A Note from Alicia: Finding Joy & Releasing Purpose

Dear Families, 

Finding Joy & Releasing Purpose

The school and the culture
separate the head from the body.
They tell the child:
to think without hands,
to do without head,
to listen and not speak,
to understand without joy.
~Loris Malaguzzi

As educators, we often speak of play as “the work of the child.” While this is an accurate and important description in its emphasis on the extent to which play serves a critical purpose for children, well beyond what may be apparent to the observer, it also situates play within a very narrow set of values. When we say that play is important because it is a form of work, we communicate an unspoken belief that time is only well spent when it is spent engaging in a concerted, goal oriented task. 

This morning, I walked into a classroom in the midst of a Friday freeze dance party. The children were clearly all teetering between “productive” fun and all out, unbridled silliness. Group dancing was turning into puppy like pile-ups on the rug, and giggles were just beginning to spread with the contagion that every teacher knows signals a tipping point in classroom management, when it will soon become nearly impossible to regain the focus of the group. More often than not, even in a progressive, play based setting, we cut these moments off in the interest of maintaining order. And, of course, this is appropriate much of the time, as we aim for the hum of engaged, purposeful activity in the classroom, which we know most readily facilitates learning and positive collaboration. This is in fact one of the most frequent compliments I hear when touring other educators around our school—that our classrooms feel deeply child centered without feeling chaotic or over stimulating. It takes tremendous teacher skill in setting expectations, attending to the classroom environment, and nurturing of self-regulation and community to establish this calm tone within a setting that intentionally gives over significant agency to children. 

And yet, I was struck this morning by the vital importance of allowing ourselves to embrace moments of abandon from time to time. For while it is essential for children to learn to tolerate and rebound from frustration, and while it is our primary job to create environments in which children are constantly learning and growing, the moments that truly cement community and foster the relationships and the sense of motivation that facilitate learning are often these moments of abandon, in which we feel a sense of deep joy with no apparent purpose. The feeling of pure joy and relief that we all experience when we find ourselves laughing uncontrollably, particularly if we are laughing with friends, fuels us in everything else that we do. It is a reminder that sometimes when we allow ourselves to let go, even briefly, of the pressures of specific goals and ambitions, we are actually reconnected to the deeper purpose that feels most central to our identity. 

The play expert, Jill Vialet, says:

“Play matters because it gives us a brief respite from the tyranny of apparent purpose. Play matters because it compels us to choose, to put a stake in the ground and say, ‘I care.’ And in doing that we better come to know ourselves. Play matters because people matter. It reminds us of our interdependence and to really see other people, and in turn to be really and truly seen.”

It is true that not every moment of life or learning is joyful and that the ability to rebound from challenge is a central lesson. It is also true that focus and intentionality are critical components of learning. But when we put the seriousness of grit and ambition above all else and find value only in activities that clearly lead to marked outcomes, we separate the head, the body, and the heart, and we run the risk of forgetting why we are working at all. Moments of pure joy are worth embracing, even when there is no apparent purpose other than pleasure and connection. Joy is the hint of gold in the mud that remind us of who we are and what we have been searching for all along. 

Shabbat shalom,
Alicia 

A Note from Alicia: Arms Wide Open

Dear Families, 

Arms Wide Open: Turning Community Inside Out

“I don't accept subtractive models of love, only additive ones. And I believe that in the same way we need species diversity to ensure that the planet can go on, so we need this diversity of affection and diversity of family in order to strengthen the ecosphere of kindness.”
~Andrew Solomon, Far from the Tree

There is a powerful human instinct to seek commonality. We often presume that this must be rooted in the biological drive to protect our own genetic future, and certainly on some level there may be some truth to this explanation. However, there is clearly also greater complexity to the evolutionary story of our diverse world. An emphasis on the notion of protecting one’s own leads people to be fascinated by examples in other species that seem to contradict this explanation, in which protection and empathy appear to cross the species line and defy genetics—a dolphin rescuing a human, a tortoise raising a baby hippo, the fable of the mouse and the lion. It is particularly interesting, then, that the scientific definition of “community” largely goes against the idea of prioritizing commonality and similarity above all. When describing human communities even the dictionary definition focuses on “common characteristics, attitudes, or interests” that draw people together. However, the scientific definition is quite the opposite. It refers to “interdependent organisms of different species living together.” 

