The recipe for a Cat
|
|
I found this drawing folded up in the portable collection we call our Outside Art Studio, now that our school days are spent primarily outside. One drawing on each side of the small square of paper, and the word 'CATS' written lightly in pencil.
The children had been Cats for most of that first school year after The Great Pause of 2020. We were a small group, returning after 6 months of school closure, tentatively resuming whatever normalcy we could generate from our familiar backyard setting, in radically unfamiliar conditions. Their eyes, the only part of their fabulous faces I could see above their masks, were wary after so long apart, but we'd all been together pre-COVID so my hope was we could all heal together.
Their Cat Family play emerged early on that fall, perhaps as an invisible costume they wore to feel safe. They would purr and romp around the Kitty House they created with the straw bales and other loose parts, slowly reminding themselves how to share space with people outside of their households. At times they would come close to my co-teacher and I, asking to be petted by rubbing their Kitty heads against us, but mostly they played together, rebuilding their childhood world one shared story at a time.
One day they asked me to be the Monster that lived next door. They had rules-a-plenty for the monster I was to be, and in earlier times I would have reminded them that 'nobody gets to make the rules for my body', but too much had changed since then so I honored their request, adding only one small change. My Monster needed them to teach me what was Alive. We'd wander the yard and I'd ask "Shovel alive?" in a quizzical yet expressionless tone, starting with the obvious questions and moving on to trickier themes as the days turned into weeks of the Kitties and Monster play.
Monster became my way of being both inside their world and an outsider; I wasn't a Cat, I didn't act like a Cat, but they wanted Monster nearby anyway. "Air alive?" I'd ask and they'd say "No. Well, yes...", sometimes elaborating on their answers, sometimes returning to their play instead. In time, Monster moved to Monster House and wasn't always fun to be around. They would bring berries to eat which always made Monster fall asleep, but Monster often woke up grumpy. I was introducing an element of uncertainty into the gentle Kitty kingdom, embodying the monster they had invited into their play, believing in their abilities to see me, the teacher they trusted, underneath the character I was playing.
I often take those risks, nudging children a bit beyond their comfort zones into that next area of development. But COVID has made the path of progression less familiar to me, and in many ways teaching preschoolers feels new again.
So what is the recipe for a Cat these days? Or a Teacher? Or a Good Life? Growing up I was told we needed eight hugs a day to be happy, and I've had only a handful of those days these past two years. I have survived without, as most of us have, and it has changed me. As if I'm starting over, halfway through my life. Still asking the questions, what is Alive?
The children had been Cats for most of that first school year after The Great Pause of 2020. We were a small group, returning after 6 months of school closure, tentatively resuming whatever normalcy we could generate from our familiar backyard setting, in radically unfamiliar conditions. Their eyes, the only part of their fabulous faces I could see above their masks, were wary after so long apart, but we'd all been together pre-COVID so my hope was we could all heal together.
Their Cat Family play emerged early on that fall, perhaps as an invisible costume they wore to feel safe. They would purr and romp around the Kitty House they created with the straw bales and other loose parts, slowly reminding themselves how to share space with people outside of their households. At times they would come close to my co-teacher and I, asking to be petted by rubbing their Kitty heads against us, but mostly they played together, rebuilding their childhood world one shared story at a time.
One day they asked me to be the Monster that lived next door. They had rules-a-plenty for the monster I was to be, and in earlier times I would have reminded them that 'nobody gets to make the rules for my body', but too much had changed since then so I honored their request, adding only one small change. My Monster needed them to teach me what was Alive. We'd wander the yard and I'd ask "Shovel alive?" in a quizzical yet expressionless tone, starting with the obvious questions and moving on to trickier themes as the days turned into weeks of the Kitties and Monster play.
Monster became my way of being both inside their world and an outsider; I wasn't a Cat, I didn't act like a Cat, but they wanted Monster nearby anyway. "Air alive?" I'd ask and they'd say "No. Well, yes...", sometimes elaborating on their answers, sometimes returning to their play instead. In time, Monster moved to Monster House and wasn't always fun to be around. They would bring berries to eat which always made Monster fall asleep, but Monster often woke up grumpy. I was introducing an element of uncertainty into the gentle Kitty kingdom, embodying the monster they had invited into their play, believing in their abilities to see me, the teacher they trusted, underneath the character I was playing.
I often take those risks, nudging children a bit beyond their comfort zones into that next area of development. But COVID has made the path of progression less familiar to me, and in many ways teaching preschoolers feels new again.
So what is the recipe for a Cat these days? Or a Teacher? Or a Good Life? Growing up I was told we needed eight hugs a day to be happy, and I've had only a handful of those days these past two years. I have survived without, as most of us have, and it has changed me. As if I'm starting over, halfway through my life. Still asking the questions, what is Alive?