a gift on a string

One of the first photos I took at Fairview PS, my new school. The possibilities of this beautiful space, with its natural climbers and magnificent willow tree, made me excited for the new year to come.

It's been a long while since I've sat down to write in depth about my teaching and learning in Kindergarten. This past year was filled with new challenges and new opportunities as it was my first year at Fairview Public School. I must acknowledge that although the year brought many challenges (including the largest class I've taught to date, at 33 students by spring), I feel like I won the lottery in terms of my amazing teaching partner, Katie. I plan to introduce her here, some time soon. Today, though, I was thinking about the year we had together with our wonderful students and families, and trying to distill what it was that made it such a rich learning experience overall. In part it was the warm welcome from the families; being an outdoor and inquiry-focused educator requires some early outreach (documentation, back up with research in the form of articles and the Kindergarten document) to allay fears around risks, discomfort with being wet or dirty, plus concerns about the academic value of such learning. In late fall we invited our families to join us for a community walk through our beautiful neighbouring park. This turned out to be such a popular and successful experience, in which our students highlighted just how much they knew about their living environment, that it turned into a highly-anticipated monthly event for the rest of the year. This, too, deserves its own post. For now, when I try to distill the biggest overall impact of the outdoors, I know that much learning occurred over the year by individual student passion projects and small group inquiries. Larger studies were documented and shared with the whole class such that every student had a story sometime in the year in our bird or tree inquiry documentation books, for example. But to choose a moment that touched the whole class, I have to think of times when emotions ran high and students were compelled to communicate their distress or amazement with the larger community. There were several such occasions over the year, all in response to something witnessed while outdoors. These moments happen every day, all around us. The magic is in the noticing, and that's the skill I work the hardest to instill.

A view of the school as seen from Kariya Park: just beyond our fence exists this magnificent oasis with ducks, turtles, many birds, beautiful ponds and gardens, all surrounded by walking paths. Part of what made leaving a school and team I loved was knowing my new class would have this wonderful place to explore.

Being in a new school meant learning the affordances of the outdoor space along with our students. New to me was a yard small enough to necessitate a plan for sharing with other classes. Due to our large classes and overall proportion of the school population (six classes of more than 30 students each), we were unable to use the school yard during e-breaks (2 40-minute periods) when the older grades were outside. This presented a welcome challenge: how could we maximize our outdoor time over the day? Before finding creative ways to extend our time in unused spaces, however, there was another new challenge for me. In order to have equitable access to the limited outdoor tools and equipment, the Kindergarten team had a structure in place to rotate classes each day through 4 distinct spaces around the yard: a hard-top area with wheeled toys, a fenced-in "pen" with balls, building toys and games, a playground structure with some shade provided by pines, and an area known as "the meadow" in which the log and stump remains of an enormous ash tree provided an inviting climber. My first thought upon learning we had to follow a schedule was along the lines of mutiny, but I was eager to make a good impression on my new team, and trusted my new partner's thoughts about how well it can work. Of course, she was right: the rotating schedule wound up providing opportunities to get to know each of these spaces intimately, and as such children began to make good predictions based on their knowledge of these mini-eco-zones. As in past years, our class participated in the #KindergartenBioBlitz weeks in fall, winter, and spring, helping to form a culture of looking closely and noticing nature in our class.

Larger inquiries emerged in response to what we noticed while outside in our different spaces:

• the play of light and shadow (noticing evaporation differences in shade and sunlight, building shade structures, bending and bouncing light with reflective materials or the surface of water)
• water movement as seen in rivers forming under gushing gutters, the sometimes dry creek bed in the park next door, rain and snow
• balance and trajectory schema play in the meadow where the large logs and stumps provided various heights for climbing, throwing, stacking
• bird inquiry around the different species we saw in different areas of the school ground (woodpeckers and jays in the pines by the playground, swallows zipping over the field, robins on the hardtop after rain, ducks and gulls wading in the puddles forming beside the field after rain or snowmelt, orioles by the park in spring, many species of songbirds visiting our window and tree feeders)
• plant and tree identification, particularly in fall using fallen leaves, and in spring using the emerging flowers and leaves
• gardening in our window boxes, transplanting to the front raised beds
• insect and invertibrate behaviour 

Students drawing pillbugs we'd collected outdoors (in our "catch and release" glass house); this "looking closely at nature" area from the first day of school gave students a place to collect and observe interesting nature artifacts.

All this is preamble to share a very small moment in time: a gift that came to us on an invisible string. This beautiful day at the end of May, we headed out to the meadow lugging the "wonder wagon" (our cart with various tools for investigating and recording nature observations). Late in the fall we had adopted a tree in the meadow as our own; it was a newly-planted maple with slim trunk. It won out over other favourites, including the magnificent weeping willow that towers overhead. Each time we walked the path into this space, several students would run to greet their favourite tree in the space. This time, there was a gift awaiting us. It dangled, bobbing and twirling, on its invisible thread. A small, green caterpillar cradling a white ball of silk, dancing in the breeze as it hung from the willow tree.