What might happen if we saw human communities through this scientific lens of diversity rather than similarity? What if our understanding of community were rooted in our interdependence and in our shared purpose rather than in our shared traits? 

The author Andrew Solomon asks us to consider community and love in this way, not as a turning inward to embrace those who are similar to us, but rather by looking outward, throwing our arms open, and creating an expansive model of love, “an ecosphere of kindness.” 

I think about this each year as we approach Martin Luther King Day, for as important as this day is in acknowledging the values that Dr. King and the civil rights movement pushed forward, and in reminding us to continue the work of bending “the arc of the moral universe” toward justice, it is also problematic to isolate this work to a single day of honor and remembrance. As educators, we speak each year about the dubious tendency to package our conversations about inclusion into a single day. In doing so, children internalize the hidden curricular message that this is a limited, singular conversation, or a moment to simply reflect on history, rather than engage in an ongoing process of noticing who might be standing outside our communities, inviting them in, and constantly expanding our own ecosphere of kindness. 

Though adults often view young children as being “color blind” or immune to difference, the research shows that the seeds of bias are sown very early, and most often not through overt messages of hate, but rather through the subtle messages children draw from the world around them—from who is present and who is absent, from the roles different people occupy in their lives, and from the media. It is our responsibility, therefore, from a very young age to expand their view and complicate the categories that the world so often presents to them. The author and illustrator, Christopher Myers, says, “Images matter. They linger in our hearts, vast ‘image libraries’ that color our actions and ideas, even if we don’t recognize them on a conscious level.” He calls upon us to take responsibility for diversifying the range of images in our children’s lives every day so that their sense of connection and affinity to a wide range of people expands rather than contracts: 

“To make images, to tell stories, to trouble the narratives that pervade so many people’s secret hearts and minds...It is a responsibility I hope we share, all of us who love literature and children...We can no longer stand for our futures to be isolated, segregated, lonely, and angry. We can no longer turn a blind eye to stories that create worlds in which difference is viewed as a burden, a dry educational tool, a threat—or, worse, is simply rendered silent and invisible...I have a responsibility, one I share with all of you, to create that world in which we want to live.”   

Diversifying the landscape of our children’s minds and hearts is big work. It is bigger than a single day or a single biography. But it begins in small ways, with the books we read to our children each night and the experiences we expose them to, not on one day, but every day. 

As a small start, below is a short list of picture books that might begin to expand the image libraries in your own home. This list is only a brief sampling of the deep well of resources and experiences available, which one at a time have the potential to accumulate, expanding our children’s view of the world, their understanding of community, and their visceral sense of who “belongs.” And in purposefully and regularly sharing a wide range of images, stories, and experiences with our children, perhaps our own ecosphere of kindness might expand as well. 

The Snowy Day (and the entire Peter series) by Ezra Jack Keats
Bee Bim Bop by Linda Sue Park
The Other Side by Jacqueline Woodson
Yo! Yes? by Chris Raschka
Wings by Christopher Myers
The Name Jar by Yangsook Choi
The Invisible Boy by Trudy Ludwig
Last Stop on Market Street by Matt de la Pena
Another by Christian Robinson
Just in Case You Want to Fly by Julie Fogliano

Shabbat shalom, 
Alicia

A Note from Alicia: Finding Comfort as Winter Stretches On

Dear Families, 

Finding Comfort as Winter Stretches On

“In winter all the singing is in the tops of the trees.” ~Mary Oliver

Mid-winter can be a challenging time of year for children. We are past the excitement and anticipation of holidays and family vacations. As the adults in their lives are catching up on all the things we put to the side in December, it can be harder for children to get our attention, which often feels especially jarring following the concentrated time they were able to spend with us during the vacation. And, of course, the weather at this time of year often keeps them indoors much more, so they become more restless, coupled with the fact that many children find the bundling of winter coats, hats, scarves, and mittens to feel confining and irritating. All of this can be a difficult letdown for children after weeks of treats, presents, travel, and family time.  

