If you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your 'moment' in the comments for all to find and see.
Friday, July 01, 2011
*this moment*
{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.
If you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your 'moment' in the comments for all to find and see.
If you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your 'moment' in the comments for all to find and see.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Sun, Sand, and Strawberries
This morning, the Boy came into our room at 6 and snuggled with me for a while. When he got too squirmy and started telling me he wanted a snack, we got up, and he was very happy to eat handfull after handfull of strawberries from the flat in the fridge. At least he let me wash them first. These were the berries I picked yesterday at Apple Jack Orchards after dropping Boy off at daycare.
Okay, before we go any further, that last sentence? The one with "daycare" in it? That was hard to put out there. My partner, M, has stayed at home with Boy since I went back to teaching when he was 3 months old. We have been so lucky in this; she was with him during the week all this year, working weekends to make ends meet, and I have been Mama-on-Duty most of the time in the summer. But this summer, we are opening a coffee shop, and I'll be back to school in September, so we're trying something new. Boy is going to our dear friends' home childcare two days a week. In the fall, he'll be there four days, experiencing a rich Waldorf early childhood program with people who love him and whom he knows and loves.
So, back to today... as we were eating berries, making coffee, feeding pets, I told Boy that we had special plans. "We're going to the beach this morning, so we have to eat breakfast and get ready!"
There were lots of questions -- Boy is two-and-a-half, in spades, and there are always questions. Is there a park there? Where is the beach? Is Mama M going? We go there in a car? Is there a park? Will we play there?
I packed popcorn, banana chips, and raisins. I packed sunscreen and towels, diapers and wipes, camera and hats. Boy got out the big canteen and we filled it with ice water. He went several times into our bedroom to shake M awake and crow, "We're going to a beach today!"
When we arrived at the lakeshore, it was very quiet. People were biking and skating and running on the trails, but no one was at the playground yet, and there was only one quiet man pushing himself on the tire swing. I was a little nervous abou the man on the tire swing -- it was 8 in the morning, not a time when many adult men are utilizing playground equipment. Boy was not too interested in the beach at first, and who can blame him with the gorgeous playground that was next to it, dappled in leafy shade and with four different play structures and many bouncy ride-on toys? After a while, the man drifted away, and we meandered over to the beach.
The water was chilly at first, and we shared the beach with one middle-aged swimmer and some ducks. The ducks later proved to be very bold and nearly tame, coming right up to various beach towels and demanding snacks. Boy was cautious at first in the water, but caution soon gave way to laughter and requests for splashing and "Teach me to swim!" We played for an hour before I was able to coax him back to our blanket for snacks and a break. As the beach filled up with other children, parents, and grandparents, he spent more time watching how they approached the water, how the older children swam or built sand castles, how the grandmothers encouraged recalcitrant toddlers and grandfathers snapped pictures.
We went back to the playground for a while, and it was getting hotter. Boy tried out slides and ladders, played in the sand, rode a motorcycle, and was eventually tired enough to come sit on my lap for another handfull of popcorn and raisins, and to be led back to the car. He fell asleep on the way home, woke up for a while when I brought him into the house, and then settled down for a nap. He's been asleep for two hours now, so my time for writing is running out.
I feel so blessed to have this time in the summer to spend with him. It is awe-inspiring to see him trying things for the first time, to hear his laughter and see him figuring out how to do something new. The lake is only a few miles from our house, and there are dozens of lakeshore beaches, wading pools, splash parks, and big pools nearby. This afternoon, though, if we need more water play, we'll be in our own yard, with the sprinkler. The forecast is for 100ºF today, and I can only stand so much air conditioning (but I am so grateful for it)!
Where do you go to be near water? Is it the sea, the ocean, a river or creek?
What new and amazing experiences do you want to share with children this summer?
Okay, before we go any further, that last sentence? The one with "daycare" in it? That was hard to put out there. My partner, M, has stayed at home with Boy since I went back to teaching when he was 3 months old. We have been so lucky in this; she was with him during the week all this year, working weekends to make ends meet, and I have been Mama-on-Duty most of the time in the summer. But this summer, we are opening a coffee shop, and I'll be back to school in September, so we're trying something new. Boy is going to our dear friends' home childcare two days a week. In the fall, he'll be there four days, experiencing a rich Waldorf early childhood program with people who love him and whom he knows and loves.
So, back to today... as we were eating berries, making coffee, feeding pets, I told Boy that we had special plans. "We're going to the beach this morning, so we have to eat breakfast and get ready!"
There were lots of questions -- Boy is two-and-a-half, in spades, and there are always questions. Is there a park there? Where is the beach? Is Mama M going? We go there in a car? Is there a park? Will we play there?
I packed popcorn, banana chips, and raisins. I packed sunscreen and towels, diapers and wipes, camera and hats. Boy got out the big canteen and we filled it with ice water. He went several times into our bedroom to shake M awake and crow, "We're going to a beach today!"
When we arrived at the lakeshore, it was very quiet. People were biking and skating and running on the trails, but no one was at the playground yet, and there was only one quiet man pushing himself on the tire swing. I was a little nervous abou the man on the tire swing -- it was 8 in the morning, not a time when many adult men are utilizing playground equipment. Boy was not too interested in the beach at first, and who can blame him with the gorgeous playground that was next to it, dappled in leafy shade and with four different play structures and many bouncy ride-on toys? After a while, the man drifted away, and we meandered over to the beach.
