Communication

 Last week Harborlight “celebrated” picture day. As is the tradition, everyone came all dressed up (I have never seen so much pink!), and we wished as hard as we could for a no-rain day. We got our wish; the rain held off and the photographers took their assigned places on the field. Each teacher guided her or his class to the appropriate line, and the process of “smile -- next” took on a rhythm unique to school picture days. This year the photographer team was short one member and rather than assign a camera to the Infant/Toddler building the youngest Harborlight students joined the big kids on the field. As parents know, communication with children is an art form. One of the photographers was assigned to take a group picture of the toddlers. He arranged the squirming two-year olds on granite steps. When he thought he had their momentary attention he said, “Look left.” The assembled two-year olds just looked bewildered – the request to look left was wasted on toddlers who were trying very hard simply to stay still. “Left” was not in their vocabularies.

Communication is never as percise as we may wish.

The Flood

I have always been fascinated with the learning process. For most of the past forty years I have been a teacher focusing on the delivery of knowledge. This week, the tables were turned.

As the month of October began, I was slowly getting the feel of the wonderful community named the Harborlight Montessori School in Beverly, MA, where I began my tenure as Interim Head of School in July.  On a day early in October, the sky opened up and four plus inches of rain fell in a few short hours. The school and the surrounding area were literally inundated. Flooded streets prevented some of Harborlight’s dedicated faculty from getting to school. I was quickly pressed into service in an Early Childhood (ages 3-6) classroom. My job was to observe and help the other teacher (Montessori classroom generally have two teachers). Little did I realize I would be drawn into a far different role.

As I was observing a table of three- and four-year-olds busy with their individual projects, Emma motioned to me to come over.  I anticipated she had a question only a “teacher” could answer. I was mistaken. Emma took out a really small chair and asked me to sit next to her. She was going to teach me to make an airplane. My job was to put the people in the paper airplane she had cut out with her very own scissors. She explained with infinite patience, how to use the crayons she had given me to make dots that represented the people in the airplane. Emma did give permission to use any color, but when I finished I had to put the crayons back in the appropriate jar. I was the student and Emma was my teacher. We were engaged in a collaborative project. Emma was learning to use her imagination to envision a shape from a blank piece of paper.

Today the flood has receded and school life is back to whatever “normal” is in a vibrant learning community.  Outside my office I saw a very long scarf-like cloth with a string of beads extending the full length - perhaps fifteen feet. Four young students (5 year-olds, I suspect) were in serious conversation about labeling the string of beads with colored markers representing tens and hundreds. I ask a simple question: “What are you doing?” In response, I am treated to a wonderful explanation of the “thousands string.”  The team exhibited a remarkable self-confidence and each was eager to take the role of teacher explaining his or her role in process of counting the thousand beads. They were learning the decimal system using a practical demonstration of proportion.

My two experiences reinforced my belief that learning is continuous and readily available if we are open to the possibilities.

October 5, 2011