This was the first thing we encountered when we went out to the meadow yesterday. AP: “A caterpillar is flying!” AZ: “It’s hanging on a string.” A big group of us gathered to watch it swing around and around as it hung from the willow tree. #lookclosely #noticingnature pic.twitter.com/sSJn8k7stG

— Beyond 4walls (@Rm19FairviewKs) May 31, 2018

The caterpillar swung from a swaying branch. We gathered in a circle to observe.

I managed to capture a tiny snippet of the action without also capturing student faces or identifying features. Instead of embedding I've included these videos as links below, to open in a separate window ( a friendlier format for those reading on various devices).

The caterpillar dances over our heads.

So many wonders arise as we observe this caterpillar overhead. NS: I hope it turns into a butterfly soon.” AK: I like butterflies, (they’re) so cute.”

What happened next surprised us all. Both teachers turned away for a moment, each of us to talk to different students. When we turned back, the caterpillar was gone. We looked all around, but saw only stunned faces, and a few hands pointing to where the caterpillar had been.

"What happened?" "Where is it?" asked those of us who'd looked away.

The answers tumbled out of several students all at once. As it turns out, a bird had swooped down and grabbed the thing right out of the air, flying away without stopping. I did my best to capture their explanations, and then because I was delighted by the turn of events but horrified that I'd missed it, I asked if any of them could draw a picture or diagram to show me how it happened. The clipboards and drawing materials were sorted out in a hurry. Students asked to tweet our friend and favourite "nature expert", Rob Ridley. This is the story, illustrated and described by the witnesses.

What truly shone in this moment was the intimate knowledge of our environment, and the communication skills of these different learners. Each picture captures important details of that split-second moment in time. By focusing on drawing, equally or perhaps even more than writing, our students became quite skilled at expressing events, opinions, desires, and other ideas. I should note that several students later added words to their initial drawings, from simple one-word labels to titles and short sentences describing the action. It is the drawing, however, that told us so much about what they noticed. This dramatic scene was over in the blink of an eye. What students chose to share, and how they expressed it, demonstrated some amazing creativity and knowledge of text conventions.

Paraphrased explanation: the "string" is blue because like water, it was invisible but can also look blue in drawings.

  

An extreme close-up detailed the size difference of the two creatures, as well as allowing room to add the pertinent detail R noticed about the caterpillar: faint lines along the body and the white ball of silk near its head.

"I drew a map of where the bird was going."

"The bird flew up and the caterpillar was spinning, spinning..."

AK (whose description is included in the collage above) was quite affected by witnessing the suprising event. The next day in class he suggested, "We should put something in the tree so everyone knows what the bird wants. The bird wants a caterpillar. I think the bird is hungry for the caterpillar. They have babies and they want to eat them and bring them to their nest."

Later, while holding a tiny beetle in his hand, AK remembered the event again, "I don't want it on my hand. The bird is going to get on my hand because he wants the bug."

This gift of a surprise turning into study is the best demonstration of a curiosity-driven curriculum I can think of. The thinking behind their illustrations, also the connections students made in order to identify the bird, and to why he swooped down like that... all tie into the importance of slowing down, noticing nature, and wondering together.

As I was writing, I paused to find more tweets from that day. I noticed a tweet from a friend who teaches older students, but none-the-less often inspires me in my own practice due to her use of an environmental education lens. This was exactly what I was writing about, without realizing what made that moment so illustrative of the year: it was the way children pulled their knowledge from our year together to make a whole story to share with our families and friends. The student who identified the bird as a red-winged blackbird, remembering details he'd learn in his many hours (overall) spent watching visitors to our window feeders and reading field guides. The student who used her knowledge of motion lines. The student who inspired others to use arrows to indicate "mapping". The student who surprised us with the unique perspective in the close-up drawing of the bird. The student who included herself and her friend in her picture, to describe how shocked they were as they witnessed the event, and also added the fluffy snowflake-like seeds of the cottonwood tree which blew over us later that same morning. These were seeds planted over the year of joyous curiosity in the outdoors. Thank you Emily for helping me see that.

A2: I really love the moment of shared discovery, when the seeds I’ve planted in ten different directions come together into something new that I’ve never imagined #2PencilChat

— Emily Kissner (@ELKissner) August 7, 2018

If you wish, leave a comment about a moment that has left an impact on your class.

a magical metaphorphosis

Wednesday afternoon I joined the forest school children and teachers for lunch. I was delighted to follow them around the meadow that they already knew so well after only two days, seeing the lovely wood frogs they caught (and then released), one of several moths flitting about the grass, and other tiny wonders. I shared my trick for calling songbirds down closer, or "pishing" and told how I love listening to birds wherever I go. I was touched, then, when T asked me, "Do you want to hear the most beautiful sound in the forest?" to which the only possible answer is, "Yes! Lead the way!" In the deep green veil of leaves (bottom right cormer of the collage) we marvelled at the loudness of the cricket chorus. I was indeed the most beautiful thing. I was honoured.

