Tonight, as I watched my two-year-old pour milk into water and the combination back and forth between her glasses, I was overcome with nostalgia. I remembered back to when I was teaching in the Children’s House and the children would fill their glass with water after having milk and proclaim the milky substance milk-alade. Some of those young children are now among the older students of the school. They are the children I often call upon to help the newer members of our community, as they are well versed in how to treat others, the lesson procedures, classroom maintenance. Essentially, they are the true teachers of the school.
As I sat at the dinner table, feeling a sense of sadness and joy all mixed together (something akin to milk-alade) I remembered a phone call from the morning.
A student who moved to Argentina called me right after we finished our Community Meeting. I stepped out of the room on our busy second day, and took the phone. “I miss you,” the conversation began. We talked of her new school, the chickens, again of missing. Eventually I had to bring our phone call to an end, but as I re-entered the room, my eyes filled with tears. Oh these children. I grow to love them so much. And to have someone leave before our time is done. My heart can barely stand it.
The first day is always a whirlwind for me. Inevitably I end up feeling stretched too thin and worrying about whether or not I’ve been able to meet the needs of our new students. Simultaneously I fret about not having been able to catch up adequately with returning students. I know we’ll all have time to reunite, as well as learn about each other. But I put so much pressure on myself the first day. Thankfully, it’s not just me. The other teachers, the students, and the classroom environment itself . . . all work together to make our time together hum along just fine.
Tomorrow we begin with Community Meeting (a short one, I hope!) and then transition right into our morning work cycle. As I mentioned to a parent this evening, although I always incorporate “get to know you” games at the beginning of the year, I’ve found that students form their connections best when given the time and space to allow their relationships to develop naturally.
Well, my goal was to not spend all weekend getting ready for the first
day tomorrow.Yet, somehow, I am
here again today, with too many items on my to-do list.Truth be told, though, I am terribly
distracted (as may be evidenced by the fact that I’m writing a blog entry
rather than tackling my to-do’s!).I believe that my inability to focus on administrative items has to do
with my desire for the children to be here already!I miss my dear students and I’m looking forward to how our
community will develop this year as new students and children moving up from
the Children’s House become part of our elementary classroom.I’m also so curious about what it will
be like to have our toddler and adolescent programs in full swing.Oh, what a busy place MSB will be!
I can scarcely believe that today marks the beginning of our last two weeks of school. Honestly, I think I’m in denial. I can’t stand to think of the year coming to an end, and yet I can hardly wait to shift gears. I imagine the children are feeling their own version of these opposing forces.
Tomorrow, we have our last two Great Brain presentations, and then the Great Brain Fair in the afternoon. We are now at the final stages, the culmination of weeks and months of student work. The Great Brain Project is incredibly individualized, from the topic each child chooses to the method of presenting to the class. And what has really impressed me this year is the ability of the community to adapt to each individual’s presentation.
We have had sixth graders sharing what they’ve learned about pi, or book publishing, or the history of mathematics. But we’ve also had our younger students presenting on dog breeds, or pets, or rocks. The range and depth of the material has varied significantly, as has the comfort level of the presenters.
A couple of weeks ago a younger student, who during her first month with us barely spoke, stood up in front of the class and was able to speak a bit about her topic. During the presentation, I worried about how the class would react. Would they ask probing, difficult questions that would be beyond this person’s ability to answer? Would she be able to handle the Q&A portion of the presentation? I shouldn’t have worried. When she asked for questions, her classmates inquired about aspects of her topic that made her feel at ease. They didn’t demand more information or try to point out discrepancies. Rather, they kindly steered the questions to more personal interests and connections.
Today we had a similar situation. Another student (my daughter, actually), has been terrified of presenting in front of the class. This afternoon she set up her materials, was all set to begin, and then hid behind her display board. Hiding there, she began to cry. As the class waited patiently, another teacher went to help her. Another student stood up to offer assistance, too. After 10 minutes, she finally mustered up the courage to stand in front of the class with a friend and shakily work her way through a presentation. During the Q&A, not only did the class ask about her topic, but they also offered words of encouragement and support. They showed they cared about her as a person.
When people visit our school or inquire about Montessori, how can we begin to capture the importance of this kind of learning? My hope is that our students carry this kind of compassion and thoughtfulness out into the world. They are sensitive souls, these children. They understand their impact. They think about others. They care.
We’ve been busy. This time of year is busy anyway, what with Great Brain Projects coming to fruition, kindergarteners visiting the elementary for their move-up days, field trips galore, practice for the drama production, and just the general “oh my gosh I really want to learn/teach this before the end of the year.”
On top of it all, we’ve had an influx of interest in the school. It was to be expected as we moved into our new, lovely campus. I personally love talking to observers. I’m always intrigued by their questions and what they noticed.
Today, I rather unexpectedly spent most of the morning talking with a variety of different observers. After spending time with two people interested in the toddler program, I tried to squeeze in two Jr. Great Books discussion groups before talking with high school students visiting as part of their child studies course. I should have known better. The second group felt rushed. I felt disconnected.
I talked with the high school students and their teachers through lunch jobs, brought them through the classrooms, asked some elementary students to explain their projects. I couldn’t help myself. I could see the dawning realization among this visiting group. I could see them start to understand how important it is for children to have the freedom to dive into building a model of a chemistry compound for a day and half, how vital it is that children learn about their interests and learning styles, how groundbreaking it is for children to take responsibility for how they spend their time in pursuit of knowledge.
But the downside of all this sharing and showcasing was that I really didn’t spend much time in the classroom this morning. And with all the busy-ness we have these days, there was some fraying around the edges. As one co-teacher, Julie, so aptly put it, our tuning fork children were starting to hum. They were letting us know that all was not right.
When I realized, thanks to the wonderful insights of my co-teachers, that the class was feeling off-kilter, I felt an incredible mix of emotions: guilt, responsibility, exhaustion, uncertainty. My daughter approached me a few seconds later and upon looking at her, I felt my emotions start to come to the surface. She was bubbling with information about something she had done, but as soon as she looked at me, she stopped. “What’s wrong?” she asked. I really couldn’t say. She gave me a hug. Another girl passed by and did the same.
I sat there for a while, just feeling the impact of having two people show me their love and support when my edges felt frayed. And then it hit me. The whole class and each individual needed that kind of love and support.
As we shifted into post-lunch read-aloud, I paused, knowing that as classroom community we needed to name what was happening to all of us, to the community, as we each handled the levels of busy-ness in different ways. I started by just acknowledging how much we have going on. I pointed out the observers, the field trips, the Great Brain work. I shared how much it helps me when someone notices I’m having a hard time and lends me a hand. I reminded everyone about how important it is for all of us to do that for each other, in different ways. I noted how much we expect from each person in the class and how very, very capable they are. And I tried to explain how the only way we can gracefully handle all we have to do as a community is to support each other.
I told the class how much I love each one of them. And then I started to cry. One girl came up and gave me a hug. Another child came over from the other side. And before I knew it, I was surrounded by arms. Encircled. A classroom full of love and support. All together. That spontaneous, group hug ranks among one of the sweetest, most profound moments of my life.
I know, too, that our community is starting to realize that the end of our time together is near. Next year our classroom will be different. A few of our classmates will move on. Our oldest students will be with Julie in the adolescent program. Change is in the air. Our connections are so strong, and yet so fragile. Oh to savor our time now, through all the busy days, to savor our time together.