The water was chilly at first, and we shared the beach with one middle-aged swimmer and some ducks. The ducks later proved to be very bold and nearly tame, coming right up to various beach towels and demanding snacks. Boy was cautious at first in the water, but caution soon gave way to laughter and requests for splashing and "Teach me to swim!" We played for an hour before I was able to coax him back to our blanket for snacks and a break. As the beach filled up with other children, parents, and grandparents, he spent more time watching how they approached the water, how the older children swam or built sand castles, how the grandmothers encouraged recalcitrant toddlers and grandfathers snapped pictures.
We went back to the playground for a while, and it was getting hotter. Boy tried out slides and ladders, played in the sand, rode a motorcycle, and was eventually tired enough to come sit on my lap for another handfull of popcorn and raisins, and to be led back to the car. He fell asleep on the way home, woke up for a while when I brought him into the house, and then settled down for a nap. He's been asleep for two hours now, so my time for writing is running out.
I feel so blessed to have this time in the summer to spend with him. It is awe-inspiring to see him trying things for the first time, to hear his laughter and see him figuring out how to do something new. The lake is only a few miles from our house, and there are dozens of lakeshore beaches, wading pools, splash parks, and big pools nearby. This afternoon, though, if we need more water play, we'll be in our own yard, with the sprinkler. The forecast is for 100ºF today, and I can only stand so much air conditioning (but I am so grateful for it)!
Where do you go to be near water? Is it the sea, the ocean, a river or creek?
What new and amazing experiences do you want to share with children this summer?
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
What can you expect?
What can you expect here?
* Thursdays will feature some new writing from me, musings on whatever aspect of parenting or teaching or partnering or living is living most strongly for me that day.
* On Friday, I will post a new *this moment* photo, a few links to fantastic stuff, and more musings. I'm not pledging a particular time on either of these.
* other days, there may be thoughts, questions, ideas, projects, polls, or links for you to peruse, use, enjoy...
like this one from mentalmultivitamin
or this one from beautythatmoves
* Thursdays will feature some new writing from me, musings on whatever aspect of parenting or teaching or partnering or living is living most strongly for me that day.
* On Friday, I will post a new *this moment* photo, a few links to fantastic stuff, and more musings. I'm not pledging a particular time on either of these.
* other days, there may be thoughts, questions, ideas, projects, polls, or links for you to peruse, use, enjoy...
like this one from mentalmultivitamin
or this one from beautythatmoves
Saturday, June 18, 2011
muggy morning
Our boy has a fever. He is whiney and exhausted, but wants to play. I spent a lot of time this past week working on my end-of-year reports, which in many ways feels like a fever of the mind. I burned through the year, refining, cutting away what was inessential, looking for the kernels of gold amongst the dross that I could share with the parents of my students. It mean in turn.
And now that work is done, and the school year, the hardest I have ever had, is finally laid to rest. This was the school year that turned me inside out in new ways. Last year, I taught a first grade class of four little girls. They were sweet and charming and tractable. It took no time at all to transition from one activity to another. They were eager to learn, and the chattiness of four children is completely manageable with simple conversation and gentle reminders. I worked with three individuals.
This year, I moved to a large, established Waldorf school in the city. I had a class of 15 which grew to 17 and shrank back to 16. And it didn't work -- almost nothing that I had in my back pocket worked. Changing volume or pitch to get the children's attention? Nope. Playing clapping games or doing tongue twisters while we waited? Nuh-uh. Yelling, which became less and less a last resort, and more and more my usual tone of voice? No way.
And then, mid-year, I was really ill. I came back from winter break, and suddenly I was having intense abdominal pain. It took several days and lots of tests to finally get someone to pay enough attention to figure it out. My appendix was calcified. It needed to come out. Soon. I missed two weeks of school, all told, and I went back too soon. I was worn out, coming off pain medication, and trying to pull a class back together after the holidays, plus two disjointed weeks with a substitute teacher.
And they sent in an outside evaluator, one who didn't mince words. One who asked me, "Are you sure you're in the right place?"
I crumbled. I wept. I was enraged -- who was this person, to question my vocation? To be so frank and unsympathetic? How dare she? How could they send someone like that into my classroom, knowing I was getting over surgery and everything?
It took a long time, and a lot of mentoring and coaching, and a lot of humility, for me to move past that point. I had to admit that my eleven years of experience meant nothing to these children. That they needed more from me, and that they needed me to do something differently. I was trying to teach them like I'd taught other children, in another school, at another time, in different numbers.
In retrospect, I liken it to saying to a guest,"My other guests have liked this meal, so I'll serve it to you, even though I can see you don't like it. Other guests liked playing croquet, so that's what we'll do, even though you've told me you prefer chess."
Rudolf Steiner, in one of his lectures to the teachers at the first Waldorf school said (I'm paraphrasing here. Please forgive me), at the end of a year, you will feel that you know how to teach the grade you've just finished. And then it's time to teach a different grade. You should be entering the classroom with fear and trembling.
Now that this school year is done, I can see what I ought to have done differently. I'm making changes to my planning, to how I will establish my classroom rules and expectations, and to how I talk about and think about the children I teach. I know I cannot keep blindly doing what worked before -- I have to stay awake, to notice when things aren't working, and do something differently.
But for now, it is time to let go, to say, that is done. To learn and move on. Next week, I fly to Pennsylvania to spend three days at the Essential Grade Two conference with Eugene Schwartz. When I come home, there are other Big Things afoot, but there will also be lots of time to laze, to breathe, to recover from the fever of burning through the work of this past year, and to discover what lies ahead for me, for my family, for my class.