Because my mother’s side of our family is Swedish, the “Tomten” was always a prominent figure in our family lore, and his gentle message is still a reminder to me of how much this time of year can strain us and of how much patience is required to stretch between the beginning of the New Year and the first signs of spring. The Tomten, if you have not encountered him, is a reassuringly bearded old gnome who lives on farms, unseen by humans, and quietly cares for the animals during the cold winter nights. In the picture book adaptation of the Tomten’s story, he softly whispers to each animal in Tomten language, “a silent little language” that they can understand, as he makes his way around the farm. He soothes each animal in turn by reciting again and again, “Winters come and winters go. Summers come and summers go. Soon you can graze in the fields.” 

Image from The Tomten, adapted by Astrid Lindgreen

Children often feel that the moment they are experiencing at any given time will last forever. This is part of why they are able to immerse themselves so fully in an experience. While we might be distracted by thinking about the items on our to-do lists or the events coming up next week, children are able to commit themselves entirely to the present. In pleasurable times, this is one of the greatest gifts of childhood. In times that are more frustrating or that require patience, their tendency to live in the moment can feel endless and oppressive. 

Part of the soothing power of the Tomten is the cozy, intimate feeling he creates as he makes sure each animal is warm, safe, and well fed and speaks a quiet message that is for their ears alone. Creating these kinds of moments for our children can be particularly powerful in these winter months, when they may need more reassurance from us, as well as more help self-regulating. It is a wonderful time to build a pillow fort together, put up a cozy tent in your living room, or just snuggle in for some extra stories or for popcorn and a movie together. It is also a time when children often have more trouble regulating their bodies, and as a result their tempers and their behavior, because they are spending less time outdoors. Sensory activities like playing with playdough, drawing in shaving cream, or playing with water beads (a favorite at school!) can be especially calming. 

An added benefit of these cozy shared experiences is that they often help us, as adults, to feel steadier and more grounded during these long months as well! It is easy to feel edgy when the shortened daylight hours make our time feel so much more limited. So snuggle into that pillow fort with your kids for a few minutes or role out a playdough snake. You may find your own tension melting as you engage in these activities together. And remember the Tomten’s wisdom, “winters come and winters go.” Believe it or not, the days are already growing longer again. 

Shabbat shalom, 
Alicia

A Note from Alicia: Making Space for Rest & Wonder

Dear Families,

Making Space for Rest and Wonder

“Come, rest awhile, and let us idly stray
In glimmering valleys, cool and far away.
Come from the greedy mart, the troubled street,
And listen to the music, faint and sweet,
That echoes ever to a listening ear,
Unheard by those who will not pause to hear.”

~Lucy Maud Montgomery

I remember my dad noting, when I was a child, that he recalled feeling perplexed when he was a little boy by the fact that his parents always seemed more harried on holidays and during vacations than at any other time, whereas he found these experiences to be a magical, relaxing respite. Why would adults possibly find a “break” stressful? Hearing this comment as a child myself, I was equally perplexed. Now, as an adult and a parent, I completely understand! Creating meaningful traditions for our families is so important. But let’s be honest...It’s also often a lot of work. Additionally, we live in a culture in which it is increasingly difficult to put the many demands on our attention and time to the side. Turning our phones and message alerts off can feel more stressful at first, as we worry about what we might miss.  

And yet we know how powerful and essential breaks are. When we step away from the constant bombardment of demands on our senses and our attention, we feel more connected to those we love, more connected to our own beliefs and values, and more fully ourselves. We also, often, return to our obligations following a break with a renewed sense of purpose and a fresh perspective that propels our work forward.

Spiritually, taking the time to pause reminds us of all we have to feel grateful for, even when our daily obligations may prompt us to feel more anxiety than gratitude. Neurologically, time away from a problem allows learning to be internalized so that memories can be retained and new knowledge can be meaningfully understood and made use of. Learning requires periods of consolidation to punctuate periods of acquisition and construction. 

We practice taking these purposeful breaks with children each week as we bring the classroom tables together, dim the lights, and say the blessings over candles, juice, and challah. Shabbat reminds us that no matter how much the minutiae of the world presses upon us, it is necessary to make the time to pause and focus on what is most meaningful and important. It is often possible to see the children visibly relax and grow more centered as they come together for this experience each week. Chanukah reminds us to take this time together, in the warm glow of candles, for eight consecutive nights—an experience of patience and trust, as the light accumulates night by night. As we celebrate this act of rededication, we are also reminded that we have opportunities to reflect and rededicate ourselves to what matters most. 

