Finding Your Center: A Pedagogical Story For Anxious Children of All Ages

Finding Your Center

A Pedagogical Story for Anxious Children

of All Ages


As many of
you know I am back in the Waldorf School teaching first grade.  It is such a gift to be able to freely teach
the whole child.  One of the ways this is
done is through stories.  Since the first
day of school I have been telling the children a running story that weaves
around the Great Secret of Beauty.  In
the story a boy and a girl, a grandfather, an angel, a dragon, and various other
characters appear and have many adventures and talks together. The subjects and
themes of the story are culled from where I think the emotional states of the
children are.  Since there are a few students
who are a little nervous or anxious for one reason or another, this part of the
story came out.  It is for all children,
big and small who sometimes feel afraid and do things they wish they didn’t.

One day the
boy was sitting in the grass in his backyard. 
He had been thinking about what the dragon had said to him the day
before.  For sometimes when it seems a
child is not listening, it is well to remember that it only seems that
way.  Children are listening, and when
they are ready they will reflect on what you have said.  And on this particular morning, the boy was
thinking about what his friend the dragon had told him the day before.

“I used to
hit people with my tail,” said the dragon, “In fact, I used to eat people. I
don’t know why I did these things.  I
guess I was actually nervous and afraid and my fears came out like that.  And besides, people are yummy.”

“But how did
you learn to not hit and eat people?” asked the boy.

“Time,” said
the dragon, “it took time and practice.”

“Will I ever
change?” asked the boy, “I don’t want to hit my friends and say mean
things.  I just want to have fun and
sometimes I worry I will never change.”

And as he
was remembering the dragon’s answer he heard another voice, a tiny, slow voice.  One that came as if it measured every word it
said.

“You are
changing,” said the voice, “and your friend was right, it takes time.”

“How did you
know what I was thinking?” the boy asked the keeper of the voice he could not
yet see.

“You were
thinking out loud,” said the voice.

And then the
boy’s ears caught the direction of the sound and when he followed that direction
with his eyes, he found the source of that slow, measured voice.  It was coming from a snail sliding slowly
towards him carrying his great, spiraling house upon his back.

“Oh, hello
snail.”

“Good
morning,” said the snail stopping to rest on the leaf of an autumn colored mum.

“So you
think I can change?” asked the boy, “You really think I will stop hitting other
children?  I really don’t want to hurt
anyone.  It’s just that sometimes I get so
mad, especially when I’m feeling scared, and then before I realize what’s
happened, I’ve hurt someone.”

“Can change?”
said the snail, “You are changing.  Some
changes are quick, like a shooting star flashing across the night sky; other
changes are slow, like winter melting into spring.  You need to practice of course, find other
ways to move through your fears and worries. 
You need to find your center. But you are changing, rest assured.”

“My center?  What does that mean?”

“It’s how I
built this house I carry with me.  And I
built it without any hands.”

“I’m afraid
I don’t understand,” said the boy, “sometimes I feel like I don’t understand
anything.”

“Well,” said
the snail, “walk the path of my house with me. 
I’ll lead you around the lawn.  As
we walk the shape of my spiraling shell, think of a place you like to go when
you are feeling afraid.  Think of a thing
you like to do that helps you feel calm, peaceful, and happy.  And as we walk this spiraling walk you will
discover your center.”

And so the
snail slipped slowly to the ground and began sliding through the grass a great
spiral, a labyrinth that slowly unfurled inwards towards a still, focused center.  The boy walked behind the snail, careful not
to go ahead or step on the snail, for his steps were much bigger than the
sliding trail of the talking snail.  As
they moved together, the boy thought about times he was mad or afraid, nervous
or scared and he suddenly remembered that when he felt those ways he often
found himself drawing.  In fact, as he
neared the center of the spiral he knew—drawing was his centering place. And as
he stood in the center of the spiral, the spiral drawn by the snail, he felt
happy and relieved to know he had a place to go when he felt uncomfortable
feelings.

