Time Alone
A classroom of preschoolers is a noisy, busy place, much like a disorganized beehive. At least how I imagine a disorganized beehive would be, if bees were capable of disorganization. But here there are no drones with their predetermined tasks. There are Builders and Families and Superheroes, sometimes Families of Superheroes, and most everyone is travelling at the fastest pace possible. Except the Watchers. The Watchers are the ones who prefer to understand all the mechanics before they enter in; the social mechanics of rules and roles, and the physical mechanics of climbing and balancing. And enter in they do, when they are ready. Until then they watch the beehive around them, witnessing the action, paying "super extra special attention". But to truly relish The Watching one needs a perch; a place to observe, and sometimes a place to be unobserved. Perhaps the hardest thing to find in an early childhood setting is a space to be alone.
In 2020 Corner of the Sky became a predominantly outdoor program, which in upstate NY has its own challenges. Over the past 20 years, our small outdoor space has been collecting a wide array of Loose Parts designed to enhance the gross motor skills of children at play, embracing the benefits of risky play even for those children that would rather look than leap. Yet now our yard must also offer safe havens for the calmer needs, those satiated best by a quiet corner or solitary space, somewhere cozy even in the cold. I can no longer send the wild energy outside as I did before COVID came to town.
What I have noticed in these past 2 years is that both myself and the children I teach have changed. Aware that children are highly sensitive to the emotions of their caregivers, it's no surprise that they have been navigating a set of unusual fears, resulting in some heightened fears of their own. What I continue to foster most is their autonomy; adding more tires to stack higher for climbing and jumping, reminding them to say "I want to do it" when they are stuck in a loop of "I can't do it", and whenever possible modelling quiet observation, remaining attentive even in my silence.
I spend the bulk of my school day fostering community and communication, and rightfully so. I believe my greatest task as Queen Bee of my Disorganized Hive is to help my Little Bees realize that they are an integral part of how our hive functions. Their kindness encourages kindness, and spilling their grumpy creates a whole heap of grumpy we all then have to wade through. But I also talk with them about checking-in with themselves, helping them to recognize when they need a solitary space to calm and center themselves. It seems to me that the reverence for The Watchers in our society has sadly diminished, eclipsed by rings and tones and beeps, the noises of intrusion upon our own quiet and the sense of immediacy to respond. And sometimes deep in the momentum of play silence erupts. Each of my Little Bees content, focused solely on their own experience, no comparison or commentary, no requests of "look at me".
"These moments that often get taken for granted- a wildflower appearing that no one had planted." Justin Roberts
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Young Sally McCabe is a Watcher, The Smallest Girl in the Smallest Grade. "She'd seen how a whisper could make someone cower like a bulldozer crushing through fields of wildflowers." She pays "super extra special attention", noticing the sadness and kindness and cruelty that happens all around her, observing silently until the day she is ready to speak. And though she is the Smallest Girl she initiates the greatest change. "As the world returned to the way that it was Sally noticed the difference, as she usually does..." If our world does not return to the way that it was, perhaps noticing the differences is the best that we can do. |