looking for the big picture

 

A quote that stood out when I watched the "Learning Stories" video. The photo is from my class of three years ago, with some of the first documentation I'd made with the class using "pic collage" hanging on the wall (top right). The two students pictured were looking back and forth from the wall to the overhead platform, while discussing the curious phenomenon of the shadows made by the opaque and colourful glass objects they were manipulating. The quote speaks to facial expressions which (though not shared here out of respect for student privacy) in the original version of this photo were quite telling; K (with the pink sleeve) had a perplexed look as she pointed at a seemingly clear glass gem which nonetheless cast a dark shadow.

 I had a lightbulb moment recently, regarding my understanding and practice of documentation. I had for some time been struggling with using the term "pedagogical documentation" in reference to my own work. I'd been exploring articles, blogs, reading books and joining in #ReggioPLC chats on the subject. I worked this past year as part of a collaborative of Kindergarten educators, both ECE and OCT, as we created professional development workshops/networking opportunities for fellow early years educators in our south PDSB region. Lastly, I attended professional development including the powerful and transformative discussions at Charles Sturt University's "BECS Conference" this spring: "Documentation as Relationship". All of this was occurring in a year when my school transitioned to Ontario's full-day Kindergarten Program, and thus I transitioned from being the single educator in the room. So many changes in my practice: one class all day instead of two, a fantastic new partner, Pooneh with whom to share the journey (see here for story), in fact an entire new team of ECE teachers expanding our Kindergarten team to twelve. 

 A bit of history, before this year: as mentioned above, I had read articles defining the what and how of pedagogical documentation. The touchstone piece for me remains Carol Anne Wien's "Learning to Document in Reggio-inspired Education". In the article the author refers to "a progression in teacher understanding of pedagogical documentation" which is  outlined as "five typical aspects of the progression toward sophisticated pedagogical documentation". Upon first reading some years ago as part of the Kindergarten AQ class I was taking, I felt myself solidly at the beginning phase of the journey as outlined by C.A. Wien. A few years later, the next time I read the article, I felt myself beginning to get a better handle on interpreting the messages I was seeing, and improving in how to share our stories as well. Somehow though, the reverse was also true: as I learned more and saw more examples of documentation as shared by educators in Ontario and all around the world, I became more doubtful that I was on track. I felt intimidated by beautiful or simple presentations of ideas that so succinctly told a story. I wondered what I may have missed, what I privileged with my choices, and if I was having too strong a voice (thus not raising that of the students). In many online chats I discussed ideas around this term both with the "ReggioPLC" and on my own, but really didn't think what I was doing was the transformational work I saw in articles highlighting excellence in practice in Reggio Emilia. I saw inspiration around me, such as the simple and utterly poetic visual storytelling my team partner Lada created with her students a year ago when our classes at Thornwood PS reared butterflies. I believed I was making real connections with students through the process, but still wondered if I was really "doing it right". Thus my year of purposefully studying documentation began, as I finished my last year of 1/2 day teaching and thought about all the changes ahead.

 This last year of teaching has been rich with new learning for me. I began teaching Kindergarten in 2004, yet it seemed like a steep learning curve ten years later, as we learned to navigate through so many new daily transitions. Pooneh and I watched and listened to students carefully. We saw when our students were comfortable with more time and space together, and when we needed to reel various groups back in and reflect on the social struggles we were noticing. We tweaked our meeting times, and early in the year tried splitting the class into two groups with simultaneous meetings in opposite ends of the room. We allowed for plenty of choice, and also noticed when individual students needed support in making choices. We learned along with our students how to be so many learners in a classroom. I don't think we ever had it working perfectly for every student and educator, but it certainly became a joyous learning community where many ideas came to fruition. It is a valuable thing to look back and see how much growth and change took place.

 A particular focus of my learning has been on our shared teaching relationship. As we learned to work both together and yet separately (allowing ourselves to respond to different sparks in the room), we talked about what we were seeing and how to bring highlights from the exploratory play time back to the large group. We joined in play and looked for inquiries that could expand to include many if not all in the class (these inquiries didn't really begin to grow organically on their own until late fall/winter). 