“So you see,”
said the snail, with a voice as gradual as the dawn, “we all have a
center.  We all have something we can do,
or a place we can go where we can pause, rest, and calm ourselves down.  And when we go to that place, or do that
thing, over and over, over time and over years, we build ourselves a house, a
house we can carry within, well, in my case on my back, but the point is, we
build ourselves a house of habits—healthy, helpful habits.  And these become a safe place to go.”

“I
understand,” said the boy, “is it OK if I have more than one centering place?”

“Of
course!  You humans are like that.  They have many mansions within themselves
that they can explore when they need to.”

“Oh good,”
said the boy, “because mostly I draw when I’m feeling nervous, but other times
I go for walks, ride my bike, talk with grandfather, and sometimes, and you’re
the first person I’ve ever told this: sometimes I even sing and dance.”

“Wonderful!”
said the snail, “Thank you for telling me. 
Those are all perfect places to go and things to do to find your center.  And the more you go to those places, and the
more you do the things you love, you will find yourself hitting your friends
less and less.  You will find yourself
saying fewer and fewer naughty things. 
In fact you will see that your friends have their own centering places
and things they love and you’ll know then that they too have hearts that
sometimes feel afraid and nervous just like you do, and then you will find
yourself just being nice because you are really so much alike.  And oh, what fun you will have sharing your
centers, inviting your friends to walk with you, draw with you, and sing with
you.”

“That does
sound fun,” said the boy.

“Well,” said
the snail, “I must be off, I have to get into town soon and meet the man who
owns the bicycle store. I am going to buy a bike today!  Toodle-Loo!”

“Wait,” said
the boy, “I have one more question please.”

“Ask away.”

“Well,
sometimes I forget my centering places. 
What should I do then?”

“Breathe,”
said the snail, “Breathe deeply from your belly, still yourself like a mountain,
and that will help center you.”

“Thank you,”
said the boy.

“You’re
welcome,” said the snail, “and another thing you can do to help yourself find
your centering place is to talk with someone you trust.  Sometimes we all need help finding our centering
places.”

And with
that the snail raced towards town, which if you were looking at the snail you would
never have guessed he was racing.  You
would have just thought: “There goes the slowest friend I know.  Look at him go carrying his house upon his back,
carrying his centering place that he built without any hands; that he built
with the slow, patient practice of centering himself.  There he goes to go buy a bike.  A bike? 
How is he going to ride a bike?”

And once the
story was over, without me ever asking: “Do you have a centering place or
something you do that helps you feel better when you’re feeling afraid?”, the
children, one by one, shared their centering places.

“I go to a
still, quiet place.”

“I draw.”

“I go for
walks.”

“I ride my
bike.”

“I
skateboard.”

“I sleep.”

“I read.”

“I pet my cat.”

And while I
did not ask them, I will ask you.  

“Where
is your centering place?  

What do you do
when you’re feeling anxious and afraid?”

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog


Breathe, Listen, Watch, Transcribe–the Art of Pedagogical Stories, Part One: First Day of School Jitters


Breathe, Listen, Watch, Transcribe

The Art of Pedagogical
Stories, Part One: First Day of School Jitters

I recently
got word that one of the first graders I am going to teach in the fall was
feeling nervous, full of questions, and anxious about starting school.  And as so often happens with me when I hear a
child is having some sort of issue, a story popped out.  Sometimes I share these stories with the
children, sometimes I don’t.  Sometimes
they are for me to learn from and gain insights into the situation.  Other times, like this story, they are clearly
written for the child in question and need to be shared. 

This is an
example of a “pedagogical story”—a story designed to address an emotional,
behavioral, academic, or social issue that a student or class may be
experiencing.  Pedagogical stories are
wonderfully gentle interventions to meet children of all ages, especially younger
ones, at their level—the level of wide-open imaginations and open hearts.  Such stories have the ability to work their
way right into the hearts and minds of children and give the children the power
or permission to transform or resolve whatever the issue is for themselves.  Pedagogical stories honor the child’s experiences,
concerns, and struggles.  And since
children (and many adults who strive to keep this ability alive) think in
pictures, the language of the story—the language of the heart and imagination
is an ideal way to effectively reassure, inspire, comfort, redirect, and heal many
of the concerns of children.  They are a
tool that can be used by parents and teachers alike.  And while a story might be written with one particular
child in mind, it is often the case that if one child is experiencing a concern
most likely others in the class are as well.  So some stories are told for one, others for
the group.  This story, a simple yarn
about a bear cub and a bear, was written for one.