Today was the third day of the fifth annual, week-long "Rhythm of Learning in Nature" summer intensive course. It is my fifth year in attendance, my daughter's third year of attending the forest school, and my second year of attending as a facilitator for the week. I've written about the deeply immersive experience before, from a very different perspective. I was just finishing my first year at a new school, Thornwood PS, and was writing my observations throughout the week as this entirely new sort of professional experience unfolded. I knew something amazing was happening, but I didn't yet know how important it would be for me, over the year, to reflect on those five days and find inspiration and support from fellow learners who'd become friends.

The day began with a chance to reconnect over breakfast, after which we headed outside to the lawn overlooking Swan Lake. Art invitations were set all about the small yard. There weren't instructions or expectations to visit each one. Already, the freedom to explore as broadly or narrowly as we wanted set this apart from professional gatherings many of us have attended in the past - I heard more than one person comment to this effect today, and over the last two days.

I'm not sure what I was doing at the time (watching others trace faces at the vertical painting, grinding herbs in the mortar and pestles) but suddenly I was called to come see an interesting insect that Alex had found on the ground. I immediately recognized the hard carapace of a cicada, something my students and my own kids have collected with me over the years. Then I saw that it wasn't a carapace, but in fact moving... it was a cicada that had just dug its way up from under the tree, and was likely knocked down from its climb by the ropes used to hang the vertical painting easel. I may have screamed, I was so excited. I remember the forest school children calling me last year to show me the newly emerged cicada they'd found, hours later in the process than this hard-shelled critter clinging to the branch in my hand. I remember the awe as we watched it grow before our eyes... and here we were, able to witness it from the shell. This was magical, for lack of a better word, because it was really the exact opposite of magic. It was deeply mundane, and wonderful.

The cicada had likely fallen from the cedar tree, so I placed it in the crook of two branches where it would be safe from all of our feet. It immediately began to crawl up the bark of the trunk. More and more of us watched as the prehistoric-looking insect clung to the tree on its way to metamorphosize.

The cicada came to a rest in the grown-over hole where a limb had been cut. It seemed to anchor itself with a tight grip, and then was still, until it began to jiggle and dance. We wondered if perhaps it was pulling its legs from within the shell, like we might shake off heavy rubber boots or thick tights. I knew from seeing later stage cicada emergence last year with the forest school children that it would leave through a hole in the back, so I let everyone who would listen know to watch for this to begin. We saw the shape change (the back seemed to arch) but it wasn't until the colour subtly changed and the insect inside began to pulse (or breathe?) that we noticed it had already split its back.

It had already been at least an hour since we'd seen the shelled cicada climb up the tree, but it was still riveting. In front of our eyes we saw the creature pulse, shake, grow, arch, push, stretch its legs, and lean way out of its hard shell. No wings were visible yet, but the colour was brighter now, and the pale eyes had darkened. It was magical to watch. Many of us exclaimed how lucky we were to be present to see this unfold. 

Now the wings unfolded and began to pulse as the green blood flowed through the silvery veins. This process was even more magical, somehow, though the sheer effort of getting out and to this stage left us in awe. The wings stretched out to full, then a few moments later, the cicada folded them neatly along the sides of its body. This happened just before we sat down for our discussion. After we spoke, we noticed that it was now gone, perhaps adding its buzz to the chorus we heard in the trees around us. All that remained was the hard shell. 

Today as we sat down after lunch to reflect together on what we'd done thus far, I was struck by how deeply moved everyone was by the connections we'd made with each other, the place, and with our deepest feelings. We sat in the shade, high above Swan Lake which glimmered in the sunlight down the hill beside our gathering. An impromptu talking stick was passed;. people spoke about where they came from, what they had been expecting, and just how incredibly different this experience was from any other professional development they'd had. People spoke of the difficulty with explaining what it was we did that was different, why this place and time each summer became something shining to hold on to during the year. As the stick was passed, I jotted down words that struck me as powerful, meaningful:

• Wonder 
• Awe
• Gratitude
• Deep connections made
• Perception of time in the outdoors (tapping into phenology)
• A reminder that we learn from everyone in our path
• Not a conference, not "pd", but a knowledge retreat (thank you Sally!)
• Time with materials leads to deep understanding
• We are co-constructing our learning right now
• Sharing our time together so deeply makes this place (space and time together) into a sanctuary for us, a place where the ties that bind can't hold us back, and where we are safe to try, to fail, to share emotion (I hope to feature Nicole's story of how she came to this idea in a future guest post)
• Teaching style is tied to learning style (so embrace learning)
• It's okay to let go, many things are possible even when we can only attend one

