the real world, genuine science begins." Frances Hawkins

Water leads to wondering... wondering leads to engagement... engagement leads to learning.

I love SS's story. It highlights her determination and growing self-regulation skills, the learning that happens when you look closely and observe changes in the local natural world, and most of all, the joy of playing in a puddle.

A photo I've shared in the past, when describing the "decisive moment" in capturing a mood in a photo. I couldn't help but notice how many of the photos I chose to illustrate moments of learning involved water.

I have long used the term "puddle jumper" to describe a certain type of person, a kindred spirit... someone who embodies playfulness and joy well into adulthood. Friends know I'm likely to go out when it rains, looking for snails or following rivulets that run down the street over leaves and stones. My penultimate post was an extended metaphor for documentation, seen through the lens of reflection on water. It was inspired by the idea that reflection is always changing, based on one's point of view. A few days later, I shared the incredible learning journey of a friend and colleague who embraced full-bodied exploration of a puddle with her students, and was changed by the experience.

Our class adopted a puddle last year - two, in fact. The year before, my AM and PM classes had each adopted a tree to visit weekly, but the idea just didn't catch on in our new FDK class. The water that gathered near the walkway to the buses, on the other hand, fascinated all. One puddle, near our neighbour's classroom gate, appears and disappears at the whim of the weather. It grows to a small pond after a hard rain, and dries up with nearly a trace after a day or so of sun. It is a wonderful thing - reflecting the school or the sky, depending on where you look. It grows large and deep at times, and later leaves only a darkened shadow of itself, a mere grey trace.

In September our returning SK students quickly taught the new JK friends what our class does after a good rain - here's a group of kids well dressed to enjoy the sometimes puddle with my teaching partner, Pooneh in the back (pink boots).

One day this fall several students were excited to discover how chalk reacts to getting wet, and conversely, how our puddle reacts to getting coloured on. The traces of this joyous play were beautiful for days afterward.

When I find a quote meaningful and wish to share it, I look for a photo from my own experience that illustrates the idea for me. It struck me this year that nearly half of the pictures I've used in the manner have involved discoveries or exploration of water. Noticing our environment means finding patterns, traces, and surprises in nature.

The other puddle, a little strip of water that forms beside the concrete bunker just outside our gate, is affectionately known by all in our class as the "muddy puddy". My teaching partner and I have joked that this puddle is the reason many students beg their parents to buy them rubber boots. Mud is magnificent stuff. We explore it near and far around the schoolyard.

The beloved "muddy puddy" is a perfect illustration of one of many quotes from Ann Pelo that speak to me of eolithism - learning in and from the immediate environment.

The picture above rather beautifully captures our learning one day  - a cold, muddy puddle can be utterly delightful, or utterly misery, depending on how well dressed you are, and how well you pay attention to the details: how deep the puddle, how high your boots, how thin the ice, how sloshy the mud, how splashy the other kids in the puddle with you. By encouraging self-regulation, we allow students to figure out for themselves whether or not the mud puddle is an appropriate place for them to play. These students on this day listened to their bodies and to the situation, and had a marvelous time. Many other students watched from a safe distance on the hard ground. We applauded both choices.

The muddy puddle exploration on this day left an indelible mark on my mind - and I believe it will be remembered by those students for a long time, too. We learned about bravery, made mistakes, and played on. It was a grand outing, even though we were only out on the yard.

Sometimes the rain winds up creating new puddles, like these deep craters in the post holes around our kindergarten playground. This girl tested the height of the water against the height of her boots, and was happy to find that her feet stayed dry. Math and science was all the talk around the puddle this day.

More math play happened when this student found a cup for scooping and tried to empty the deep crater that her friend had been standing in (see above). I didn't stay long enough to capture how many scoops she had to do to fill the wheelbarrow, but it was already 15 when I left to explore elsewhere.

It was the collage below that lead me to believe it was time to look back over our learning thus far this year, and try to get at the big ideas students were exploring in their fascination (and mine) with water. Several projects and inquiries are ongoing in our class at the moment, and the year is winding down towards the winter vacation, thus making new conversations harder to facilitate during our short knowledge-building-circle time. I knew there was a theme emerging, one I'd want to remember and be able to share with the children later in the year when it came up again (as naturally it does when snow melts and freezes anew).