And now that work is done, and the school year, the hardest I have ever had, is finally laid to rest. This was the school year that turned me inside out in new ways. Last year, I taught a first grade class of four little girls. They were sweet and charming and tractable. It took no time at all to transition from one activity to another. They were eager to learn, and the chattiness of four children is completely manageable with simple conversation and gentle reminders. I worked with three individuals.
This year, I moved to a large, established Waldorf school in the city. I had a class of 15 which grew to 17 and shrank back to 16. And it didn't work -- almost nothing that I had in my back pocket worked. Changing volume or pitch to get the children's attention? Nope. Playing clapping games or doing tongue twisters while we waited? Nuh-uh. Yelling, which became less and less a last resort, and more and more my usual tone of voice? No way.
And then, mid-year, I was really ill. I came back from winter break, and suddenly I was having intense abdominal pain. It took several days and lots of tests to finally get someone to pay enough attention to figure it out. My appendix was calcified. It needed to come out. Soon. I missed two weeks of school, all told, and I went back too soon. I was worn out, coming off pain medication, and trying to pull a class back together after the holidays, plus two disjointed weeks with a substitute teacher.
And they sent in an outside evaluator, one who didn't mince words. One who asked me, "Are you sure you're in the right place?"
I crumbled. I wept. I was enraged -- who was this person, to question my vocation? To be so frank and unsympathetic? How dare she? How could they send someone like that into my classroom, knowing I was getting over surgery and everything?
It took a long time, and a lot of mentoring and coaching, and a lot of humility, for me to move past that point. I had to admit that my eleven years of experience meant nothing to these children. That they needed more from me, and that they needed me to do something differently. I was trying to teach them like I'd taught other children, in another school, at another time, in different numbers.
In retrospect, I liken it to saying to a guest,"My other guests have liked this meal, so I'll serve it to you, even though I can see you don't like it. Other guests liked playing croquet, so that's what we'll do, even though you've told me you prefer chess."
Rudolf Steiner, in one of his lectures to the teachers at the first Waldorf school said (I'm paraphrasing here. Please forgive me), at the end of a year, you will feel that you know how to teach the grade you've just finished. And then it's time to teach a different grade. You should be entering the classroom with fear and trembling.
Now that this school year is done, I can see what I ought to have done differently. I'm making changes to my planning, to how I will establish my classroom rules and expectations, and to how I talk about and think about the children I teach. I know I cannot keep blindly doing what worked before -- I have to stay awake, to notice when things aren't working, and do something differently.
But for now, it is time to let go, to say, that is done. To learn and move on. Next week, I fly to Pennsylvania to spend three days at the Essential Grade Two conference with Eugene Schwartz. When I come home, there are other Big Things afoot, but there will also be lots of time to laze, to breathe, to recover from the fever of burning through the work of this past year, and to discover what lies ahead for me, for my family, for my class.
Friday, June 10, 2011
This Moment
Inspired by Amanda at Soulemama
{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.
If you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your 'moment' in the comments for all to find and see.
Have a lovely weekend!
{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.
If you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your 'moment' in the comments for all to find and see.
Have a lovely weekend!
Friday, May 20, 2011
lilac scented night
Gentle reader, it is May. Have you ever experienced May in Minnesota, or anywhere there are lilacs? Oh, the LILACS! I am a deep lover of the second and third weeks of May for the sake of two things: Lilacs, and crab apple blossom. I grew up in a house with a huge, pink crab apple tree smack in the middle of the front yard. In the spring, I would go out and cut branches heavy with bright pink, fragrant blossoms and put them in glasses in the house. I tucked sprays of it behind my ears. I carried it around with me.
There were lilac bushes outside my high school, and in the last weeks of classes, every room had at least three girls with stolen spikes of purple or white tucked into their hair, their pockets, or their books.
Lilac is not a shy scent. Neither is crab apple. They are heavy and cloying in small rooms, but out there, tonight, in the cool spring rain, they are the scent of heaven.
In his little bed, my boy is sleeping. Today, my first graders performed their play, and it was gorgeous and chaotic and somehow cohesive and coherent. My partner and I across the room from one another, typing at our respective machines, and I am thanking God for lilacs and crab apple trees, for children and strong tea, and for soft rain.
Blessings on your night.
There were lilac bushes outside my high school, and in the last weeks of classes, every room had at least three girls with stolen spikes of purple or white tucked into their hair, their pockets, or their books.
Lilac is not a shy scent. Neither is crab apple. They are heavy and cloying in small rooms, but out there, tonight, in the cool spring rain, they are the scent of heaven.
In his little bed, my boy is sleeping. Today, my first graders performed their play, and it was gorgeous and chaotic and somehow cohesive and coherent. My partner and I across the room from one another, typing at our respective machines, and I am thanking God for lilacs and crab apple trees, for children and strong tea, and for soft rain.
Blessings on your night.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
there's got to be a pony in here somewhere
Okay, I started to write you a post about how awful teaching first grade is sometimes, but instead, I am going to give you this:
Because that is way, way better than complaining, which you didn't want to read anyway, right?
Stay tuned for a write-up of our class play!
Because that is way, way better than complaining, which you didn't want to read anyway, right?
Stay tuned for a write-up of our class play!
Sunday, May 15, 2011
our new title
When I first started this blog, lo these many years ago, I titled it, "teaching on the edge of time," because Waldorf education is so very forward-thinking and future-oriented, despite carrying with it some vestiges of early-twentieth century educational practice. Later I shortened it to "on the edge of time," which reflected more the urgency and anxiety I was feeling about my parenting and teaching, whether it showed at the time or not.
