Friday, January 29, 2016

why I ditched the classroom for the wild

In a world where pedal desks, blended learning and active learning classrooms are gaining popularity, I would like us to ditch classrooms entirely. And technology too, for the most part.

I would like us all - learners from birth through adulthood to end-of-life - to spend time exploring the world together instead of sitting in schools or staring at screens to educate ourselves. I'd like us all to spend a few more hours outside every single day and call it our education. And lots of people disagree. "That's just great", they say, "but my kids aren't three anymore, and they're no longer into sitting in the dirt making mud pies". Or they tell me that our kids need to learn skills for this century as opposed to an antiquated and quaint appreciation of "nature". This is where I get excited.

Let me show you how teens and adults can learn from a good mud pie, a romp in the rain and a quaint appreciation of nature. Let me show you how in just two and a half hours of self-directed wilderness exploration a group of kids, teens, or adults can learn as much or more than they might have in a classroom, and yet go home glowing and filthy with the effort and joy of it all. And because it's a whole body-and-mind experience, they're likely to retain more of it, too.

This is Wild Art. This is explorative learning in the wilderness. It's the foundation of a healthy development as individuals and society, and I think it should form the bulk of our children's education.

Am I saying we should all be unplugged all the time? No. Here I am using the Internet to convey my thoughts. I and a couple of the kids were taking photos during our last outings, just so we could share this adventure and so I could put this idea out on the web. I began our day yesterday by reading some information I found about pea and fingernail clams online, as well as an email from a local biologist describing the lives of these creatures the kids had discovered in a forest swamp, earlier this month. Clearly, technology and the internet are vital to our learning. But it starts with wading in the swamp and digging through mud and algae just for fun, and saying "hey guys! Look what we found in the algae!" It starts with feeling great about getting out in the wilderness and having no agenda at all - just an open-minded group of people learning to see their world; learning to appreciate nature.

What we learned during two and a half hours of playing in the mud and water:

Ecosystems, observation, measurement, quantification and consequence. The big picture. It's obvious we're looking at ecosystems by going out in them, but it's so much more than that, too. These two photos show the same spot (different angle due to change of accessibility!) one week apart. See that little pond emptying into the creek from about 3 feet above, in the photo on the left? That's the same little pond in the photo on the right, but the creek had swollen so much with the week's rain that there was only about an eight-inch difference in height by the time the second photo was taken. And while I stood ankle-deep on a little gravel bar to take the first photo, the second was taken from the other side of the creek, since I would have been nearly waist-deep had I gone to the gravel bar. This observation, made in many places and to many different degrees, had various consequences. First, there was the experiential lesson of learning to observe. Then there was noticing the consequences of the creek's change to the ecosystem it flows through, and to us, our activities, and our thought-processes. We continuously evaluated how deep the water was and how much it had changed in depth, speed, temperature, erosive power and ecological consequence. To make such observations and hypotheses during an extended exploration of a large area is to truly deepen them, and to apply them to a bigger picture. Learning to see and to always consider the big picture is, in my opinion, one of the most essential lessons. In the wilderness - especially in a social group exploring the wilderness together - we naturally see the big picture.

Measurement, risk-evaluation, and problem-solving - not to mention collaboration. The creek, having breached its banks in many places, flowed out into the cedar forest, and although it was generally too deep to navigate, various roots and clumps of collected twigs made it possible to traverse the flooded forest with caution, and the kids found many ways to test, problem-solve, and group-work their way through it. It was also a great exercise in observation, since keen and cautious observation was essential to staying out of the many chest-deep areas. A couple of kids demonstrated this quite dramatically by falling in.

Just an extension of the above thoughts - this turned out to be the safest way into the flooded forest: a very quickly-moving rapid between two islands (and between two trees!). The water on either side was about four feet deep.
There is always, of course, the option to challenge oneself. This brave young soul challenged herself to cross the creek - about five to six feet deep at this location - on a stable but slightly slippery alder. Observation and imagination collided for me as she paused to look at a great blue heron that was digging through the marsh just fifty feet away, and then some of us noticed this young hippo coming up beside the crossing-log... always good to have a little wooden hippo in the temperate rain forest!! I have often been asked how I mitigate risks like this one. And it was a risk - absolutely. As a mentor, this takes my own evaluation of the situation, as well as an on-the-spot assessment of whether I could solve any problem that might arise. In this particular location, the creek was deep but quiet, as the bulk of the flow was happening beyond some piled logs about eight feet away. So I coached her across the log (mostly encouraging her in her own process), and stood very close, ready to leap in and pull her out, if needed. Thankfully such a rescue wasn't necessary, and this crossing will improve her skills and confidence.

Playing with flow and water depth, but also making constant observations about structure stability, weight and holding capacity of the flooded forest floor, and navigating group dynamics.

We made quite a few questions, observations and extrapolations about beavers as we traversed their habitat and noticed many beaver-chewed trees and sticks. This also led to a couple of discussions about Giardia and other parasites; health-risks of exploring the wilderness, how to mitigate those risks, what the outcome might be, and what potential healthcare is available to help should we contract Giardia (not much). Interestingly, this also led to some brief discussion of local wild foods.