Some parents
and teachers think pedagogical stories are nice for those that can write
them.  Some believe they can’t “make up
such stories.”  They’ll say, “Oh well,
you’re a writer, Joseph, it’s easy for you. 
I just can’t think of what to write.”

To these
concerns I would say: let the story be born from your love for the child.  Really. 
Let it arise from the heart of the matter.  There is no need to “make up” a story.  The story is living in the situation.  It just takes a little attention, a little
care and effort to think of the issue in terms of an image and let the story
blossom from that.  Most of the images
and stories will come from nature—animals, birds, butterflies, trees—let the
language of nature clothe the particular issue and let this happen freely.  Of course, one can always pray before writing—for
guidance and insight.  One can simply
start writing, as I do, without any thought or plan—well, there’s a plan to
help comfort a child if I am writing a pedagogical story.  But in general, for me, the stories are
there, waiting to be harvested from the Garden of Inspiration, plucked from the
Tree of Life, gathered from the Fields of Dreams; netted from the Lake of
Wonders.  And while this may sound
flowery, it’s my experience.  

Most
stories are like most children (and adults)—they are aching to be seen.  And they will open themselves before you if
you take the time to quiet yourself enough to listen and watch.  If I “try” to write a story, it will come, but
most often, it will crawl from the pen painstakingly and be crippled in some
way.  And if it does come through my
force, it will come out only to go hide somewhere in the corner of the room
perhaps forever.  If I approach the issue
a child is having with an open, compassionate heart, a heart of understanding
and knowledge of where children “are at,” then the stories just come.  You can always edit and revise the initial
story—prune, weed out repetitive words and so on, after the story sprouts, but
that’s for later.  For now, take a deep
breath.  Try it. 

Think of a
child you know and love who is experiencing some sort of concern.  It might be a little one, so to speak, and
the story might be three lines long—just an image for the child to hold onto
that honors them and gives them hope.  It
might be more involved and take many days to write and tell.  But try it. 
Your heart will be in the right place, so you cannot make a mistake
here.  Of course, I rarely, rarely, rarely
mention a particular child’s name in a pedagogical story—in fact; I often
change the child to an animal, or change the gender of the child, age, etc…that’s
really the only big guideline as I see it. 
The rest will come when you are even a little bit open and willing to
sit down a minute (or walk, some stories come to those who move).  So breathe through the experience; think of a
child you know who is experiencing an issue of some sort and let a story approach
you and reveal itself to you—you just listen and write it down—that’s really
the formula for the initial story—breathe, listen, watch, transcribe.

And then
share this gift to the child—tell it by heart, and know you have truly touched
the heart, mind, and soul of a child. 

Here’s the
story that came for one of my first graders:

 

Keepers of the Castle

Once upon a
time a wonderfully Bright and Kind Bear Cub stood at the edge of a Great
Forest.  Inside the woods a path towards
an Enchanted Castle wove through the trees like a shining, golden river.  Music and laughter could be heard in the
distance.  The Bright and Kind Bear Cub
wanted so badly to step into the forest and onto the path, but she was nervous.

“What will
it be like in there?” she thought.  “Will
I have fun?”  “Will anyone be mean to
me?”  “What will I learn there?”  “Will the Keepers of the Castle be nice and
friendly?”  “Where will I sit at the
table?”  “Will I be next to my
friends?”  “What if I make mistakes?”
“What if I say something silly?”

As all of
these questions, and more like them, fluttered through her mind and stomach
like so many butterflies, she suddenly heard a low, but friendly growl coming
from the forest.  Then she heard huge
paws padding towards her through the underbrush.  A crack of twigs and branches shot off like
fireworks and there in front of her stood an Enormous Black Bear. 

“Oh dear,”
said the Bright and Kind Bear Cub, “Who are you?”

