We have an aluminum ladder at Corner, though Ladder isn't its only job. Over six feet tall and lightweight, it travels about the yard building ramps for balancing on or a fence to keep Baby Kitty home. And only once, it was wings maneuvered without mishap around the yard by a child standing in the center space between the rungs. But because it's also a ladder, making unreachable heights reachable, it doesn't start the school year in the yard. It waits through the getting-to-know-you months as we learn the skill levels of our smallest climbers, offering the older ones a perch in the Climbing Tree only they can access, the routes up The Elevator within its branches revealed by observation. Communities take time to build and our ladder, in all its incarnations, is like a fast train speeding through the middle of town, thrilling and dangerous, demanding conversation. Or at least a "Beep, beep, coming through."
I view the ladder as a measure of our community's Willingness to Communicate, its versatility as a Loose Part making it the hardest one in our yard to share. The ladder functions best when its specific task is agreed upon, and like most communities ours is not always in agreement. Disagreements at Corner are where the rich conversations begin, once all the yelling is done. As they work through their struggles, taking turns, navigating direction up or down, sharing leadership, I can see their bodies relax, their confidence shine. Especially when I stay out of their way.
Staying out of the way is also crucial when the ladder is a train.
Driving the train is a coveted and powerful position; determining the speed and route and length of each ride. Climbing aboard is an exercise in trust. Some days there's a solitary Fast Train followed by a trail of runners begging to ride. Some days the drivers are willing to pick-up passengers at various locations, but as this involves waiting while all four limbs are positioned for locomotion it's not a given. Some days there are drivers at either end, unable to determine why they aren't moving in their desired direction, in a stalemate only they can undo, when they are ready. When used as a train the ladder creates an almost constant flow of commentary, joyful and otherwise, for one false step and the train derails, the passengers momentarily trapped until they rise together and motion resumes.
Lasterday I witnessed a rare sight, the newest member of our community was driving the train, and all seven spaces between the rungs were full. The children were moving together, fourteen legs walking slowly and smoothly; the exercise in trust fruitful, the driver careful and attentive. In my mind I see their route as a silent one, their cooperation remarkable, especially so in the midst of our world's turmoil. Shortly after this vision of teamwork I heard the COVID-era refrain "You're too close to me" as one of the aforementioned riders removed his mask to partake in a late winter Snow Snack.
At Corner we are still wearing masks, inside and out, because I want them to feel comfortable being close to each other: on train rides, in the Climbing Tree and watching the progress of the salamanders we sometimes see in the yard. I envision a spring of practicing mask breaks together, slowly learning to feel safe again in closer proximity to others, and relishing the beauty of seeing each other's whole faces. I've been long at the station, awaiting the arrival of this exercise in trust.
Beep, beep. Coming through.
I view the ladder as a measure of our community's Willingness to Communicate, its versatility as a Loose Part making it the hardest one in our yard to share. The ladder functions best when its specific task is agreed upon, and like most communities ours is not always in agreement. Disagreements at Corner are where the rich conversations begin, once all the yelling is done. As they work through their struggles, taking turns, navigating direction up or down, sharing leadership, I can see their bodies relax, their confidence shine. Especially when I stay out of their way.
Staying out of the way is also crucial when the ladder is a train.
Driving the train is a coveted and powerful position; determining the speed and route and length of each ride. Climbing aboard is an exercise in trust. Some days there's a solitary Fast Train followed by a trail of runners begging to ride. Some days the drivers are willing to pick-up passengers at various locations, but as this involves waiting while all four limbs are positioned for locomotion it's not a given. Some days there are drivers at either end, unable to determine why they aren't moving in their desired direction, in a stalemate only they can undo, when they are ready. When used as a train the ladder creates an almost constant flow of commentary, joyful and otherwise, for one false step and the train derails, the passengers momentarily trapped until they rise together and motion resumes.
Lasterday I witnessed a rare sight, the newest member of our community was driving the train, and all seven spaces between the rungs were full. The children were moving together, fourteen legs walking slowly and smoothly; the exercise in trust fruitful, the driver careful and attentive. In my mind I see their route as a silent one, their cooperation remarkable, especially so in the midst of our world's turmoil. Shortly after this vision of teamwork I heard the COVID-era refrain "You're too close to me" as one of the aforementioned riders removed his mask to partake in a late winter Snow Snack.
At Corner we are still wearing masks, inside and out, because I want them to feel comfortable being close to each other: on train rides, in the Climbing Tree and watching the progress of the salamanders we sometimes see in the yard. I envision a spring of practicing mask breaks together, slowly learning to feel safe again in closer proximity to others, and relishing the beauty of seeing each other's whole faces. I've been long at the station, awaiting the arrival of this exercise in trust.
Beep, beep. Coming through.