Family Work Day
Lasterday was our annual Family Work Day and it was a particularly great one. One way or another every family was involved, either by loaning us tools for the day, or showing up to dig, deliver, move and weed. We took apart the sandbox, creating a more open-ended sand area encircled by stumps and logs. We brought in truckloads of wood-chips and rebuilt our Wood-chip Mountain, which had been slowly sinking as the wood-chips were carted, raked, and otherwise dispersed around the yard. And several of the parents offered to raise the stone patio I had built that very first spring that was typically hidden under a layer of aforementioned wood-chips.
Even though I've been orchestrating this annual event for the past 13 years I always enter into it with some trepidation.
In many ways, the parents don't really know me. I am confident that they trust me with the care of their children but it's their children I've built the relationships with, not them. It's their children who know that every question asked of me often inspires one in return. That I rarely have 'A Plan'. That I'm making up my mind as I go. That I'm not terribly attached to outcomes. And on Family Work Day the yard is full of eager helpers looking to me for direction, and "Well... what do YOU
think we should do next?" isn't always an acceptable response in the Land of Grown Ups.
I've spent many of my 20+ years as an early childhood educator uncertain how to communicate with adults.
Perhaps this is a common affliction. I find that in casual conversation, adults often seem unnerved by my enthusiasm, confused by my metaphors, and mistrustful of my willingness; all the traits that I cherish in a room full of young children. Somewhere along the varied path of 'Growing Up' many of us exchange our curious questions for a more stationary set of answers. And I've found that often the reason a child is asking a question isn't simply to be told the answer. It is the pure joy they feel as they fill the room with all the possible answers; silly, sensible, unique answers, that are often much more inspired than anything I might have suggested.
Painted on the kitchen wall at Corner of the Sky is the reminder
talk less, listen more
I put it there because I often forget.
I forget how easy it is to squash a burgeoning idea, however unintentional.
I forget how precious a quiet conversation with ourselves can be.
I forget that I am not always needed; in conflicts, in confusions, in conversations.
Play is precious. Curiosity is too.
Even though I've been orchestrating this annual event for the past 13 years I always enter into it with some trepidation.
In many ways, the parents don't really know me. I am confident that they trust me with the care of their children but it's their children I've built the relationships with, not them. It's their children who know that every question asked of me often inspires one in return. That I rarely have 'A Plan'. That I'm making up my mind as I go. That I'm not terribly attached to outcomes. And on Family Work Day the yard is full of eager helpers looking to me for direction, and "Well... what do YOU
think we should do next?" isn't always an acceptable response in the Land of Grown Ups.
I've spent many of my 20+ years as an early childhood educator uncertain how to communicate with adults.
Perhaps this is a common affliction. I find that in casual conversation, adults often seem unnerved by my enthusiasm, confused by my metaphors, and mistrustful of my willingness; all the traits that I cherish in a room full of young children. Somewhere along the varied path of 'Growing Up' many of us exchange our curious questions for a more stationary set of answers. And I've found that often the reason a child is asking a question isn't simply to be told the answer. It is the pure joy they feel as they fill the room with all the possible answers; silly, sensible, unique answers, that are often much more inspired than anything I might have suggested.
Painted on the kitchen wall at Corner of the Sky is the reminder
talk less, listen more
I put it there because I often forget.
I forget how easy it is to squash a burgeoning idea, however unintentional.
I forget how precious a quiet conversation with ourselves can be.
I forget that I am not always needed; in conflicts, in confusions, in conversations.
Play is precious. Curiosity is too.
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What Do You Do With An Idea? is a brilliant, and beautiful exploration of curiosity. Both the art and the text leave ample room for the reader to ponder the question, helping to normalize that blend of excitement and doubt that often accompanies a new and unique idea.
This is one of those books I read really slowly; letting the children devour the images, letting the words hang in the air, giving them time to experience the changing emotions the narrator describes. As I've said before, there are some really intuitive authors writing children's books these days, and this one is a golden egg. |