Our new title, "the clear land," comes from my favorite read-aloud book, The Wind Boy by Ethel Cook Eliot. The Clear Land in this story is the one just above ours, the one where our nobler selves live and play amongst the Clear People, and where everything is a bit simpler, a bit finer, and a bit wilder than here in our land. There are things we humans can do that the Clear People cannot, because we have free will. There are things we can do in the Clear Land that we cannot do here on earth, because there, we live from our hearts.
I wish for all my students, my son, my family, my readers, and myself that we may find that clear land within us where we can climb the air, where we find our true selves, and where we can find one another in a deeper, truer way.
Welcome to the clear land.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Having a Life, and Living a Life
Sometimes, I wonder when, as a parent and a teacher, I get to have a life again. When will I get to go to movies, have coffee with friends, go on dates with my spouse, go dancing, read novels, sing in the church choir, plan a day without considering lesson prep or naptime, be on the computer or watch tv whenever it strikes my fancy, spend hours in bookstores...? When will I live again?
And at other times, I realize what a silly, silly question this is.
As parents, and as teachers, writers, doctors, lawyers, priests, therapists, managers, entrepreneurs, or whatever, we are not here to "have a life," we're here to live one. This one, right here. It's pretty easy to get caught up in the swirl of daily life, and to resort to casting myself as a pawn of fortune, at the mercy of others and of circumstance. When I start wondering when I get to have a life, there are two problems:
1) I am not living my life. I am so busy worrying about what I'm missing out on, what fun is happening without me, that I am missing out on what is actually happening. When we pout and fume about what we're not doing, we also fail to be doing what we are, um, doing.
and 2) I'm casting myself as the victim, not the hero in my story. When I get a role in my own life as the victim, I am totally robbed of my power. The power to create, to love, to work on being human, this is a huge, fantastic, gorgeous gift from God. Self-pity is like saying, "Thanks for the one-of-a-kind pearl tiara made just for me (or whatever other precious, amazing giftie you want to plug in there), but it's not my style." Uh, no.
So, when do I get to have a life? I have a freaking AMAZING life. I am so grateful for it. When they say, "In all things, give thanks," or "Rejoice in the Lord always," or "Cultivate gratitude," it's not some Pollyanna Glad Game BS. When stuff is really awful, it's really awful, but I don't sit around thinking, "Gosh, I just want an hour along in Barnes and Noble." When there's seriously bad stuff going down, I'm too busy trying to breathe, or yelling for help, or dwelling in it and letting myself experience what I'm experiencing, or doing What Must Be Done, to waste time in self-pity.
I'm working in a school that was new to me this year, with another new first grade class, and I am having to work my butt off. But having to work hard? That's a world-rocking gift. My son is 2 1/2. Every morning, he is UP and ready to play before 6:15 am. He is a non-stop teacher of living in the moment, of loving the world, of patience and full-tilt love.
I do an awful lot of grumbling about my lively class, about my loud, stompy, treat-demanding son. I'd love to complain less, to do more, to get up and say, well, I would love to go to a bookstore, I would love to read a novel. And then? Then I can say,
"YES! and let's make it happen."
or
"Nope. This other thing is what I am CHOOSING, for a valid reason, right now."
Choice. Power. Gratitude.
I have a life. I am living my life. And when I'm not, may someone kick my ass right back into shape, so I can get back to the real work I'm here to do.
And at other times, I realize what a silly, silly question this is.
As parents, and as teachers, writers, doctors, lawyers, priests, therapists, managers, entrepreneurs, or whatever, we are not here to "have a life," we're here to live one. This one, right here. It's pretty easy to get caught up in the swirl of daily life, and to resort to casting myself as a pawn of fortune, at the mercy of others and of circumstance. When I start wondering when I get to have a life, there are two problems:
1) I am not living my life. I am so busy worrying about what I'm missing out on, what fun is happening without me, that I am missing out on what is actually happening. When we pout and fume about what we're not doing, we also fail to be doing what we are, um, doing.
and 2) I'm casting myself as the victim, not the hero in my story. When I get a role in my own life as the victim, I am totally robbed of my power. The power to create, to love, to work on being human, this is a huge, fantastic, gorgeous gift from God. Self-pity is like saying, "Thanks for the one-of-a-kind pearl tiara made just for me (or whatever other precious, amazing giftie you want to plug in there), but it's not my style." Uh, no.
So, when do I get to have a life? I have a freaking AMAZING life. I am so grateful for it. When they say, "In all things, give thanks," or "Rejoice in the Lord always," or "Cultivate gratitude," it's not some Pollyanna Glad Game BS. When stuff is really awful, it's really awful, but I don't sit around thinking, "Gosh, I just want an hour along in Barnes and Noble." When there's seriously bad stuff going down, I'm too busy trying to breathe, or yelling for help, or dwelling in it and letting myself experience what I'm experiencing, or doing What Must Be Done, to waste time in self-pity.
I'm working in a school that was new to me this year, with another new first grade class, and I am having to work my butt off. But having to work hard? That's a world-rocking gift. My son is 2 1/2. Every morning, he is UP and ready to play before 6:15 am. He is a non-stop teacher of living in the moment, of loving the world, of patience and full-tilt love.
I do an awful lot of grumbling about my lively class, about my loud, stompy, treat-demanding son. I'd love to complain less, to do more, to get up and say, well, I would love to go to a bookstore, I would love to read a novel. And then? Then I can say,
"YES! and let's make it happen."
or
"Nope. This other thing is what I am CHOOSING, for a valid reason, right now."
Choice. Power. Gratitude.