Everyone's words touched me, left me thinking about my new year (new school, new team) and what matters most to me in teaching children. Erin, however, touched me particularly because she shared both her love of what she does and the children she works with, but also how incredibly hard and draining the last year was. I understood only too well how it feels to want to BE more, to DO more when our students need more of our us (some years there's more mothering involved, and even more support of the family at home). I understood how difficult it is to express the feeling of needing a break (whether a day off when sick, time away from documentation and reporting when home with family) but also feeling the need to carry the weight for the sake of the children and families we have such a strong connection with. Nadine responded with kindness and understanding: "It is a draining position because we give so much. It is restorative too; I learn and gain so much from the kids. " We give because we feel the need, and because it is joyful.

 It was something said in a place that was safe to express this feeling - at school we hold our head high and smile at every child, our own or in other classes, to show we are happy to see them. We are available, attentive, delighted, respectful, engaged, inspired. It is the most wonderful job there is, one I feel incredibly lucky to grow in every day. It is full of wonder, and joy. It is also full of intense emotions, and our role as supporting children to regulate those (and over time self-regulate throughout their day) requires us to constantly up- or down- regulate to meet the needs of our many learners. It is rewarding. It is also, at times, some years more than others, exhausting, and in order to keep the classroom community a safe place to learn, we show our best self every day. We hold our lamp aloft and shine. This is easier to do when the entire class team enjoy each other and when students come to school feeling ready to join in and learn. This isn't always the case, and when needs must be met in order for children to be able to join in (lack of food, sleep, comfortable clothing for all weather, or other lack) we as teachers naturally must slow down and meet the children where they are. If we can support our teaching partners, share the load (especially in large classes), make each other laugh, help each solve day-to-day problems, we can't help but feel we have the best job in world.  But it is possible to give our light away, and burn down in the process... if too much is asked, or the entire load not shared. So what does coming together to play, to share joy with others (old friends and brand new acquaintances) do for us? We shine our light together, and rekindle those whose lamps are low. It is so much more than learning new skills, techniques, or ideas about pedagogy that brings us back every year.

And thus I found the shared experience of the cicada emerging to be a powerful metaphor, one I shared with the group as we wrapped our sharing circle. I had scribbled a few lines in my journal as we paused:

Like the cicada, we are reborn here. We are pushing through, shaking off our armour, the shield we need to keep strong, but also armour that we carry from our idealized image of how we should be as teachers. Here we push through, shake off the shell and trust that the time and space will be perfect, for us to spread our wings, and like the cicada, to sing the song we've been waiting to sing. 

At home I looked through the photos of the day, and relived the marvel that we witnessed this morning. Here is what came to me...

Why do we feel such connection to this place, to this group of people, some of whom were strangers only two days ago?

The cicada lives underground, under the roots of a tree, for most of its life. It has but a few days with which to emerge (moult), unfold its wings, fly, and "sing" (though not singing as we know it because its more like a rattle in their hind end). The time has to be just right - when the connection to others of its kind are possible. Once it climbs up above ground and begins its climb, it can't turn back. Likewise, in this company in the slowed-down time spend engaging in emerging play in nature, we just have to open and trust that we've picked the right time, and space.

 We live our lives underground?

No, that's not quite right. We do, however, keep our feelings underground while in our professional lives. Educators need the trust of parents, fellow educators, and above all our students, in order to be able to create a classroom learning community. We don't feel able to show vulnerability, instead we project our best, most strong self to welcome others in our classrooms. But educators on a journey of pedagogical learning can be lonely, disconnected from other grades (whose classes hum along at an entirely different rhythm than those of early years classes). We can feel disconnected from others like us, who see and hear the magic of children and who hold in our hearts the image of ourselves as learners, too. We work in our spaces, safe in our armour. We show outwardly that we are capable, not vulnerable; knowledgeable, not full of doubt about what we know and believed important. But at Swan Lake, at Rhythm, we may climb up, root our feet deeply in a trusted place, steady ourselves and begin to dance... we push out against our binds... the memories of our long time underground released, our wings unfurling as we breathe deeply, release the emotion of deep connection... and we may "sing" our song.

Thank you, cicada, for sharing your beautiful journey with us. 

A beautiful moment I was honoured to share with the children at the forest school at last year's Rhythm of Learning in Nature summer intensive course. The kids had come to get me (perhaps at my daughter's urging, or simply because I was the one who always loved to look closely at any small creatures when with them) when they noticed what was happening, and I was able to witness (and document) the wondrous event with them.

the seven (million) wonders of the world

A photo of one of the kids (my daughter or one of the cousins) from our week with family on Cook's Bay, the shallow southern end of Lake Simcoe quite near where I grew up. A mink family was nesting in the rocks just beside the dock, and we often found evidence of their feasts such as this discarded claw.