“I am one of
the Keepers of the Enchanted Castle,” said the Big, Black Bear, “I have come to
answer your questions and invite you to join us.  We need other Keepers.  Kind Keepers, Bright Keepers, Keepers Who
Care about Themselves and Others.  We need Keepers like You.”

“Me?” She
said surprised.

“Yes you,”
he said, “I can feel your kindness all the way from inside my den.  Now, are you ready to have your questions
answered, and are you ready for a wonderful adventure?”

“Y-yes,”
said the Bright and Kind Bear Cub, “but may I ask one question before we go?”

“Of course,”
growled the Big, Black Bear.

“Will I be
OK?  Will you love me?”

“That’s two
questions,” laughed the Big, Black Bear, “And the answer to both questions is:
Yes.  You are already OK and always will
be.  Your heart is Kind and full of
Laughter and Light.  And I love all of
the Keepers of the Enchanted Castle. 
Together we make an Enchanted Castle that is Safe, Fun, and full of Laughter,
Learning, and Song.  How does that
sound?”

“Lovely,”
said the Bright and Kind Bear Cub, “But I have one more question.”

The Big,
Black Bear nodded.

“May we go
now?” she asked, “I’m ready.”

The Big,
Black Bear laughed a laugh so loud the surrounding trees shook their branches and
rained down their autumn leaves.  And
then the Big, Black Bear bowed before the Bright and Kind Bear Cub inviting her
to climb aboard his back.  She laughed
and did just that.  Together they
wandered their way through the magic forest towards the waiting, Enchanted
Castle.

********

Go ahead
storyteller–we’re all storytellers and gatherers–a story is hatching within
you right now.  You can do this, you know
you can: breathe, listen, watch, transcribe…


Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog


Rudolf Steiner, Guardian Angel of Children

“Nowhere in
our observation of the human being and nature do we encounter spirit and soul
so directly as when we contemplate the manifestations of life in a child.”

–Rudolf
Steiner

 

No one wrote
with such obvious affection and true reverence for children in the 20th
century than Rudolf Steiner.  Unfortunately
his tender, yet nonetheless meaningful observations of children are sometimes
couched in difficult concepts, philosophical wanderings, and somewhat esoteric
ideas.  The truth remains however.  There was no greater advocate for the total
health and well-being of children the past 100 years than Rudolf Steiner. 

His ideas of
education and child development arose during a time the world was in the throes
of war.  They arose in a culture where
children were “to be seen and not heard.” 
They arose when education was meant to be hard, cold, intellectual, with
the only aim to produce robotic beings enslaved to materialism and political
ideologies.  Steiner spoke of children as
holy.  He spoke of them as holding the keys
to the future.  He spoke of them with
such passion that his ideas, though unorthodox for the times, spread like wildfire.  When any good teacher speaks with enthusiasm,
the message spreads.  And Steiner loved
children.  In no other area did he focus
more spiritual, mental, or physical energy and Steiner gave himself to many
different areas—gardening, economics, spirituality, art, dance, philosophy,
literature, even bees.  When he spoke of
education and of children however, his eyes danced, his voice rose, his spirit
soared.  He knew his subject matter was
of the most vital importance.  He knew
that children suffered; he knew they were being stifled and mired in
educational nonsense.  He wanted children
free—children free to grow and thrive. 
To do this Steiner knew children needed to be taught with, and through,
the arts.  He knew their whole bodies
needed to be involved in education.  He
knew they needed to be happy, loved, cherished, understood, and observed if
they were to be fully educated.

I have loved
Steiner’s educational ideas since I first discovered them for myself about 15 years
ago.  Being a teacher in the public
school system for the past two years I have chosen to keep most of my ideas
about education under wraps.  I made a
few videos about education, but largely, here, at the Wonder Child Blog, I have
been silent about education in general. 
No more.  I am returning to my
educational home: Waldorf Education.

While I
believe there is no one system of education that can reach every child, there is one that comes the closest; one that nourishes
the drastically soul-starved school-child of today—that’s Waldorf Education as
described by Rudolf Steiner. 