I have a life. I am living my life. And when I'm not, may someone kick my ass right back into shape, so I can get back to the real work I'm here to do.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
starting all over again
Due to a lot of circumstances I am neither at liberty nor inclined to describe, my former class was combined into the two above it for this school year, and i've been sent back down to first grade. It's been a big change, to say the least. I hope to post more soon, but suffice it to say:
Sometimes, it's nice to be the unquestioned authority.
Sometimes, it's nice to be the unquestioned authority.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Starting Places
It's hard to find a place to start. This is true for me in so many instances, and i find it to be true of my students, as well. Part of my work is to help them find places to start. Once we actually start something, it's much, much easier to go on; the fear of starting it wrong, or of an imperfect outcome, keep us from entering into the work.
Tomorrow we will find a place to start together. I have four teaching hours with my class on Wednesdays this year, and while the first hour will be somewhat truncated by the Opening Ceremony of the school, it is a substantial amount of time with which to work.
Tomorrow we will find a place to start together. I have four teaching hours with my class on Wednesdays this year, and while the first hour will be somewhat truncated by the Opening Ceremony of the school, it is a substantial amount of time with which to work.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
I'm ready to plan! I have my new lesson planning book -- I always use this one. Lakeshore Learning tends to only carry it in maroon, and if they had it in combination with the record book, I'd get that, too. I like the simplicity of the design and the lack of commercial-looking clip art on the cover and pages. Just nice, clean, sepia grids for my grand plans!
Planning on the weekend feels very familiar and natural. Planning during the summer feels rather directionless and strange to me. It's always hard for me to deal with long stretches of unstructured time. Perhaps that is part of the reason I love teaching in a Waldorf school. Our time is fairly free within each lesson period. We strive to have healthy rhythm to each lesson, including times for concentrated, quiet work and for expansive activity, with meaningful transitions. Aside from that, and general indications for lesson content in each grade, the teacher is free to create lessons that will meet her students' needs. So much freedom would be overwhelming for me, and was, in my early days of teaching, without the understanding that it is up to me to create a reliable rhythm of activities within each given timeframe into which the students, and I, can relax.
For example, in fourth grade, I always started the day by greeting each student with a handshake and a hearty, "Good Morning!" This gave me a chance to hear any pressing news, to take a good look into their eyes, and to get a feeling for what kind of day each child was having so far, and how I might best meet him or her. When it was time to start, I'd close the door, sing our good morning song, and read out the schedule for the day. After this, the students would stand, light a candle, and recite together the morning verse, a sort of dedication of the day to learning and expression of gratitude for light and life.
This sequence of events, repeated each day, was extraordinarily calming for me as a teacher. No matter what kind of day I'd been having up until that point, no matter how tired I was, by the time we had finished the morning verse and moved the desks to do some concentration exercises, singing, and moving together, I felt more present, more solid, and ready to work. I saw that it had a similar effect on the children, too, and the days that we didn't follow our usual rhythm were usually more difficult and presented greater classroom management needs.
Part of my planning this weekend will be to craft an opening sequence for this new school year. The students are older and ready for new challenges, and the time we will take on this work together has shrunk from 45 minutes in the first grade, to perhaps 20 minutes. There will be some time for mental math and spelling drills, review of the previous day's work, presentation of new material, and lots of time for them to work independently.
This weekend, I will also lay out my plan for the year -- the sequence of topics for our morning lesson work each day -- and decide which blocks I will ask someone to teach while I am on maternity leave. It's a hard choice; I hate to miss out on any of it!
Planning on the weekend feels very familiar and natural. Planning during the summer feels rather directionless and strange to me. It's always hard for me to deal with long stretches of unstructured time. Perhaps that is part of the reason I love teaching in a Waldorf school. Our time is fairly free within each lesson period. We strive to have healthy rhythm to each lesson, including times for concentrated, quiet work and for expansive activity, with meaningful transitions. Aside from that, and general indications for lesson content in each grade, the teacher is free to create lessons that will meet her students' needs. So much freedom would be overwhelming for me, and was, in my early days of teaching, without the understanding that it is up to me to create a reliable rhythm of activities within each given timeframe into which the students, and I, can relax.
For example, in fourth grade, I always started the day by greeting each student with a handshake and a hearty, "Good Morning!" This gave me a chance to hear any pressing news, to take a good look into their eyes, and to get a feeling for what kind of day each child was having so far, and how I might best meet him or her. When it was time to start, I'd close the door, sing our good morning song, and read out the schedule for the day. After this, the students would stand, light a candle, and recite together the morning verse, a sort of dedication of the day to learning and expression of gratitude for light and life.
This sequence of events, repeated each day, was extraordinarily calming for me as a teacher. No matter what kind of day I'd been having up until that point, no matter how tired I was, by the time we had finished the morning verse and moved the desks to do some concentration exercises, singing, and moving together, I felt more present, more solid, and ready to work. I saw that it had a similar effect on the children, too, and the days that we didn't follow our usual rhythm were usually more difficult and presented greater classroom management needs.
Part of my planning this weekend will be to craft an opening sequence for this new school year. The students are older and ready for new challenges, and the time we will take on this work together has shrunk from 45 minutes in the first grade, to perhaps 20 minutes. There will be some time for mental math and spelling drills, review of the previous day's work, presentation of new material, and lots of time for them to work independently.
This weekend, I will also lay out my plan for the year -- the sequence of topics for our morning lesson work each day -- and decide which blocks I will ask someone to teach while I am on maternity leave. It's a hard choice; I hate to miss out on any of it!