While my daughter was happy to hold and examine the claw (as seen in the top photo) she was happy to leave this large crayfish alone to rest, perhaps moulting, in the rocks beside the dock.

Love this @nationaltrust list of #50things to do in nature - reminds me of convo with @RangerRidley & @HeatherMMcKay https://t.co/61EzwpkaiR

— kids connect (@KinderFynes) August 1, 2016

I saw this wonderful list today, posted by the National Trust in the UK. It was followed by links to apps to download, all to help families keep track of their activities as they completed the list. It occurred to me that this might have been in response to the now-ubiquitous Pokemon Go game that has kids and adults alike running about outside, trying to gather as many Pokemon as they can and earning points for mileage like a gaming fitbit.

I rather love the list, as I see many items on it I consider "must do" activities with students in class and with my own kids. I laughed to see items such as: No.25 make a grass trumpet which so delighted several students in our class this spring.

In April, after many attempts, one student managed to get a loud sound from her "grass trumpet". She was immensely proud of herself, and patiently taught her friends her strategy (which differed from mine). By the end of the week, we had a band of three. (click here to witness 3 students sharing their new-found noise-making skills).  

It reminded me of a conversation I had a few years ago, with outdoor education enthusiasts and friends Rob Ridley and Heather McKay. Rob is a treasured mentor of mine, an outdoor educator who gently prods us adults to go further, no matter where we start in our journeys outdoors with children. His visits to our class are a big hit - students who chorus "tweet the Ranger!" whenever we discover something surprising on our walks around the school, well those students greet Rob like a rockstar when he visits. Rob had shared a blog post back in August, 2014 about those priceless moments of childhood spent outside, which with the following invitation:

Go ahead, ask your kids – what do they feel every kid should experience outdoors by a certain age? Let me know! (see post here: Nature Time Before the Age of...)

 Heather did just that, and wrote her own love-letter to learning outdoors, "Where the Wild Things Are". She invited readers to ponder:

What have you been thinking about trying in your life?  Maybe it’s time to take that leap of faith….

Heather's post was particularly meaningful to me, because our families met up for an afternoon during the trip she wrote about. We had met once before, at the Hawkins-Inspired Conference in Ontario, but while it was a playful experience it was in the company of adults. This time, with our families away from home in full vacation mode, we were making discoveries about our children alongside them as we played in tidal pools and enjoyed the vastness of the ocean.

My week just got this awesome today @HeatherMMcKay #beautifulbc pic.twitter.com/FDUWd5AVmY

— kids connect (@KinderFynes) July 29, 2014

I wrote about my own aha's from that trip, mainly around self-regulation and the development of an environmental awareness that is possible when spending whole days on end outside. I hadn't responded to Rob's and Heather's queries, not in writing, but I had taken notes in my journal from the trip. Today, seeing the National Trust's #50things inspired me to go back, dig up what the kids had said when I asked them for their "must do by 12" submissions.



My daughter (then 7) suggested:

catch (and release) a crab
eat something you helped catch
climb a big tree
see a falling star
watch "shift change" (birds to bats: sundown, when the swifts swoop down into their chimney nests while moments later the bats come out for the night)

My son (then 13) suggested:

swim "au natural" under the stars
tent in a backyard
bike a "sneaky path" (his name for the deer trails and narrow footpaths where a kid can travel unseen even while standing)

My own (2 years ago):

swim in an ocean, a pond, a river, a lake
jump off of a cliff to swim
save a bird (window strike)
call a squirrel or bird out into the open
follow a wild creature for as long as possible without disturbing it (mink, beaver, muskrat, raccoon, rabbit, chipmunk, heron)

Today I add a new fascination of mine, one that has developed over the last few years as I've rediscovered my earlier love of geography:

follow a river or creek as far as possible - discover its headwaters, its mouth, and travel its winding curves through a forest or through urban landscape

 I realize my new submission is a difficult one for younger children, but a wonderful goal to set as a group, such as a family. A few weeks ago, when we spent our time near the southern tip of Lake Simcoe, we talked about what we saw as we watched the sun go down over the bay. The kids now know much more about the larger lake that spreads northwards, our spot being like the fingernail on a large hand, pointing down towards Holland Landing, and wrist meeting Lake Couchiching in Orillia. They felt the cold waves in Kempenfelt Bay when we spent a beach day in Barrie, and compared that to the warm shallows of Cook's Bay where we were staying. We heard a loon call at night, further south than we ever thought a loon would summer. On our way home, we crossed familiar waterways marked on the roads, and sighed when we crested the last hill before home, as Lake Ontario came into view, huge and blue before us.