A recent water wonder from our class. I can't help but wonder where the arrival of snow will lead us in our questioning.

This wonderful day at the park last year remains another favourite memory for several students, now SKs.

Puddles seem a perfect metaphor for emergent curriculum. Even more so in a difficult year, when the social curriculum seems the most important lessons being highlighted each day, the need to "get one's feet wet" remains. Through relationships forged over messy play outdoors, friendships and trust are born. If you see a problem to solve, learning is inevitable. I thank my friend Nadine for sharing her puddle story, and inspiring me to look back over my own. I will consider it a success if this inspires even one reader to invest in a good pair of winter rubber boots. If you've learned something from a puddle, please consider leaving a comment here. 


 

what learning doth a puddle offer?

 I met Nadine Osborne this summer at YRNC's week-long "The Rhythm of Learning in Nature" course. In my role as one of the facilitators for the week, I was able to learn and explore together with a wonderful group of educators and parents, and alongside my daughter who was attending the forest-school-inspired camp. The incredible professional learning session was a meeting of minds of Reggio-inspired educators with Forest-school inspired practices, grounded in the eolithism of Hawkins-inspired learning. It was a deeply engaging week that helped us all connect more deeply with place-based, emergent planning education. I was honoured to be a part of the team and feel a strong connection to those educators who walked along the paths and talked over worries, hopes and dreams together at Swan Lake.

Like daughter, like mother - we met up along the path and had to laugh when we saw each others' boots - I had been wading into the duckweed, and she had been playing in "the mud kingdom". 

Holding on tight as I inch along a log over the shallow water at the edge of Swan Lake. Photo by Anamaria.

One of so very many frogs and other pond creatures seen during our week at Swan Lake.

We don't live near enough to bump into each other during the school year, but I often see Nadine on social media along with many other in the #ReggioPLC who participated in our magical week at Swan Lake last summer. One wonderful conversation took place about 6 weeks ago, when Nadine posted an inspiring story about her day at school. In it she referred to students jumping into the puddles with such force, it caused the water to go "so high it hit our faces". I burst out laughing, remembering similarly "messy" moments from the YRNC summer course, where boots got stuck in muddy ponds, or stagnant puddle water splashed our clothes, or a particularly messy moment when, while following a damselfly, I slipped down a bare-dirt stretch of hill and wound up knee-deep in the mud.

Reading her post, I was most touched by the following: "I learned that when I supervise my own students in risky play they show they can manage risk." Yes! That was so much the message of "Rhythm 2015" - that by embracing outdoor learning and trusting children to be curious and capable learners full of potential, we would discover a wealth of knowledge, passion and skill among our young learners, and ourselves. Together we could discover our limits, and push them outwards.  I couldn't help but ask if she'd be willing to share her story here on my blog.

Later, in a direct message conversation, we talked about what this post could mean, in terms of the larger documentation story I have been working on through guest posts and my own reflections.
We spoke about documentation and how different we all are in our outlook and approach. We talked about the possibility for one child (or a few children) to stand in for the learning story involving many students. By taking a magnifier look at a student's growth (as she did beautifully in her story), one can illustrate both how the larger class learns from direct experience, and also illustrate an event that many found surprising and rewarding. We discussed how the documentation can be a metaphor for learning - that some students direct the inquiry, while others partake or even just observe, but all will have a memory of that moment, and most will have made meaning from it.

At the time I said: "...there are kids for whom true exploration is just beginning... Handling loose parts and sharing space is about what they can manage. Later, they begin to ask questions, or attempt to answer those posed by provocations... Those are the meat of my shared documentation. My partner captures different things, and I like that. She captures snippets of events that I miss, lovely moments of art or sensory or language play that may not connect to big ideas we're playing with but which show a lot about the experience or the children. In fact, I think I should tell her this." (note: I did, in fact, tell Pooneh how much I appreciate her documentation, and what she captures from her perspective - often across the room from me). 

I read my quick words to her now, and realize I overstated the case somewhat - I try to listen to all voices in the classroom, no matter how they are "spoken" and no matter their interests and strengths. However I do appreciate the opportunity to think about the importance of one child's learning on any given day - that our job as teachers in a large early years classroom is to forge relationships with all students, and between all students, and to help all see themselves as learners. I think Nadine did this wonderfully, and I am grateful that she allowed me to share this here. Her words follow.