Friday, August 29, 2008
back to school, back to blogging
I have an ambitious goal this year. Okay, truth be told, I have several. I like making lists of goals at each new turning of the year, whether for my birthday (which was a week ago), New Year's Day, or the beginning of school. I have all kinds of goals for my students, goals about courtesy and academics and social development, and I have goals for myself as a teacher, partner, and soon-to-be mother.
One goal for this year is to do more posting. I'm still working on carving out the time for that, but the more active my posting, the more likely it is that people will come and join in the exchange of ideas. The ambitious part comes in here -- I want this blog to be good. I will be working on honing my writing skills and my ability to pay attention to what is happening in the classroom, and what I am doing to effect change and to foster real learning.
Our first block of the year is Botany. We'll be exploring habitats and biomes around the world, starting with a journey up mount Denali (imaginary, unfortunately) to learn how altitude, sunlight, and warmth affect the plant life in each biome. We'll consider the interconnectedness of plant and animal life, with a special focus on the honeybee. I am excited to get started and to do some research to bring to them. One place I'm starting is with Gerbert Grohmann's The Living World of the Plants. Grohmann wrote stunningly detailed studies of various plants for adult readers, and this is his offering for young readers. I love the way he uses imagery and comparison to make the inner workings of the plants familiar and easy to understand.
I'm serving as Chair of the College of Teachers until my due date. My co-chair has stepped down, so it's just me, all the time now until mid-December. The College is a governing body within the school that makes decisions on behalf of the faculty and strives to keep our work in line with the philosophy underlying Waldorf education. It's hard, exciting work, and it means lots of meetings and interaction with colleagues and board members, which I find invigorating.
More to come. School starts next Wednesday, and there is much to do.
One goal for this year is to do more posting. I'm still working on carving out the time for that, but the more active my posting, the more likely it is that people will come and join in the exchange of ideas. The ambitious part comes in here -- I want this blog to be good. I will be working on honing my writing skills and my ability to pay attention to what is happening in the classroom, and what I am doing to effect change and to foster real learning.
Our first block of the year is Botany. We'll be exploring habitats and biomes around the world, starting with a journey up mount Denali (imaginary, unfortunately) to learn how altitude, sunlight, and warmth affect the plant life in each biome. We'll consider the interconnectedness of plant and animal life, with a special focus on the honeybee. I am excited to get started and to do some research to bring to them. One place I'm starting is with Gerbert Grohmann's The Living World of the Plants. Grohmann wrote stunningly detailed studies of various plants for adult readers, and this is his offering for young readers. I love the way he uses imagery and comparison to make the inner workings of the plants familiar and easy to understand.
I'm serving as Chair of the College of Teachers until my due date. My co-chair has stepped down, so it's just me, all the time now until mid-December. The College is a governing body within the school that makes decisions on behalf of the faculty and strives to keep our work in line with the philosophy underlying Waldorf education. It's hard, exciting work, and it means lots of meetings and interaction with colleagues and board members, which I find invigorating.
More to come. School starts next Wednesday, and there is much to do.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Our most recent class play was a great success. We triumphed over illness, scheduling, and children being on vacation. Giants were created out of paper bags, dowels, and bits of cloth.
Now we're learning about the animal world and about our own humanity. I've taught one block on this topic before, where we studied the octopus, mouse, horse, and hippo. This time, we're working with the lion, eagle, and bull, and then extrapolating to the ungulates, carnivores (comparing felines and canines), and birds. We'll be studying adaptation and habitat, and each child will write a 7 paragraph report on an animal of her choice.
and now, for sleep.
Now we're learning about the animal world and about our own humanity. I've taught one block on this topic before, where we studied the octopus, mouse, horse, and hippo. This time, we're working with the lion, eagle, and bull, and then extrapolating to the ungulates, carnivores (comparing felines and canines), and birds. We'll be studying adaptation and habitat, and each child will write a 7 paragraph report on an animal of her choice.
and now, for sleep.
Friday, March 07, 2008
what have I got?
besides the flu, which is why I'm not at school right now... I am thinking about what advantages I have had in life, beyond having my basic needs for food, clothing, shelter, and love met throughout my childhood and adulthood. What is it that has made becoming a teacher so easy? What are the resources I draw upon when creating my lessons?
First, I had a great childhood. I am an only child, the daughter of a physical therapist and a college professor-writer-flight instructor - polyglot. Reading was emphasized in our home as a desirable pastime. My parents read aloud to me every night until I was eleven, and I learned early on to bring a book with me everywhere I went. Weekends often included visits to museums, the zoo, or the library. The arts were important to my parents; I took music and dance lessons from an early age, and theater and visual arts were encouraged.
Second, I had great teachers. The public schools in my home town were under great pressure from local residents to provide first-class learning opportunities. It helps to have two liberal arts colleges in town, whose professors' children largely attend the public schools. My teachers were lively, inspired, dedicated, and caring. They taught because they loved to teach. Sure, I had mediocre teachers as well as stellar ones, but it's the good ones whom I remember.
Third, I went to summer camp. I love summer camp.
Fourth, I attended a college where independent thinking and breadth of experience were encouraged and fostered. Here, too, I met with instructors whose evident love for their fields of expertise was communicated through their teaching. I did not choose a major; looking back, one could say I concentrated in theater arts, but I only took two years of classes in the theater department. I studied math, classical Greek, Russian, history, literature, creative writing, and folklore. I participated in extra-curricular music groups and spent a year studying overseas.