Getting outdoors together, whether with a class or with family, allows for kids to see things they might not see if playing alone or with friends. Being in wild or near-wild spaces helps us all slow down, notice life of all kinds around us.

Our tent being dismantled on our last day at the lake - obscured from view, the dock and rocks where the mink scampered daily. Click here to see the mink on the move, or here for a friendly visit from various local creatures.

 

The "full buck moon" seen through binoculars. Photo by my daughter. We stayed out as late as we could each night (mosquitoes being quite good at chasing us indoors or beside the smoky fire) to watch the "shift change" when swallows went to roost and the fast-flapping bats came out.

Sunrise as seen from our tent. Worth waking at 5 AM.

Me replacing a poor little catfish we found on the lawn. I thought it was dead, as I found it some 3 meters from the shore on the grass, but when I picked it up to inspect it, it gave a powerful "flip!" and I nearly dropped it in surprise. We had been watching herons, osprey and terns fishing all week; it was likely one of these fishing birds that dropped its wiggling prey.

A damselfly nymph I caught (or did it catch me? It did follow me while I swam) that was very spooky while swimming, but upon closer inspection became obvious after a blue adult damselfly landed on my arm. The kids were fascinated to discover something completely new. Truth be told, I was too.

As I'm writing, my other open tab alerted me to the fact that someone had replied to my tweet, sharing the #50things list. Heather and Rob were chiming in with new ideas for how to grow and share our lists with others.

@KinderFynes @nationaltrust @RangerRidley It would be neat to display a list like this at school and annotate with photos from the year!

— Heather McKay (@HeatherMMcKay) August 1, 2016

@HeatherMMcKay @KinderFynes @nationaltrust This week's #EnviroEd theme is Free Play in Schools ... Connections abound

— Rob Ridley (@RangerRidley) August 1, 2016

Here we are, at summer's half-way mark, and such a lovely long month ahead to try new things. Next week my daughter and I will once again spend a week at Swan Lake with the YRNC for this year's Rhythm of Learning in Nature, and I will compare notes with fellow eductors from Canada and around the world. Won't you add your own "must do" or "must see" ideas here?

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".

how big is the sun?

Our "outside welcome circle" is a time spent singing song, reciting our poems, listening to bird songs and other sounds around us, and noticing life all around us. This week our focus also extended out to the sky.

This week began differently than the last four weeks, by virtue of the fact that our "visitors" (in fact caterpillars which emerged as painted lady butterflies) who'd so enchanted everyone were now all gone. (click here for storify version of the visitors). The last of our resident butterflies had been released into the dandelion-filled long grass in our beloved "no-mow zone" on the Friday. After everyone was gone, my afternoon partner Sanchita and I removed the large gauze tent where the butterflies had been fluttering and feeding on fragrant foods all week. The "visitor" centre gone, along with my recent removal of old documentation from bulletin boards, now the room seemed much emptier. I wondered what interests might fill the space.

The Sundog 

The week also began differently due to an unfortunate and mundane occurrence: a water pipe break on the upper floor on the weekend meant arriving early at school on Monday to discover a crowd of school staff gathering outside the entrance, awaiting details and permission to enter the premises. As information came in from the various staff working hard inside to contain the water, we soon realized that while school would be open, several of us would not have access to our classrooms, including the entire Kindergarten team. Thankfully the damage was minimal this time, mostly pertaining to ceiling tiles and bulletin boards along the internal wall of our classrooms, though carpets also got wet. The teamwork was inspiring, with help arriving from all around our family of schools including our wonderful Superintendent who jumped right in to help out. Our side of the pod had dry, clean washrooms and a water fountain easily accessed from the K-yard, so we knew we'd manage.

The storify embedded below contains the tweets sent from my class on that sunny, magical day, as well as the following day when our new inquiry began to emerge.

During our "play and learn" time when students choose where to explore and whom to work with, individual or small group interests were still playing out: ramp-building with various materials, "body balance" challenges with big blocks and planks, mandalas with loose parts such as flowers, beach glass, and stones, and drawing labelled diagrams at the "look closely" table. Each day when we met as a whole group, however, whether inside under the large chart poem or outside under the sun, the same ideas kept coming up.

Several students (strong readers) noticed my error in the first line. I decided to leave the poem this way as a discussion point and it did lead to several mini-lessons about spacing, best work, and when to let an error go (such as when you love the artwork you made to illustrate the poem!)