What learning doth a puddle offer? 

by Nadine Osborne
 
Yesterday we had 2 indoor recesses, one was announced before it started and the second one it was decided to call them back in due to rain after the first ten minutes. The children were challenged to contain their physical energy within 4 walls and a ceiling. I had to divide and conquer together with my teaching partner. Today after getting all ready it was announced that it would be an indoor recess before they even got out the door. Faces were long.  

I was in the room to witness it even though it was really my lunch. I was hosting a school club meeting so I couldn't just throw on my stuff and go out with them. But I promised to take them out after recess was officially over. So since we had six students away today we only had a total of 21. Seventeen of them had rubber boots & raincoats, 3 did not and were happy to stay inside. The remaining child had "outdoor shoes" but dissolved in tears at the thought of staying in. He didn't fit the spare boots that were available so I made the decision that he needed to be outside more than the shoes needed to stay dry. I really need to build a relationship with this student.  Last year he was in a different class with a different teaching team.  I know from the way he looks at me and from his body language and tone of voice in communication that he doesn’t trust me yet.  He doesn’t yet sense that I am on his side.  I have been trying. Today that meant understanding how very deeply he needed to be outside. So I took 18 children outside in the rain and into the puddles and the mud. They burst from the door like popcorn from a hot air popper overflows into the bowl.

When they understood boots meant it was okay to stomp in the puddles they did a little more than stomp. After observing their obvious delight and assessing that they couldn't get much wetter anyway I suggested we have a contest. YES. I suggested we have a contest to see if we jumped in the puddle with all our might, who could make the water go the highest. That was me. Me, the teacher, with the provocation. Never would I have imagined it. After about 25 minutes of sheer joy the children were starting to get a little cold. I let the first group that wanted to go in with my teaching partner go ahead to start the process of changing into dry clothes. Another group remained outside with me to collect wet leaves. Then after five minutes we went in as well. We learned that most of the children could make the muddy water go as high as their bodies. Indeed they could splash their whole face with muddy water if they jumped hard enough in the puddle. We learned that we won't melt in the rain. We learned that school is not just a place with rules where we line up all day long and get prompted to sit criss-cross applesauce. We learned that we are strong, powerful and mighty. We learned that we can change our clothes, and dirty clothes can be washed. We learned that the world is a joyous place when we can explore it in ways that feel right. I learned that dirty clothes are better than notes home about behaviour. I learned that when I supervise my own students in risky play they show they can manage risk. I did not have any students who needed ice. If I made a rule they followed it because I didn't make any that weren't essential. I learned that today one child "had the most fun I ever had in my whole life".

He was the child who didn't have boots. He was the child who needed the messy outdoors more than all the rest. I am not sure if I can express the learning in terms of the curriculum. It might be possible. But I am sure that RELATIONSHIPS underpin all the success I will have with these children. Today was a day of building relationships. If it happens that they grow up and forget the day we jumped in the puddles until our faces were caked in mud and our hearts were ready to burst with joy, I know I never will.

EPILOGUE – Several weeks later the weather situation was the same, if perhaps colder.  My new teaching partner was not dressed for mud, and a little hesitant.  A few of the girls were also a little hesitant.  This time I gave them a mission.  We were not to just splash with wild abandon, but instead We would see if we could find things that would float in the puddles.  I didn’t figure this out the last week of August when I was doing my long-range plans.  It came to me in the moment.  It just fit.  While I was thinking we would just look for natural objects in the yard, an industrious child managed to grab a few lunch containers from the lost and found box on our way out the door.  It was a very engaging lesson and I just had to listen, observe, and occasionally pose an open-ended question:  “Can you find anything else that might float?”  “Why do you think your leaf floats?”  

When I think back to all the planning and gathering of materials for my sink or float lessons from previous years, I realize how far I have come.  The road ahead might still be long, but I am well on my way.  I trust the children and I recognize the value of a puddle.

(end of Nadine's post.)