The personal qualities, the gifts I received at birth, that have stood me in good stead in my chosen career are my love of stories, my enjoyment of puzzles and conundrums, and my interest in people whose experience is different from my own.
While none of these experiences or qualities are requirements for good teaching, I believe that I am a good teacher because of them. I worked hard and was supported in that work by my parents. When I wanted to be an exchange student in high school, they helped to make that possible and supported me from 8,000 miles away as I witnessed the unfolding of great historic change in the Soviet Union. When I asked questions, they took the time to answer thoughtfully, or to help me to find the answer in books or in the wisdom of community members.
I am deeply grateful for all I have received, and I view it as my duty to use these gifts to serve others. It seems sometimes that teaching in a small private school is not service enough, because I love it, and because I am blessed to work in conjunction with parents whose dedication their children is equal to my parents' to me. Perhaps it is not enough, but it is where I am right now, and I have made a commitment to the children I teach, to be with them as long as I can, and to work as hard as I can to bring them the best the world can offer them as they are ready to receive it.
First, I had a great childhood. I am an only child, the daughter of a physical therapist and a college professor-writer-flight instructor - polyglot. Reading was emphasized in our home as a desirable pastime. My parents read aloud to me every night until I was eleven, and I learned early on to bring a book with me everywhere I went. Weekends often included visits to museums, the zoo, or the library. The arts were important to my parents; I took music and dance lessons from an early age, and theater and visual arts were encouraged.
Second, I had great teachers. The public schools in my home town were under great pressure from local residents to provide first-class learning opportunities. It helps to have two liberal arts colleges in town, whose professors' children largely attend the public schools. My teachers were lively, inspired, dedicated, and caring. They taught because they loved to teach. Sure, I had mediocre teachers as well as stellar ones, but it's the good ones whom I remember.
Third, I went to summer camp. I love summer camp.
Fourth, I attended a college where independent thinking and breadth of experience were encouraged and fostered. Here, too, I met with instructors whose evident love for their fields of expertise was communicated through their teaching. I did not choose a major; looking back, one could say I concentrated in theater arts, but I only took two years of classes in the theater department. I studied math, classical Greek, Russian, history, literature, creative writing, and folklore. I participated in extra-curricular music groups and spent a year studying overseas.
The personal qualities, the gifts I received at birth, that have stood me in good stead in my chosen career are my love of stories, my enjoyment of puzzles and conundrums, and my interest in people whose experience is different from my own.
While none of these experiences or qualities are requirements for good teaching, I believe that I am a good teacher because of them. I worked hard and was supported in that work by my parents. When I wanted to be an exchange student in high school, they helped to make that possible and supported me from 8,000 miles away as I witnessed the unfolding of great historic change in the Soviet Union. When I asked questions, they took the time to answer thoughtfully, or to help me to find the answer in books or in the wisdom of community members.
I am deeply grateful for all I have received, and I view it as my duty to use these gifts to serve others. It seems sometimes that teaching in a small private school is not service enough, because I love it, and because I am blessed to work in conjunction with parents whose dedication their children is equal to my parents' to me. Perhaps it is not enough, but it is where I am right now, and I have made a commitment to the children I teach, to be with them as long as I can, and to work as hard as I can to bring them the best the world can offer them as they are ready to receive it.
Monday, January 21, 2008
time marches on without me
gentle reader,
I have been remiss. I do love tartx's blogging without obligation:
it makes sense not to apologize for not writing in a journal. at least, it makes sense to me. Also, as some of you know, I have a personal journal to which I post much more frequently.
The time has come to write another play. After last year's choice to use someone else's work, I am back to writing for my class, as I feel it is the best way to offer them a performance experience that enriches and extends their work with the subject matter, both the explicit lessons on myth, history, mathematics, geography, or nature studies, and the implicit lessons on how to be a human being, how to express their full being and attain to the full stature offered us.
First, however, I want to get a particularly tenacious monkey off my back: my MSEd Thesis. This particular primate has been digging his pointy little fingers into my neck for the last 5 1/2 years, and it's time to shake him loose. To that end, I am dedicating this Martin Luther King Jr day to working on my thesis. I sincerely believe that education towards freedom is the key to creating and realizing a world in which people are judged by the content of their character.
I have been remiss. I do love tartx's blogging without obligation:
it makes sense not to apologize for not writing in a journal. at least, it makes sense to me. Also, as some of you know, I have a personal journal to which I post much more frequently.
The time has come to write another play. After last year's choice to use someone else's work, I am back to writing for my class, as I feel it is the best way to offer them a performance experience that enriches and extends their work with the subject matter, both the explicit lessons on myth, history, mathematics, geography, or nature studies, and the implicit lessons on how to be a human being, how to express their full being and attain to the full stature offered us.
First, however, I want to get a particularly tenacious monkey off my back: my MSEd Thesis. This particular primate has been digging his pointy little fingers into my neck for the last 5 1/2 years, and it's time to shake him loose. To that end, I am dedicating this Martin Luther King Jr day to working on my thesis. I sincerely believe that education towards freedom is the key to creating and realizing a world in which people are judged by the content of their character.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
comparisons
today's lesson wasn't the one I had planned to present today -- I presented tomorrow's lesson instead, but I think it's alright, as it continued yesterday's introduction to the study of geography. Today, we stood on our desks and looked down at the room, imagining what a bird would see if it were flying over top of everying in the room. I put one child on my shoulders and had her describe how things looked from five feet up. Tomorrow, we'll draw a bird's eye view of our room as a class, and the children will write in their lesson books about the compass rose.