A post from a twitter friend about "my one word" (a sort of New Year's Resolution for growth) prompted me to go back into a book I'd read and find a passage I remembered as particularly meaningful. I didn't think about it for more that a moment, but it wound up being an apt choice.

It doesn't surprise me that amidst so much change I would need a solid goal to anchor me. My stated goal was to work on relationships, something I shared with friends many times over the year in chats. I had entered the year with the intention to forge a partnership with my co-teacher, but it occurred to me that it was more than that, more than my relationships with students, too. In creating a community of learners who share inspiration and build upon each other's ideas, I saw the importance of relationships amongst students and with the materials in the classroom. It became evident to me that I was truly interested in examining the "environment as third teacher" as outlined by educators from Reggio Emilia.

The Environment 

The environment is the context in which learning takes place. The environment was described by Loris Malaguzzi as “the third teacher” and is valued for its power to organize, promote relationships, and educate. It mirrors the ideas, values, attitudes, and cultures of those who use the space. As suggested by Karyn Callaghan, “the environment is a teacher”. From the aesthetics of the space, to the type of furnishings and materials available, to the organization of time, the environment communicates a powerful message and contributes to shaping the actions that can be taken within it. How Does Learning Happen? Pg. 20

Seeing a relationship with the environment put me squarely in "Hawkins" territory, and inspired me to go back through my readings and video clips to find more "Hawkins-inspiration". All my seemingly disparate inspirations (David and Frances Hawkins, Reggio Emilia pedagogy, the growing forest school movement) were coming together in a way that made sense. It wasn't a practice to be adopted in whole, there wasn't some "thing" I was supposed to do that would transform my teaching. It was all in the process - no different than how I knew students were learning.

"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 

What follow are some of the ideas that had an impact on me over the year, informing my view of what I was doing while practicing an emergent curriculum with my teaching partner. Often a quote so resonates I copy it verbatim (often from video clips, requiring multiple viewings to catch each word) and share with an image from our class that seems to speak to that idea, for me. Like the light exploration photo at the beginning of the post, the image of full-body participation in the mud play below reminds me of the importance of being fully present in learning: all senses engaged in following questions that arise.

Learning in a puddle: How deep is the puddle? How sticky is the mud in the middle, on the edge? If my boot gets stuck, can I get my foot back in without falling over? If I stomp, how high will the puddle splash?

In "Transforming Our Perspective"

In "Transforming Our Perspective"

And so I end here, not with any summary or final thought, because this post was created as an introduction to a series of posts exploring documentation through the eyes of people whose work has caught my eye, inspired me, and pushed my thinking. Over the year I've reached out a few times to those in my PLN whose documentation spoke clearly, and I asked if they'd be willing to share their documentation and stories here on my blog. A few of those I asked tentatively agreed, with the proviso that it would be when they were ready. I was delighted. The first of those posts will follow this, a guest post by a faraway friend Christie Angleton whose documentation panel about "risky play" made my heart leap when I saw it. I welcome comments about documentation that inspires you, the reader, as Christie's inspired me. I welcome feedback and ideas, as well, if you're moved to share and would like to be a guest in this series too. 

I found this quote as I was proofreading, and found it prophetic. A practice of how we observe.

"documentation is not just what we collect, it's the practice of how we observe." Daniel Wilson #pzc2015 #reggioplc

— Mary Anne Sacco (@maryannesacco) July 21, 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

When Ann Pelo suggested we make @KortrightCentre a holy place, I thought... It is already. @YRnature #WIP2015

— kids connect (@KinderFynes) May 23, 2015

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".

@km50robinson @KimClark23 @KinderFynes @YRnature Ann's Principles: return visits/pay attention/new perspectives/silence/learn vs teach names

— Sibbald Point OEC (@SibbaldPointOEC) May 24, 2015

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.