When I feel the pressure and pace of daily life closing in, I often think of this story about violinist Joshua Bell performing during rush hour in Washington, D.C., and I wonder if I would have been able to break through the fog and stress of my daily routines to find awe in this moment of unanticipated beauty. The author asks, “If the surge of modern life so overpowers us that we are deaf and blind to something like that—then what else are we missing?”

I hope, over the next few weeks, even if you may be rushing to do all of the things that will make the holiday and the vacation special for your children, or to keep up with the many other demands in your daily lives, that you will also find a few moments to step out of the adrenaline of the hustle and embrace the sense of wonder and respite that these days offer.

Our children quickly forget which gifts they received on which nights. But they remember the feeling of our full presence in their bones forever.

Shabbat shalom and Happy Chanukah!
Alicia

A Note from Alicia: Finding Our Place in a Season of Light

Dear Families,

Finding Our Place in a Season of Light 

This time of year is often referred to as the “season of light.” So many of the rituals and celebrations, across traditions and cultures, involve bringing light to darkness. There is a deeply human need to combat the sense of isolation that the darkest days of the year can bring by seeking out or kindling literal points of light. A light shining in the darkness fosters a sense of hope where there may have been fear and a sense of connection to others and to the world around us, as we gather together in the glow of a flame.  

Young children are experts at this process of bringing light to darkness and of seeking out connection in moments of loneliness. They do not tolerate either darkness or isolation. As we place nightlights or flash lights in their bedrooms to reassure them when they wake in the night or respond to their cries with hugs and the calming sound of our voice when they are scared, we soothe their overpowering need to make the mysterious visible and to know that they are not alone.

In this darkest, coldest time of year, a longing rises up as the days grow shorter and we draw inward. The writer Michael Chabon refers to this feeling as, “the ache of cosmic nostalgia that arises, from time to time...an intimation of vanished glory, of lost wholeness, a memory of the world unbroken.” And yet, out of this sense of palpable darkness, again and again, we find light, we find each other, and we find the possibility of miracles. 

Isn’t this, after all, the underlying message of all of the holidays that seem to compete for attention at this time of year?  

It can feel challenging as parents to navigate the competing, largely commercial messages that bombard our children in these winter months. Fueled by an onslaught that begins even before Thanksgiving, we are challenged to find meaning in traditions that have become subsumed by consumerism and to find our place in a cultural cross section that can often start to feel more like identity one-upmanship than meaningful celebration of our roots and beliefs. It is easy to begin to feel resentful of both other traditions that compete for our children’s attention and of the many messages that pull at our wallets instead of our hearts. 

And yet, particularly in these increasingly divided times in which our differences boil over into fear and violence with tragic frequency, there is a profound beauty to the commonality of the rituals and beliefs that illuminate our shared darkness. 

As a teacher, the richest learning is always embedded in experiences of apparent conflict or contradiction, and we see these moments as opportunities for children to find even deeper grounding in their own individuality, while also learning to appreciate the many differences that surround them. Few experiences create a more significant feeling of connection to and confidence in one’s own traditions than inviting others into them and teaching others about what is important to us. And, similarly, there are few experiences that create a more powerful appreciation for others than being a guest at their table.

As children are exploring many different types of menorahs and creating their own unique interpretations in their classrooms, or sharing their own versions of the Chanukah story, they are learning to express the ideas and traditions that are important to them and also to appreciate the diversity that exists even within a shared tradition and cultural identity. As they teach others about their families’ traditions, a sense of pride takes root. And as they learn from their peers and from others with differing traditions and beliefs a sense of connection and understanding is fostered. 

This December, as we prepare to light Chanukah candles and dwell in the power of light that not only pierced the darkness but miraculously lasted, let us consider who we might invite into our homes and communities to share our blessings. And, at the same time, let us also look outward and seek opportunities—not with the eye of the tourist but with the spirit of friendship, as our children do—to learn from others and to find value, purpose, and comfort in our common human need for illumination.

Shabbat shalom,
Alicia