In the true spirit of adventure, when we first set out for our meeting under the blue sky, I had students grab our grass mats, I grabbed my iPad and a copy of the poem, and we were off. What I hadn't anticipated was such a rich conversation that I would want to record - every word - and that I'd need my usual clipboard because I'm simply too slow with the iPad and outdoor recording is a bit difficult to hear upon replay. While I remember clearly the emotions that rose and the ideas that bubbled up all around our circle, I regret that I was unable to capture all the rich conversation of the morning session (though happily I managed to get quite a bit). So naturally when the afternoon class (like their AM class before them) picked outside meeting time, I grabbed a clipboard and tucked it under my arm before heading out to the front of our school where the lawn is shaded by plenty of mature trees. Somewhere between our door and the lawn, I lost the pen. Yet again, the conversation was so fascinating I was torn between sending a student to the office for a pen and simply being in the moment with the ideas bouncing between children and being rephrased. I chose to stay. This circle being on the front lawn and not out on the meadow, however, meant it was too noisy with traffic and the nearby train for me to record clearly. I did, however, learn my lesson. In the past when a huge interest has emerged and then trickled away before I could harness it (with provocations: books, video clips and/or materials to further the questioning) I simply let it go.

This time, with the sun shining down so brightly and the poem as our anchor each day, I decided to invite students to come speak to me during play and learn over the week. I told them I would like to interview them about their ideas. I wanted to get these ideas down while the topic was still fresh, and also while the students were practicing the poem (before it goes home in the weekly home reading folder). It was remarkable, and I'd like to share their ideas with you.

Sunlight filtered through the trees at the park.

My original question to my students as we met out on the grass was: do you think the poem makes sense? What do you think happens to the sun when you go to bed? I'm thankful that I thought to press "record" and just let our conversation flow. I managed to capture over 5 minutes though not all of it was audible. Here's what I was able to transcribe. I was asking a student to clarify his thinking as I pressed record. Please forgive the confusion, we have many students whose names start with M.

Me: "What's happening at night, then? Can you explain it to us?"

E: "There's one half, bright side of the earth, and one half, dark side of the earth. The dark side is night time and the bright side is day time.".

Me: "Did everybody hear what E said?"

All: "Yeah, yes".

Me: "So it's not that the sun is sleeping, it's kind of like the people on the dark side are sleeping. I like the way you described that. Now M, you said the sun stays, and you also said that the moon, what does the moon do? Show me what you're thinking".

M: "Okay, I'm going to be in the middle, and everyone is going to listen".

Me: "Sure, that's fine. What would you like to say?"

M: "There's one half of two, because the earth is in the middle, and that makes two halves of one (she claps her hands together) - one half morning, one half dark"

Me: "Right..."

M: "...and the half of morning makes the sun awake because it's always bright on that side"

Me: "And what happens on the other side?"

M: "On the other side it's always dark, but the moon shines its bright colour, so it's always awake too. And also, the earth moves to the dark side to make it night, and the moon doesn't sleep, we sleep!"

Me: "The moon doesn't sleep, we sleep. I like the way you said that".

M: "The sun doesn't sleep, we are awake and the sun is awake".

Me: "So, some of the poem is correct? Now M, let's let M tell, I see he has a thought to share".

M: "With the earth, they think to the sun that its day time, and when the earth says: "I don't want the sun to shine" and he faces to the moon, but sometimes he gets in-between, that means the moon right there is over there"

Me: "So the moon is doing something different than the sun. Interesting"

The next student is quiet and interrupted by children talking about a bee buzzing by. I interviewed him another day as I couldn't make out what he said.

Me: "This poem made people think really deeply about the sun. I love it. M, (a girl again) what were you thinking about?"

M: "I think that maybe when the sun goes down, it doesn't go to sleep, it goes under a lake when the sun sets".

Me: "And how does it get back out again?"

M: "Slowly rises".

Me: "That part reminds me of the poem: the sun gets up (everyone joins) in the east..."

(recording ends as another insect discovery breaks our focus and we follow that instead).

Here are the morning students responses for the one-on-one "interviews" on Thursday and Friday. Not all students came to see me for "an interview" though several watched with interest when their friends spoke to me. 

Me: "What happens when it gets dark? What is happening to the sun?"

D: "Sun goes down, sleeps with the stars. Why does the sun always sleep? All black, because we sleep". 

S: "Not sleeping" (she meant the sun is not sleeping when she goes to bed).

A: "It flies (at night), goes east - the earth is moving - the sun is on the other side, not sleeping".

M: "The sun doesn't go to bed, it's getting up in the east - the sun is like the moon at night".

M: (demonstrating the motion of the sun and moon circling the earth with his hands) "The sun doesn't sleep. No, wait it sleeps and the earth and the moon comes up and blocks the sunlight - so the moonlight is stronger - it blocks the sun from shining - it takes out the sunshine, takes all the shine for itself so it's dark again". 

R: "The sun doesn't sleep. In the night the moon comes - the sun doesn't sleep, it doesn't have eyes! It goes somewhere else. I don't know where".

K: "The sun goes to sleep - to an island and down to the sea.

H: (At night the sun is) "hiding".

U: "Shining all the way". (shook his head "no idea" when asked why we don't see it).

A: "The sun is far away. I think it goes to all the other planets - they're friends together - now he (the sun) not sleep - our planet is always awake (too)".