I love her reflection at the end - indeed, once you have harnessed the power of learning in the moment, it can be strange to look back at how we once were taught to plan for learning without taking the students' actual knowledge into consideration (for those of us who began in theme-based programs). When I think of the moments that change us most as adults - I mean change our outlook about what is possible and appropriate learning for children, I think of this powerful statement by David Hawkins.

"We who have been involved in the study of science and children have ourselves been changed in the process. In some ways not easy to express, we have been liberated. Those of us who knew children before science (are) now seeing the former, children, and ourselves as well in a new light: as inventors, as analysts, as synthesizers, as home lovers, as lover of the world of nature. Those of us who knew science first, and children after, have an altered and more child-like view of science, more humane, more playful, and even at its most elementary, full of the most unexpected delights".
David Hawkins as quoted by Karen Worth

A puddle reflected the world of possibility for Nadine, for her students, and for those of us who delighted in first reading her story. It was her story that brought me back to my (neglected for many months now) blog, only to discover the draft of a story about water as a metaphor for learning, and for reflecting on our learning. I thank you, Nadine, for sharing the joy.

Making Learning Visible: Fostering Reflective TeachingPracticesThroughDocumentation

 "Documentation is not just what we collect, it's the practice of how we observe." Daniel Wilson (see Visible Learners)

Yesterday I wrote an introduction for what I intend to be a series of guest posts featuring ideas about and examples of pedagogical documentation from people in my PLN. These guests all have something in common though their contexts, classes, and styles are quite varied - they all managed to clearly convey in their documentation an idea that I'd been grappling with for ages. They each created work that I immediately connected with as the exemplar for the concept I'd been chatting about in ReggioPLC discussions, or reading about in various publications. Ideas that were deeply meaningful to me at this point in my journey - risky play, the view of the child as capable, inquiry as a moment or a process, documentation as shared ownership of storytelling, inquiry as a process fraught with doubt - all ideas that suddenly had a link, for me, to these inspiring educators. I started that post with the following:

 I had a lightbulb moment recently, regarding my understanding and practice of documentation.

I realized after publishing the post that I never revealed what that lightbulb moment was, although I detailed the more-than-a-year process of examining documentation in order to better understand it.
That aha was this: pedagogical documentation is not one "thing", it is both the process and the product born out of the relationships between materials, learners, and method of documentation. The aha was that I still didn't have a big picture, though I had many pieces giving me a wider view of what I was looking at. In fact, there would never be a big picture, not an accurate one, when the ongoing process meant the view was always changing. Lastly, I realized that what made me reach out to these educators was exactly what had made me reach out to Tessa over a year ago to ask for her view of the teaching partner relationship (taken from my intro to her post):

There is something about the way we share a view of children (as infinitely capable, curious, fascinating) and teaching (as a wondrous journey, forever deepening and growing out into our lives) that creates real friends through the ether. (from this earlier guest post)

Here, then, is the first feature of the series, written by a new and inspiring friend, Christie Angleton. From a tiny glimpse of her panel (in tweet below) I was intrigued. Here was a teacher making the learning visible and demonstrating a message of curious, capable learners.

Documenting our recent #riskyplay - making learning visible! #ReggioPLC pic.twitter.com/Nvrlptckkc

— Christie Angleton (@ChristiePlays) June 17, 2015

@ChristiePlays fantastic! You've inspired me to think ahead 2 next year... Fantastic 4 family events in fall, to see values of FDK learning

— kids connect (@KinderFynes) June 17, 2015

Snippets of our conversation as I introduced myself and my concept for exploring documentation together. I'm so grateful Christie agreed, and delighted by the story she tells.

Making Learning Visible: Fostering Reflective Teaching Practices Through Documentation

Christie Angleton – Louisville, Kentucky

When Laurel first contacted me about sharing in this space, I was flattered – I’m new(ish) to Twitter and haven’t really made a lot of connections yet through the #ReggioPLC. And when she asked me to share my thoughts about documentation, my heart soared! Documenting children’s work (read: PLAY) is something I love and have been thinking about a lot of late.

I work as a lead facilitator in a year-round preschool program. Now that the summer months are upon us, I find myself with a bit more time than I am accustomed to during the typical “school year.” While we continue with our play- and inquiry-based philosophy, things just feel more relaxed during the hot months of summer – children go on lengthy vacations, there are fewer demands on time for formal research and other endeavors, and one of my two brilliant assistant facilitators expressed an interest in leading planning for the summer term. This has afforded me the gift of time to reflect – on the work we’ve done, on where we might go in the months to come – and documentation seems to be a recurring theme in these reflections.