I encourage you
to explore Steiner’s writing and the writings of such wonder Waldorf Educators
as Jack Petrash, Else Gottgens, Marjorie Spock, among many others.  And stay tuned here as I embark on my journey
back into the Waldorf Schools, I will be sure to share more of what I discover.

I’ll close
with another quote from Rudolf Steiner:

“All human
beings should function from a fundamental sense of gratitude that the cosmos has
given us birth and a place within the universe…This feeling [of gratitude] is
essential in teachers and should be instinctive in anyone entrusted with
nurturing a child.  Therefore, the first
important thing to be worked for in spiritual knowledge is thankfulness that
the universe has given a child into our keeping.”

Peace,

Joseph

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog


Education Defined

Within the
darkness a light is born.  Like a sigh it
sinks deep into the folds of the blackness where it sings ever so softly.  Its song is its breath.  Its breath is its song.  And it grows, steadily, gracefully, until one
day it unfurls into the darkness as a star. 
And the darkness shoots away from that light giving it room.  The darkness flies from the light, not out of
fear, but respect.   For the darkness has
nothing to fear from the light.  The
darkness is not annihilated in its presence, it simply gives way, as a dance partner
bows and lets the other move freely.  And
the light continues to sing.  Only now
the song rises from its heartbeat, from its movement, from its sense of wonder,
from its sense of purpose.  For the light
holds within its hands the seeds of a destiny, a destiny that will change the
universe forever.  However the light
lacks one thing: direction.  It doesn’t
know where to plant the seeds.  For a
long time this little absence of information doesn’t bother the light, but as
it continues to grow, it senses somewhere deep inside that it needs a guide, a
teacher, a gardener–another light, to help fulfill its destiny.  And so with all of the confidence of the dawn
the light descends.  It drifts down, down,
down, slipping along spiraling currents, through rainbow-strewn caverns, and through
dark, dense forests.  The further it
trails down along its journey, the more its faith grows that the seeds of its destiny
are safe; so it tucks them away in the soil of its own heart and lets them sleep.  And it falls and falls reveling in the idea
that it is on its way to fulfilling its dream. 
One day it enters the Milky Way, veering towards the solar system
rounding the sun. It touches down upon the earth, where it spies a certain
continent and a country within that continent. 
It swims towards that country, heart shimmering with anticipation.  It weaves down into a state within that
country, right into the flow of a certain city, and into a borough, and then, with
one grand and joyous pirouette, it enters a building nestled among the trees. Finally
it settles, sitting before you in the highest form of its manifestation–a
child—ready; hands, heart, and mind hungry. 
She has chosen you; she has chosen
to be in your classroom.  And inside you
bow before that child.  You sense the
importance of her journey.  And with the
deepest reverence and love you step forward to shepherd this great light
towards a garden into which she will sow her seeds of destiny; a garden you
might not ever see; but you will know, that since you taught her with integrity
and a gentle, unyielding spirit, and with humor, her garden will help feed and
beautify the world.  Your light will
shine with her light, and together you will spread wildflowers across the land.


Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog


The Art of Teaching and Flowing With the Tao, Part II

                 


The Tao nourishes by not forcing.

By not dominating, the Master leads.

From section 81 of the Tao Te Ching

 

Education cannot be forced.  The minds of children are not empty waiting to be filled.  They come to us already full—full of dreams and imaginations, fears and hopes, wacky inventions and little songs.  They are brimming with wisdom.  The art of teaching consists in drawing out the loveliness of children and weaving it with what you want them to learn.  Trying to stuff in facts, most of which are out of context, is futile.  It might make for people who can play trivia games, but it doesn’t engender citizens of the world who are filled with character, understanding, and compassion.

If we aren’t meant to cram random facts into the heads of children how do we teach them?  The key is in two of the words from this passage from Lao Tsu:  Nourish and lead.  True education nourishes the minds, heart, and bodies of children.  True educators lead, they do not compel. 