M: "One side of our planet is morning, and afternoon, and night" (she models this showing different times around the earth). "The sun - I heard about sunsets - the sun goes in the lake - it sleeps in the water. Night has arrived. So the poem is true!"

J: "I don't know - hide and seek - comes back".

I was so struck by the knowledge underlying these responses: students had ideas about the planets and moon in motion, about moonlight and sunshine, about time of day and possibly even eclipses, judging by M's ideas about the moon blocking the sun. I didn't want to lose the momentum before the week was through and we moved on to a new poem, so I made myself more available to the afternoon group (by not joining in at various explorations as I normally do) and as such was able to interview all who wanted to share their ideas with me.

Here are the afternoon students' responses. What stands out to me is how the original (not captured) group conversations have shaped the ideas in each class. See a different picture emerge in terms of their understanding of what's happening at night.

A: "It goes down to another country - Canada gets dark and the moon comes up, and the sun goes around".

A: "Maybe it goes where the grass is - it has to be dark - the sun sleeps at home, and in the morning it goes up".

G: "I see the sun up (points through the leafy branches overhead). At night - the tv has sun, too".

J: "The sun goes to another country, it makes it shine, then the moon comes, then the moon goes to another country and the sun comes back".

C: "When I go to sleep I see the sky is pink and blue and yellow and then I see the moon. I think the sun sets, it goes to sleep".

N: "It goes to the end of the world and then the sun sets - like colourful. It hides - maybe it turns into a moon, or maybe it turns around". (she was thinking as she spoke, revising her theories)

S: "The sun turns into stars only at night, in the morning the stars turn into the sun - they make a big sun altogether and in the morning they split up again. Maybe when the full moon goes down it's grey but in the day it's yellow. 

J: "Dark - the sun goes does and the moon goes up. The sun goes down, down, down below - it goes pink then dark. The pink and purple sky goes down, too".

D: "Maybe the rainbow is going up because it's night - and the sun changes to a moon" (I ask if the sun changes shape like the moon does, with full moon, crescent...) "Maybe - no, sun is round?"

A: (hearing his friend he had to add on, he was the first quoted above) "Sun is always round - the moon changes".

Z: "Night-time the sun goes down and goes shining to another country, like Pakistan. Pakistan has day, we have night - Pakistan has night, we have day. The sun is closer (than the moon) so you can see it bigger".

F: "It's always gone (at night) - it goes to bed".

M: "It gets down to the grass. (why dark?) Because we go to sleep, it gets tired, it goes to sleep".

D: "Gone - sleep".

A: "It can go down when it's night and when it's morning it gets up again - it goes west - shine somewhere else. It's always shining".

A: "Moon - night, day too. Sun - never at night - sleep".

J: "It disappears (the sun) - it goes down at night".

It was hard for me to record all of these ideas without clapping my hands together in glee. I did, however, mention to my team all week that asking about the sun had given me great insight into my students' thinking and wondering. 

I am still digesting the ideas shared by Suzanne Axelsson during her "The Art of Listening" talk at Acorn School last month (click here to see storify of that day); a big take-away was the fact that students are "knowledge thirsty" and capable of philosophical thought at a very young age, but need the time and space to listen and to be heard. While I haven't yet developed the level of listening amongst students where whole group discussions like this are possible except with the most provocative, exciting topics, I do see the value in uncovering students' so-called "wrong" ideas about the world in order to help provoke them to discovering or realizing their mistakenly held ideas. I wonder if the students who seem to have a more nuanced view actually do understand it the way they explain it, or if they've read books or seen movies that talk about how the moon rotates around the earth, for example. Ideas about ice, water, balance and motion are much more easily developed through natural, purposeful play experiences. The sun and daylight, however, is experienced directly and yet indirectly. Naturally I hope to take all these ideas and provoke deeper thought, through experiments, reading stories, more questions, and finding ways to invite cognitive dissonance which is the point of real, deep learning. 

Ms. Duric engaged in shadow exploration with her class in the K-yard this week: first they traced her outline, then had to direct her back into alignment with their drawing so I could take a photo. Lada gently prompted her students ("now what do I do next? Can you tell me what to do step-by-step?" and I marvelled at how it made them slow down and work together. I wonder if our inquiries will overlap.

So here I am, wondering what will become of our big ideas next week. I think many of my students will engage in discussing our inquiry at home when they read the poem in their home connection "Friday Folders". I can't help but wonder if some students will explore further, with books or online research done with their families. I am excited by what has come up so far, and I will share their words (or perhaps read the other class's comments instead) at an upcoming meeting. My next step is to do some research, to find resources to further expand our knowledge and look for other classes, perhaps older grades, with whom to correspond and gather new ideas. If you are interested in corresponding with my students via @FynesKs or have suggestions for us, please leave a comment below.