The creek didn't stop after flooding the forest - it also flowed out into the meadow, creating beautiful running streams along the trails. Many observations were made about the springy spongy meadow. We rescued a caterpillar and found a few drowned worms. And mostly the open meadow led to conversations about the weather, and some good opportunities for running.

But why just run? The kids wanted to see themselves slow-motion running along this trail, and thanks to the technology I had with me (an inexpensive little waterproof camera), I was able to accommodate, on the spot. As they watched this video they explored anatomy, physics, and technology. And this spot was also an opportunity to discover how various members of our community react to a change in their routine. One of these groups approached the flooded trail from a spot thigh-deep in the flooded swamp beside the trail, and watched various dog-walkers and joggers either turn around at the sight of the water or walk in a short distance to evaluate depth and then turn around. In one case a jogger took off her socks and shoes and jogged through barefoot!

The flooded meadow seemed to inspire some dramatic play, so we went with it.

Sometimes it's difficult to see any immediate curriculum-related value in these moments. That makes them even more important. See this joy? This is the joy that will mean she remembers this day for a long time, even if she doesn't remember the words "Giardia" or "flood-plain".

This joy is the place where friendships are built and developed; where children, teens and adults learn (often through dramatic play) to navigate our intensely social world. The relationships carried on through these kids' lives will carry some of this day's learning along into later stages of life, as these kids trigger each other's memories of shared experiences.

This is the place where the brain is excited into building connections between the many experiences we've given it during this adventure, the many experiences we brought with us, and the many that are still to come.   (This and the following photo generously contributed by one of the students.)

And this is also the place where we learn to know and accept ourselves as part of the world; to let sink in the great learning we're doing, to appreciate where we find ourselves and where we are going, to make great leaps forward and to sit calmly in the current moment - and to appreciate the nature of everything.

Thursday, January 21, 2016

never too old to play in the rain

When the world gives you rain, enjoy it!

The grade 6-9 group took a few minutes to sit quietly and observe, hear, smell and feel the rainy woods.

Plus there was some dam-building and creek diversion.

Once one person is stuck, everybody else might as well join her!


Everywhere mud!

Glorious mud!!


Might as well wash off and have a drink of the rain.

But not for long. The grade 4-6 group became as wet as they possibly could.

...much to their unanimous delight.

Ahhh... Gloves. Or would those better be called sponges?

You're never too old to love water. So when the clouds gift us with it, get out in it!!

Monday, January 18, 2016

The Importance of Printmaking

I am a printmaker. It's one of the things I'm proud to say about myself. Printmaking is not just a craft, but a way of looking at the world. And one of my life's greatest delights is when I can share this craft and lens with others. Today I was fortunate to have the opportunity to share it with a bunch of kids.

How to make a simple dry-point intaglio print:

First scrape down and round off the edges of your plate. Then plan your work with a permanent marker on the plate.

Then use an etching scribe to scratch the design into the plate. We used acrylic plates first.

Then we used zinc for the second round of prints. The scribe cuts a groove into the surface that has a burr on one side (and sometimes on both sides). This groove will hold the ink during printing.

When the plate is run through the press, the wet paper is pressed into all the grooves, and around the plate, giving a noticeable relief to the print. We can take advantage of this by carving the plate to form an interesting 3-D effect when it's printed.

When using only lines for depth of colour, texture, and form, it can take a very long time to get the whole plate finished.

Some scribes are easier to create deeper lines with, but in the end inking is as much or perhaps even more important to the outcome of the print than the lines themselves.

Ahhh... ink. Thick and sticky, it needs to be mixed well on the glass plate using little cardboard paddles. I don't have a photo of the paper, but generally when we start inking a small plate is a good time to start soaking the thick, fibrous intaglio paper. This ensures that the pulp of the paper will be moveable and will push well into all the crannies of the plate.

Then the ink is wiped onto and rubbed into the etching plates.

Using a smooth paper, we then have to wipe all extraneous ink off the plate! Technically, all the lines (grooves) should hold the ink while it wipes relatively cleanly from the smooth upper surface. However, the wiping can be tweaked in many different ways to allow for a lot of rich moody tones and layers of depth.

Finally, the wiped plate is laid on the press bed, hands washed (for the umpteenth time in this process!), the wet paper laid carefully over the plate, and then a sheet of newsprint and three layers of wool felt. And then we slowly and steadily run it through the tightly-wound press.

And this is what it's all for! That moment when we peel back the paper and discover what we've created!! No two prints are entirely alike, and every time we peel back the paper it feels a bit like a gift.

Between 2-hour-long sessions of intaglio practice, we went out for a very wet rainforest picnic, and to see if we could find some nature-made prints. We found our own footprints, first, then the print left by lichen that has fallen off a tree. We found the hole in the ground left by an uprooted tree, and even an owl pellet! We decided it qualified because, like all prints, it's a mark left by something departed - an impression of the past and a clue about past events.

owl pellet

Prints often have a feeling of melancholy, because of the inherent absence or loss involved in their making. We breathed on the studio windows and made prints of our faces in the steam. They were gone by the end of the day. It's good to think about prints; about the impression we leave upon the world and the impact we have. Prints speak also about memory. They remind us that the impression is not always the same as the original. And like memory, every retelling takes on a different character; a different reality. Prints remind us of our importance in the world, of the many different and multifaceted truths, and of the relative changeability of it all.