Many people have pointed out that the original Latin roots of the word education mean to bring forth, to draw out.  The Latin, educere, is also related to the word, dux, which is where we get the word duke—a leader.  In other words we want to educate children in such a way as to make them leaders instead of followers; leaders of themselves, savvy to the whims of advertising executives and shady politicians. We want to draw out and nourish the fruits of the Divinity within them.  And this takes gentleness, not force.

Watch gardeners work.  They give the keys to good teaching.  See how they tend the soil.  See how they water the crops.  See how they ensure the leaves have adequate light and space.  Never will you see a gardener reach down and pull out a plant in an attempt to make it grow faster. 

We tend the soil of a child’s intellect by using the gifts they already have within them and merge them with activities that help awaken their interests in the world around them and in the things we want them to learn.  When we couch facts in stories, songs, poems, movement games, and dramatizations we are using the gold already within the minds of children.  These activities nourish the child and allows for the things we want them to learn to take root. 

We water their minds with the sweat of our brow and the tears of our love.  Memorizing songs, poems, stories; writing plays, learning and leading in active learning games—all of this takes work.  It is much easier to simply read the scripted teacher’s edition of a textbook.  The cost is grave however to both the soul of the teacher and the student. 

We give children adequate light and space by protecting their need for outdoor time.  We get them outside at least twice a day for at least a half an hour each time.  We begin the day with active learning games that are both fun and invigorating.  Some people object and say that will wind the kids up and make it impossible for them to sit still.  I say you just haven’t gotten them moving long enough and with the proper, age appropriate activities.  How long am I talking about?  For young children 6-8ish, an hour of active, poetic, musical movement will probably do the trick.  An hour?!  I can just hear it now:  “That’s too much time taken away from learning time!  This isn’t Romper Room!”  Fill the acitvites with things you want the children to learn—anything form times tables to grammar rules and make it active and fun, and they will learn far more, and in lasting ways, than if you sat them down and tried to force the knowledge in by a lecture or movie.  Once children get into the rhythm of activity first thing in the morning they will welcome desk work, provided it is appropriate and meaningful and creative.

Sunlight, open windows, outdoor play is crucial to the development of young minds and bodies.  Taking children on nature walks is a lost art in itself, lost amidst fears of lawsuits and too much urban sprawl.  There are ways to bring nature to children and to get children outside.  Do you run the risk of children getting scraped knees?  Yes, but scraped knees are good for the soul (“Remember that time I fell and my leg started bleeding and you picked me up and put that Sponge-Bob band aid on my cut and sang me a song?”—Children remember their wounds, and how we tended them, and how they healed).

Lastly, let the children blossom at their own rate.  Any significant organic learning issues will become apparent with ample time to address them.  In general, every child is different, just as every stalk of corn is different, just as every species of plant is different.  Draw them out with compassion, ease, and understanding.  The moment we get nervous that a student hasn’t learned something in the time we think they should have then that student picks up on our anxiety.  Yes, I realize modern public education builds on itself—layering facts upon facts (largely simply expanding on the same tired facts year after year with bigger and bigger words), and so some teachers worry students will fall behind if they don’t meet the objectives you are required to write on the board.  The task of the teachers is to honor their students not the objectives thought up by someone who doesn’t know your class. 

In short, help your students become leaders by guiding, planting seeds, nourishing them, and tending the gardens of their intellects with active, creative, and imaginative activities.

 

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog


The Art of Teaching and Flowing With the Tao, Part I

 

Over the next few weeks I will be using Lao Tsu’s beguiling and beautiful text: The Tao Te Ching to glean various alternative teaching methods that can be employed in practical ways directly into a classroom, or into the school of your life.  I do not claim to be a scholar of the Tao, nor do I believe everything in the Tao Te Ching applies to education.  In fact, the way I utilize the text should give some indication of my over-arching educational philosophy: there are no cookie-cutter educational systems and the more black and white rules there are the more stressed things are in the classroom and in your life. In other words, I pick and choose what I’ve found works, and leave the rest.  The days of all or nothing are gone…for the most part, that is.

The first lesson comes from Chapter 73*:

 

The Tao is always at ease.

It overcomes without competing,

answers without speaking a word,

arrives without being summoned,

accomplishes without a plan.