#WIP2015 We must cultivate an ecological identity driven by wonder. Ann Pelo pic.twitter.com/JMbKUm5cVD

— Diana Fedora Tucci (@tinderforest) May 25, 2015

#WIP2015 Ann Pelo: experience holds the seeds of love. That's why experience matters. It hold us accountable and we can love with hearts.

— Christy Johnston (@ChristyGarrity) May 23, 2015

Waiting for it to soak in. words right now can't express how thankful I am to have listened to Ann Pelo and found this community #WIP2015

— Margarita Hernandez (@smari1120) May 24, 2015

AP: To love is to protect. Let children experience the joy. See the extraordinary in the ordinary. pic.twitter.com/Hvz0Q8vkLP

— Sibbald Point OEC (@SibbaldPointOEC) May 24, 2015

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"

#WIP2015 Learn The Names: expression of relationship= connection of imagined intimate relationships. pic.twitter.com/Ehu99ErdV7

— Christy Johnston (@ChristyGarrity) May 23, 2015

A place literacy is leaving us. We must keep the language of nature for our children #WIP2015 pic.twitter.com/0fqiJFUMpq

— York Region Nature (@YRnature) May 23, 2015

"What is the extinction of the condor to a child who has never known a wren?" Robert Michael Pyle @YRnature #WIP2015

— Heather Ryan (@HeatherRyanTDSB) May 23, 2015

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.

Hard 2 find a more beautiful place to #lookclosely than the @KortrightCentre #walkinginplace #WIP2015 #phenology pic.twitter.com/PPvTMPc8mr

— kids connect (@KinderFynes) May 24, 2015

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.

#WIP2015 Ann's final words: always step forward, life is in motion, beauty of renewal again and again. Amazing Day!! pic.twitter.com/CpuMItbzYc

— Christy Johnston (@ChristyGarrity) May 23, 2015

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.

Reflecting on an awe inspiring day in nature. My heart is full! #WIP2015 @YRnature #ReggioPLC pic.twitter.com/yAQnVt51XC

— CV_Kinders (@Bolton_Luba) May 24, 2015

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.

Beautiful day learning about bird songs thanks 2 a very dear/inspiring friend. She truly walks in place @KinderFynes pic.twitter.com/oxyShuPLHJ

— Kim Clark (@KimClark23) May 24, 2015

Here's one of the beautiful plants found at #WIP2015 with @KinderFynes @SibbaldPointOEC @km50robinson http://t.co/XALCBqe0Fq

— Kim Clark (@KimClark23) May 24, 2015

Got iBird app today thanks to @KinderFynes ... She enriched an already incredible day #WIP2015 #InspireLearningOutside

— Karen Robinson (@km50robinson) May 24, 2015

 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.

Just ordered Ann Pelo the Goodness of Rain. Thank you all for sharing #inspiration @KinderFynes @DianeKashin1 @YRnature #WIP2015 so excited

— Barnert fantastics (@Btfantastics) May 23, 2015

So much gratitude for a day of professional learning spent in a magical place Kortright Centre for Conservation #WIP2015

— York Region Nature (@YRnature) May 24, 2015

"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.

a time to learn the names

.

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.

worth a thousand words

I have been slow to commit my thoughts to print these days. It's not that I'm less reflective, if anything, I'm more so. I've several posts saved in draft form as they unfold slowly but resist fully opening, like an acorn needs a cold winter or a squirrel's help before it will release its seed to sprout. It's that from my first early posts when I managed to get out an idea in a few paragraphs, I've developed a habit of exploring the connections between my thoughts. One idea leads to a theme in my head or to a problem I've been pondering, and next thing I know I've lost 3 hours and I've written a chapter, not a page. It's that intriguing image of Loris Malgauzzi's I relate to, that "tangle of spaghetti" which represents learning so much better than a linear trajectory.