Most everyone with knowledge of the Reggio Emilia philosophy of teaching is familiar with the idea of documentation as a means of making children’s learning visible – visible to families, to other teachers, to the community, and to the children themselves.

M and J discuss a recent small group discussion about gendered toys while observing a small documentation panel.

For me, documentation not only provides an opportunity for children and their families to reflect on their thinking and learning, but it provides an opportunity for me, their teacher, to reflect upon what the children are taking away from their encounters– their confidences, their strengths, their challenges, their thought processes – while they are engaged with each other, with their peers, with other teachers and community members, and even with me.

I am fortunate to act as a mentor teacher in my school and, as such, I frequently choose to create large documentation panels that are visible to many different people and serve as inspiration and an idea generator. Luckily for me, several other teachers in my school also choose to display their documentation in a similar fashion – which means the inspiration is mutual and provides a wellspring for reflection and conversation. Perhaps even more importantly, it shows how much our community values the children are learners and constructors of their own knowledge; it lets the children know we believe in them and appreciate what they contribute to our community on a daily basis.

At the beginning of the school year, this panel conveyed the independence displayed daily by our preschoolers – now the oldest children in our building.

I’ve been exploring and researching the importance of risky play and risk assessment for the past several months. I recently created the following display to press home one particular point: children are risk takers and even more so, they are CAPABLE.

A display about some of the risky play the children have been engaged in of late.

The really marvelous thing about creating this panel is that no one seemed overly surprised with what they were reading. I did have a few conversations with colleagues about how to address parental concerns about safety, but ultimately I was able to convey to the community that children ARE capable and it is our responsibility to provide them with opportunities for those capabilities to shine in myriad arenas. In this case, it was stacking and then jumping from milk crates. These carefully selected photos and quotations are enough – at least for now – to convey one way in which these children are capable. Making learning visible is a powerful experience!

Choosing what to include in any form of documentation is a labor of love. The children I’ve encountered are generally so marvelously brilliant that it would take multiple hallways to display all of the wonderful things they say and do! The seemingly simple process of selecting photos and quotes is actually a far more arduous process that it might seem at first glance. What photos will I choose to convey the children’s learning processes? What words will accompany the photos to illustrate the children’s thinking? What additional support – if any – is necessary to demonstrate the heart of what the children are doing?

Lately I’ve been letting the photos of the children do most of the talking, as it were. With four-year-olds, I do like to include direct quotes because kids are generally brilliant and full of poignant insight. But photographs are powerful and often tell the story and make words unnecessary. 

There is such a story here, wouldn’t you agree?

Another form of documentation I experimented with this year was child-led self-documentation. The panels below are examples of this.

I placed a large photo of some project the child(ren) had recently been engaged in on a large sheet of paper and invited them to write, draw, and/or dictate what they were doing and thinking in the blank spaces around the photo. The results were stunning! The children reflected on their work and articulated their thought processes and feelings. It was truly insightful and led me to one of those illuminating teacher a-ha! moments: Documentation is really a part of the process for getting to know the children more deeply. There is much power to be shared and insight to be gained through thoughtful reflection about the abilities and challenges encountered each day by the children in our care. Documenting the work of the children helps me go deeper in my relationships with them, which encourages me to be a more thoughtful and intentional teacher.

Documentation is one means for getting to know children on an authentic, meaningful level – and isn’t that really what we’re all striving for?

A panel designed to show child thinking.

An invitation for children, families, and members of the school community to document their observations about seasonal changes.

A linear documentation display to convey our learning journey as we studied elements of the autumn season.

I love this beautiful illustration of the power of documentation to strengthen relationships among all stakeholders in a facility such as her preschool: students, teachers, parents all enriched by these lovingly curated stories. I hope that readers will leave a comment or question here for Christie, or add more voices to the conversation.

A note for readers: Christie has begun to share her stories on her own blog as well. Please visit her page at "Loosely Wondered" for more glimpses of "Reggio-inspired, Child-inspired" teaching and learning.