 

One of the keys to being an effective teacher is to strive to be at ease in the classroom even when things appear to be in chaos.  If you can use tools like deep (belly) breathing, affirmations, and even EFT tapping (“even though things are a bit disorderly right now, I love and accept myself and my students”) then these moments can be strategically utilized to help transform the chaos into order.  After all, Allan Watts once pointed out that even though clouds and surf may appear disorderly there is an indescribable order and beauty in them. 

If you try and compete with the mayhem and yell over the yelling, then more bedlam will ensue.  Lowering the voice, doing mini visualizations (to yourself or with the students) such as imagining mercury dropping in a temperature gauge, will help bring the energy level down in the room.  Really.  Try it.  Beware of contempt prior to investigation.  You do not try to compete with the chaos, you simply transform and channel the energy into productive directions. 

One key thing to do, after the dust has settled, and you’re alone in the classroom or with your own thoughts, is to ask yourself what you need to change in your lesson plans, delivery, or expectations.  Is what you are giving your students really meaningful?  Are you just filling time?  Before asking the students to change, ask yourself what you can do better or differently.  Sometimes when kids are restless it’s because they have a sense that what they’re doing is useless and pointless.  They also sense when you are unattached from your subject matter and/or are unprepared. So love what you teach, make it meaningful to them, and always be prepared.

The use of the body can help break the trance of mayhem in any classroom.  Try using body language, proximity, your eyes, eyebrows, or even physical comedy.  If you are always relying on your voice to direct, teach, discipline, and to praise, students will eventually learn to tune it out.  So become at ease in your body enough to get their attention by doing a little dance if necessary, or by simply walking into the center of the storm and staring intensely at something out the window or on the ceiling.  I guarantee the students will stop and wonder what you’re looking at.  You can also move in close to the loudest students and look them in the eye.  Over the years I have used the one-raised eyebrow trick to great effect.  If you can’t raise your eyebrows then try raising both hands, not in a gesture of surrender, but in a gesture of triumph.  When you do something out of the ordinary the students will stop talking and ask if you’re OK.  To which you answer: “Please turn to page 57 in your textbook.”  Remember the key is to not compete with the disturbance, but to transform it.  Singing works wonders too.  Just start singing a catchy tune and they will soon be singing along.

Physical proximity isn’t just for quelling disturbances either.  It’s also an effective way of sending messages of praise.  Look a student in the eye and give them a gentle nod and smile when they’ve done something well.  They will remember the gesture longer than your words.

In addition to discovering alternative, noncompetitive methods for lowering the noise level of a group of children, you can also preempt outbreaks of commotion by “arriving without being summoned.”  In other words, use your intuition to anticipate where trouble might be brewing and make your presence known in the midst of the cauldron. 

The last part of this passage might appear to be imprudent, and even contradictory to what I just said above about the importance of being prepared, but I do not believe it means to be unprepared or to not have routines and classroom management plans in place.  I think it means to be willing to do something that most curriculum developers discourage teachers from doing nowadays—improvise.  So be prepared, but be prepared to toss the lesson plan out the window if a hornet flies into the room and you end up giving a lesson on insects.  Be willing to move with the flow of the students, and while it may seem like you are succumbing to their whims, in reality you are leading them by dancing with them rather than fighting them.  Honor their sense of curiosity and their wisdom.  Trust them to tell you what they need.  And what they need might not be in your scripted teacher’s edition.  It might have to come from your heart.

*all quotes come from Stephen Mitchell’s translation

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog


Wind, Prayers, and Amazing Eighth Graders


                                                       

It is wonderful how memories, locked in the body, surface during anniversaries.  Last year, at just about this time, I experienced an adventure with my six-eighth grade students that I want to share.  This piece first appeared in a school newsletter.  Only minor changes have been made.

The winds didn’t just blow in our faces—they roared with a monstrous fury.  The Eighth Graders and I had already been paddling along the San Juan River that day for about 12 miles when a wind storm tore through the canyon.  With the sun setting far too quickly for comfort, and our arms aching, doubt spread through our minds as to whether or not we would make it to a place to stop for the night.  If the kids stopped paddling for even a second the winds would blow us backwards against the current.  Two-to-three foot white cap waves splashed at us as we struggled to move forward. 