Happily though there are also flashes, moments that help focus or reframe the stream of consciousness, like a beam of light pierces through a cloudy sky. Those are the "aha" moments, ones in which mistakes are seen, gaps in thinking revealed, or sparks created that may ignite a fire. Tonight I saw one of those sparks in my Twitter stream, thanks to this tweet from Kristine Mraz:

Last yr I posted my yr of teaching with one image. This year it's this pic.twitter.com/GdwzBoReIw

— Kristine Mraz (@MrazKristine) June 12, 2015

I was immediately intrigued. I let Kristine know I wanted to share her idea, and that it made me curious about how I might find such an image for this year for me. How might I sum up a year of embracing outdoor pedagogy and risky play; a year in which adopted we a puddle, spent hours exploring the creek, expressed our creative and wondering selves through ice experiments, and looked closely at the intimate relationships between ourselves and our living environment? I thought of photos of the students rolling down our favourite hill, laughing as they bumped and wobbled down the grassy slope. I thought of one student leaping over the painted alphabet road, seeming to catch air. I thought of our fall exploration, altogether under the oak trees tossing handfuls of leaves in the air and burying each other under leaf piles. I thought of sledding and snow fort building days, seeing friendships blossom with newfound collaboration in the snow. I thought of my teaching partner Pooneh seeming like the Pied Piper, leading a merry band of boot-wearing kids out to the deepest mud puddle on the yard, including the picture she captured that became our latest class twitter banner picture. Some of the pictures I wanted to use were lost in translation - blurring or cropping the expressions on faces removed the drama or joy contained (as promised to families, no identifying features such as faces or names are shared outside of the classroom).

In a matter of minutes, I scrolled through the year's photos looking for "the one" to share with Kristine. Thinking of how many others in our PLN might welcome the challenge, I asked if I might share her tweet. She agreed, and we came up with a hashtag for the project.

@KinderFynes sounds great! I like #theonepic it's gonna be verycool!

— Kristine Mraz (@MrazKristine) June 13, 2015

These pictures (the ones I considered before finding it) below were all moments that were telling of themselves, but also brought with them the force of the inquiries that unfolded during or because of those moments. I could see the theories in action, and recall the words or sounds that went along with the images captured.

 I found the photo, the one that grabs my eye and tells so many things about our class, about the girls in the picture and how they approach learning. Here is #theonepic for me:

@MrazKristine you've inspired me to go digging. There's about five, all outdoors... Here's one I love. pic.twitter.com/myoLxFJaEo

— kids connect (@KinderFynes) June 13, 2015

In order to share the photo I had to blur the face, which sadly removed the most delightful expression of anticipation. Nonetheless I see this image and I can't help but smile at all I see: the joyful embrace of full-body experiential learning, the kinetic energy in the jump, the planning that went into the test (the girl with the umbrella had raced inside to retrieve it after discovering the displaced water could reach all the way up to her face), the excited anticipation of the other girl awaiting the impact, the theories at work, the pleasure of sharing. It was for me a "the decisive moment" as outlined by the photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson. Looking at how learning unfolds in our classroom, I see the winding river and many branching steams that have resulted from our following the curriculum that emerges from our collective and individual interests, knowledge, and discoveries. It isn't surprising to me that so many of the photos I picked, therefore, contain movement. We are an early years classroom full of wonder and observation. Discoveries are celebrated. Mistaken ideas are shared, talked over, wondered about. We relish the noisy, boisterous, silly, surprising, messy play that results in and from engaged learning. My partner and I do plan experiences and bring materials to share, but most importantly, what we do is seize the moment, and share it.

I see that my early preamble (at the top of the post) didn't mean I wouldn't, once I began writing, experience the customary unraveling of the "tangle of spaghetti". Indeed, the idea of searching though 1000's of images from the year to find one, THE one, to say "this was my year" - daunting and yet illuminating. I've been thinking deeply about documentation this year - as a partner now when I had only ever been sole teacher in a class, as a learner who's looked hard at pedagogical documentation in readings, at conferences, in #reggioPLC chats and during my own reflections at the end of a day. So I am indeed grateful to Kristine for this unexpected spark. Now I want to hear from you... What do you think? Do you have that "one pic" that you will always think of when you think about this year? Is it a magic moment, a painful time, a breakthrough, a whole-group or single student event? What beliefs do you see reflected in your photos when you go back to find "the one"? Please share, and use the hashtag "#theonepic".