My younger daughter - a fearless and intrepid climber!
I recently was able to attend a peer networking event for early childhood teachers, in which we examined outdoor learning. In educational circles, there is a huge surge of interest in and demand for children to be experiencing the outdoors, so our focus felt especially relevant. As could probably be expected, our conversations often turned to the idea of risk in play: What are your school's rules for sticks? For rocks? How high are your students allowed to climb? How deep do you go in the woods? Questions like these (and more) were on everyone's minds, and there was an urgent sense of needing confirmation that we were all "getting it right." We know the importance and benefits of outdoor learning, so how do we best provide those experiences for our students?
A theme that continually emerged over the course of our two days together was that of trusting the children. There were audible gasps as we watched a clip of a forest school in action, when a young child climbed what must have been 30 feet in a fragile-looking tree. Others covered their eyes as a small group of three-year-olds filled the screen, confidently carving sticks with large knives. "I trust them," said their teacher, with a bemused smile. The refrain came, again and again: Trust the children.
Which is great, of course. But the implication is that, if you're not doing these things with your students - if you are the teacher who gasps or covers your eyes - you don't trust them. You don't respect them. You don't see them as capable. And I just don't buy that.
I once asked for advice within a professional community for how to best support a student who continually ran away from me when I called for him. We hadn't yet experienced any dangerous implications of that behavior, but I was worried that we would. I was ferociously lambasted for not trusting the child's judgment, and I instantly felt ashamed. Despite all of my first-hand evidence that this child's brain was wired to lead him towards danger, instead of away, I felt guilty for not respecting his capabilities to judge risk. And when I tried to further explain my concerns, I was labeled as defensive. I felt like a total failure.
A few years down the road, I'm learning to listen to my inner "ping." You know the feeling; the one where your stomach sinks or you experience a surge of adrenaline or the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. That's what guides me as I observe my students taking risks, especially outdoors. Just feeling the "ping" isn't enough to make me intervene these days. But it is enough to make me stop and reflect. What is this feeling I'm experiencing? Why am I feeling it? Is the sense of danger about me, or about the child? Would I have the same feeling if this play were happening indoors, rather than outdoors? What could I provide to make the child both safer and more independent?
If we are to truly respect children, that includes respecting their amazing capabilities and their legitimate limits alike. It means recognizing the part of their brains that assesses risk and regulates impulse will not be mature until their early twenties. It means understanding that some of our students will grow by mastering their urges and others will grow by venturing beyond their comfort zones. It means committing ourselves to the work of developing caring, meaningful relationships with every unique child, and to the give-and-take of the dance we share as they learn.
We can trust the children and ourselves.
A theme that continually emerged over the course of our two days together was that of trusting the children. There were audible gasps as we watched a clip of a forest school in action, when a young child climbed what must have been 30 feet in a fragile-looking tree. Others covered their eyes as a small group of three-year-olds filled the screen, confidently carving sticks with large knives. "I trust them," said their teacher, with a bemused smile. The refrain came, again and again: Trust the children.
Which is great, of course. But the implication is that, if you're not doing these things with your students - if you are the teacher who gasps or covers your eyes - you don't trust them. You don't respect them. You don't see them as capable. And I just don't buy that.
I once asked for advice within a professional community for how to best support a student who continually ran away from me when I called for him. We hadn't yet experienced any dangerous implications of that behavior, but I was worried that we would. I was ferociously lambasted for not trusting the child's judgment, and I instantly felt ashamed. Despite all of my first-hand evidence that this child's brain was wired to lead him towards danger, instead of away, I felt guilty for not respecting his capabilities to judge risk. And when I tried to further explain my concerns, I was labeled as defensive. I felt like a total failure.
A few years down the road, I'm learning to listen to my inner "ping." You know the feeling; the one where your stomach sinks or you experience a surge of adrenaline or the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. That's what guides me as I observe my students taking risks, especially outdoors. Just feeling the "ping" isn't enough to make me intervene these days. But it is enough to make me stop and reflect. What is this feeling I'm experiencing? Why am I feeling it? Is the sense of danger about me, or about the child? Would I have the same feeling if this play were happening indoors, rather than outdoors? What could I provide to make the child both safer and more independent?
If we are to truly respect children, that includes respecting their amazing capabilities and their legitimate limits alike. It means recognizing the part of their brains that assesses risk and regulates impulse will not be mature until their early twenties. It means understanding that some of our students will grow by mastering their urges and others will grow by venturing beyond their comfort zones. It means committing ourselves to the work of developing caring, meaningful relationships with every unique child, and to the give-and-take of the dance we share as they learn.
We can trust the children and ourselves.