You see, I had a plan yesterday. It revolved around our being able to see the sun. Mr. Golden Sun did not cooperated, having chosen instead to stay under his nice fluffy blankets and snooze. Therefore, we were unable to use the sun to find the cardinal directions. Instead, I took the children for a walk down to the paddle-boat and cruise docks, where there is a beautiful compass rose laid into the sidewalk. We learned about the four directions and reflected on how we could travel east or west forever, but once we hit the north pole, we can only go south.
I find myself comparing my work to that of other teachers, teachers with far more experience or resources at their disposal. We work with what we have, and I'm constantly checking to make sure the children are getting enough, that they are stimulated to think and to use what they are learning, and that it makes sense. Our math work right now is still all review of the previous three years. We're on long multiplication now, and it's going well this time around; even OB is following along without too much frustration.
It's hard when I look at sites like educating alice not to compare myself with Ms. Edinger, who has been teaching for many years and who has the resources of one of the most prestigious private schools in NYC at her fingertips.
You see, I had a plan yesterday. It revolved around our being able to see the sun. Mr. Golden Sun did not cooperated, having chosen instead to stay under his nice fluffy blankets and snooze. Therefore, we were unable to use the sun to find the cardinal directions. Instead, I took the children for a walk down to the paddle-boat and cruise docks, where there is a beautiful compass rose laid into the sidewalk. We learned about the four directions and reflected on how we could travel east or west forever, but once we hit the north pole, we can only go south.
I find myself comparing my work to that of other teachers, teachers with far more experience or resources at their disposal. We work with what we have, and I'm constantly checking to make sure the children are getting enough, that they are stimulated to think and to use what they are learning, and that it makes sense. Our math work right now is still all review of the previous three years. We're on long multiplication now, and it's going well this time around; even OB is following along without too much frustration.
It's hard when I look at sites like educating alice not to compare myself with Ms. Edinger, who has been teaching for many years and who has the resources of one of the most prestigious private schools in NYC at her fingertips.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Our first block of the year is done. Norse Mythology and Grammar have filled my head and the children's books for the last four weeks, and I am ready for a change. This year, I tried something new. Rather than have the children put their work into one book, and merge the grammar and writing lessons in that way, I had them keep two Morning Lesson notebooks, one with compositions and dictations on the Norse myths we had been hearing, and one with grammar rules and explanations. I found this to be moderately successful, but it was a lot of work for the children. Nearly everyone had to take home his or her book to finish copying their work from their rough drafts, and it meant their spending about 40 to 60 minutes of each morning engaged in writing, rewriting, editing, copying, or illustrating. Add in 20 minutes for opening rhythmic and action activities and ten to fifteen minutes at the end for the story, and my time for review and presentation of new material were cut very short.
Part of this came from my trying out Else Gottgen's practice of "free rendering". In its pure form, free rendering gives the children an opportunity to bring forth out of themselves their own response to the previous day's material through artistic expression, be it sculpture, drawing, movement, or writing. I tried having the children write short compositions during this time, but found that while some of them could crank out a three-paragraph retelling of the story from the day before with little or no problem, others couldn't get beyond the first sentence. This is a cue to me that we need to work on our retelling skills, as well as organization of a paragraph or compostion. I'd like them to be putting the following into their books each week of a language arts or humanities block:
1. A dictation
2. a composition they have written on their own
3. a full-page illustration or diagram
4. a class composition copied from the board.
This average of four pages per week has held true -- we have nine pages of work in the Norse book and seven in the grammar book.
Things to remember for the next block:
-- take time to walk them through the instructions in more than one way -- don't just tell them what to do!
-- have an example of good work up for them to view -- I need to create my own lesson book to show one way of doing the work well. They are past the age of needing to do all their work in a guided, step-by-step way. They just need to know how high I've set the bar.
-- plan out the work for each week in greater detail.
So, we will start our local history and geography block on Monday. I'm calling it, "Where are we, and how did we get here?" We will start with our bodies, orienting ourselves to the movement of the sun, finding the four cardinal directions. We will branch out to our classroom, school, and community as far as each of our homes. Meanwhile, our history work will address the question, "what is history? How do we relate to our past? How did we come to be here, together, now?"
Part of this came from my trying out Else Gottgen's practice of "free rendering". In its pure form, free rendering gives the children an opportunity to bring forth out of themselves their own response to the previous day's material through artistic expression, be it sculpture, drawing, movement, or writing. I tried having the children write short compositions during this time, but found that while some of them could crank out a three-paragraph retelling of the story from the day before with little or no problem, others couldn't get beyond the first sentence. This is a cue to me that we need to work on our retelling skills, as well as organization of a paragraph or compostion. I'd like them to be putting the following into their books each week of a language arts or humanities block:
1. A dictation
2. a composition they have written on their own
3. a full-page illustration or diagram
4. a class composition copied from the board.
This average of four pages per week has held true -- we have nine pages of work in the Norse book and seven in the grammar book.
Things to remember for the next block:
-- take time to walk them through the instructions in more than one way -- don't just tell them what to do!
-- have an example of good work up for them to view -- I need to create my own lesson book to show one way of doing the work well. They are past the age of needing to do all their work in a guided, step-by-step way. They just need to know how high I've set the bar.
-- plan out the work for each week in greater detail.
So, we will start our local history and geography block on Monday. I'm calling it, "Where are we, and how did we get here?" We will start with our bodies, orienting ourselves to the movement of the sun, finding the four cardinal directions. We will branch out to our classroom, school, and community as far as each of our homes. Meanwhile, our history work will address the question, "what is history? How do we relate to our past? How did we come to be here, together, now?"
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