Monday, January 11, 2016

Taliesin Busking Accordion

This is Taliesin, playing a tune he wrote.

Tali had two assignments for school: Earn $150 towards the school field trip, and support a cause. He decided to try busking, and of course he chose the cause closest to his heart: Trees. He'd never tried busking before, but at the end of this first day he said "I loved it! I don't even care about the money - I just love to see all the people smiling."

When he has busked enough that 40% of his earnings equal $150, he will bring that to his school, and donate the remaining 60% to the Ancient Forest Alliance.

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

The gift of being seen.

We have multiple food issues in our house, and consequently I cook most of what we eat from scratch. I've never loved cooking. I would love it if I only had to do it for special occasions, but the daily grind of baking and brewing really was old a very long time ago. It doesn't help when my meals aren't appreciated, and I confess to being a leftover queen, and to receiving the kind of hapless hums that one is bound to receive in response to third-night-leftover meals. Over the years my daily meals have become less and less inspired, except when I can get up the inspiration for something truly grand. And to be honest, that inspiration is rarely my children.

Of course this gives me a lot of mama-guilt. I feel like my children's meals should be my greatest inspiration, and I should love cooking for them more than anything. I tell myself frequently that I'm failing them. And I feel like they don't see how much I love them, because I know I'm not expressing it as much as I should be in the food I present to them.

I have to create a lot of recipes to create allergen-free versions of the foods my kids like, so I print a lot of recipes off my computer word-processor. Consequently I have a big sloppy stack of stained, crumpled, disorderly 8-1/2 x 11" sheets which I have to pick through every time I need a recipe. I have some multiples printed, only because I reprinted after being unable to find what I was looking for.

On my fortieth birthday this past November, I received one of the greatest gifts of my life.

My children made me a recipe book. They got a big red binder (my favourite colour!) and a bunch of plastic page-protectors. They searched through about ten years of files on my hard drive and found a selection of food-related photos, which they printed and used to decorate both the binder and the beautiful divider pages they created. And of course they stuck it all together with specially-chosen sparkly duct tape.

Then they carefully sorted all of my many pages into the book, and presented it to me with cards that said they love me, and a coupon for more divider pages or page protectors, whenever I need them. The first picture I saw on the cover of the binder was my 2 and 5-year-old children having a little picnic under a tree. I remember that day so well.

I remember how I helped them put the food together and then left them to go out and picnic on their own, and how proud they felt as they did it themselves. They included photos of their older selves making cookies, of a wedding cake I made, of some special family meals we had...

...and I cried. I sobbed and sobbed as I looked through the book and felt all the stress of not-good-enough just fall away. I felt suddenly like my children saw me. They see how I struggle to be enthusiastic about cooking. They see how much it matters to me to make good food. They see the effort I put into their lives, and mostly they see how much I love them. They see me.

I've already redeemed my coupon once for a section of my Indian recipes. I use my book all the time, and I tell everybody about it. They've seen me cry about the beautiful book on more than one occasion. It is a good and wonderful thing not only to be acknowledged by my children, but for them to see how great is the gift of that acknowledgement.

Skating All Day and Skating All Night!

We don't get much ice time here in the rainforest, so every year or two, when the pond or lake does freeze enough to skate on, we get as much joy out of it as we can. I'm not a good skater at all. I can go forwards, backwards, and around in circles (but not with much control...). However, when I put on skates and fly out under the open sky - especially with the whole lake to myself - I feel a kind of euphoric freedom that I don't believe I've ever known in another situation. It's my happy place. So this year (as usual), we kept the kids home from school and skated from night to day and back to night again. Ahhhhhh...

Bubbles in the surface of the ice - lit by our flashlights in the night.

Flashlighting through the ice to see the dormant lilies and lake-bottom, below.
By the next morning there was a centimeter of fresh fluffy snow on the ice!

Those who skate together stay together! ...or something. It does take a fair amount of coordination and in-the-moment correction to manage skating together when neither of us actually skates very well, but it's wonderful to share the moment!

My favourite sport shoes. :-)

My favourite man.
My favourite boy.

My favourite girl.

My favourite place to go flying in the wind!

We had to share the same two pairs of skates between the four of us, so unskated people made things like footprint art.

...and more footprint art. We wonder if people in airplanes saw it.

And we borrowed somebody's hockey equipment - thank you, whoever you are!!!

Part of the joy of skating is the silly awkwardness of getting geared up and un-geared up. :-)

Back for another night-skate... with headlamps.

Orion watching.

Headlamp and snow-shovel art by Adrian and Tali.

Tali's spiral headlamp and flashlight art.

...and more of the gorgeous ice bubbles.

Happy winter! May skating bring you joy, as well!