One of our guides decided to link the students raft with the two-thousand pound supply raft that he and I were on.  Then he got up, took the rope at the front of the raft, and stepped into the river and began pulling us like an ox.  I took over at the oars while the three boys got out of the raft and began pulling also, but the bottom of the river dropped out on them and they had to get back in and paddle again.  The three girls paddled with adrenaline-laced power and kept everyone’s spirits from flagging.  It was an amazing thing to experience—the Eighth Graders and our second guide paddling, never giving up, never stopping.  They fought and they pushed and we kept going. 

As the wind was smacking us with an absurd ferocity, I began to pray that it would stop.  “Give these kids a break,” I ordered the Almighty.  I wanted them safe on dry land; I wanted the wind storm to stop and for the setting sun to pause in its descent so we would have enough light to get to ashore and unpack.  But the wind just kept blowing and I just got madder.

We finally made it however to a place where we could pull over for the night.   We cheered as we saw the site.  Little did we know the worst was yet to come. 

It began to hail a few minutes after we got out of the rafts and, the winds, unbelievably, picked up strength.  As we wrestled to put up our tents, the winds tore through the camp like a wild freight train.  Somehow we managed to get the tents up using huge rocks to hold the spikes down. 

As the students were working I took one of our guides aside and said, “So what are we really dealing with here?”  “I don’t know,” he replied, “I’ve never been in such a severe storm.  We don’t just have the wind to worry about.  I’m concerned about flash flooding and about those rocks above us.  If it rains in the night it might only be a matter of minutes before we have to scramble up the rocky cliff 30 feet to safety before a wall of water rushes through here.  We can’t even get a helicopter in here to take us out; it would never make it in here with these winds.  We’re just going to have to hold on and do our best.  We’re in a dangerous situation.” 

“Lovely,” I thought.  This wasn’t what I signed us up for. 

That night, the wind stampeded through the camp, like a herd of crazed ghost-horses.  It would stop for a few seconds and the pressure would drop in your chest, but then you could hear the wind coming again–smashing its way along the canyon walls.  One of the guides estimated the wind gusts at 30-50 mph.  The sand on the bank was swirling in our eyes, ears, and mouths, but at least the hail had stopped. 

That night I laid awake the whole night as the wind rattled my tent like a drunken gorilla.  I prayed as the storm increased in intensity.  I just wanted it to stop.  I was scared for my students and for myself.  I could hear a couple of the students crying in the night and I got even madder at God.  I demanded the storm to stop.  But it just kept raging.  I was furious for my lack of faith.  For if I had enough I could have calmed that storm, but I didn’t.  In the end however, God worked that out for a good reason.

In the early morning the air was still and almost contemplative.  The storm had finally whirled its way out and we were all safe and sound—sandy, exhausted, but safe. 

Later that night, during our sharing circle, every one of the students said, to my surprise, that, while they were scared of the storm and that the paddling through it to get to camp was excruciatingly difficult, they were all glad they had gone through the experience.  They all felt powerful, like they could accomplish anything.  They had worked together in a very dangerous situation and made it through.  As I listened to them I realized why my prayers were not answered.  I realized (again) that I don’t always know what’s best.  The experience I wanted to end became a life-changing, life-empowering experience for the Eighth Graders that they will never forget.  Of course, my prayers weren’t wrong—they were the obvious ones to pray, and the storm did eventually stop, and everyone ended up OK.  It just goes to show the Powers That Be have better plans than my own often emotion-tinged ones.  This adventure had made them better friends, better people.

When we got back to base camp there were whispers among the staff about my class: “That’s the class that made it through the storm.  Those are the kids who paddled 56 miles up the San Juan River in 3 days and made it through that wind storm.”  One of the directors of the camp came up to me as we were leaving.  “You have amazing students,” he said, “really amazing.”

“Thank you. I know,” I said, beaming with pride, “I know.”

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog