Picture of the year: adults thinking inside the box.

Every year I designate a photo as my "picture of the year."  Usually that picture focuses on children and their play.   I want to change that this year to focus on the adults and their play/work. 

I was in Australia this past September to do a number of workshops on building apparatus for the sensory table.  In looking over the pictures I took of teachers building things, I came across what might be considered a theme: Adults thinking inside the box.

I have several pictures of adults who have crawled inside a box in the process of building their construction.

 

Did this adult really need to crawl inside the box?  Maybe not, but by crawling inside the box, this adult experienced space physically, emotionally and cognitively.  Not only that, this adult got up close and personal with the materials and---with the help of others in his group---got a taste of what could be done with them in the given space.  I would guess spatial literacy is as important for adults as it is for children.

One group went so far as to purposely cut a door in a large television box as an invitation for the children to go inside.  

They actually had a dual purpose for cutting the door.  Since they were embedding a plank and tube through the box, they also needed to crawl inside to align the holes on each side to get the angle of incline that they wanted.  Sounds a lot like spatial literacy for adults again.

With that introduction, I give you my picture of the year.  It is a picture taken from the other side of the box.  This group cut a window in the television box opposite the door but in an unexpected place.

I suppose I could call it: Thumbs up for adults thinking inside the box.  And some of the best thinking inside the box comes with a dose of fun and humor.

Thinking Inside the box

At least once a year, I would set up several big boxes as a large muscle experience for the children.  I called it a Big box fort.  The big boxes were be taped together on the outside and on the inside so the children could navigate their way through from one end of the fort to the other---or exit in the middle.

I saw this primarily as a large muscle apparatus that made children get down on their hands and knees to crawl through.  Of course it was much more than that, but I set it up for children to find ways to inhabit a space inside the boxes

After the fort, I would move the big boxes over to the sensory table.  Again the idea was for children to crawl into the boxes and play in the sensory table from the space inside the boxes.

I always felt the big boxes around the table offered children a way to experience an enclosed space while playing at the sensory table.  Put another way, it was a chance for children to "think inside the box."

However, there have been several big box constructions that were not specifically made for children to go in.   An example was the Big box on top.  I set a large box over the top of the sensory table and embedded several cardboard tubes through it.

I am not sure why, but one child saw it as an invitation to actually crawl into the table under the box among all the tubes.  What was it about this apparatus that said to the child "come on in?"

 

Of course, if it was an invitation for one child to experience the enclosed space, surely it was an invitation for others to join her.

 

Eventually four children ended up in the table under the big box. It was so crowded that any movement set off a chain reaction of children squirming inside the box.  The box both contained and restricted their whole body play and offered the children an intimate experience in spatial and personal relations.

I eventually embedded another cardboard tube as an experiment to see if that would prevent children from crawling into the table under the box.  

It did not.  I suppose I could have added even more tubes through the box, but the children demonstrated their propensity to inhabit spaces like this.

I was not surprised then when children crawled into the box of another apparatus that was the sensory

table embedded in a box.

 

I actually partially embedded the sensory table into a large box.  One child (above) crawled into the box from the table.  He then crawled out of the table into the space next to the table that was still inside the box.  He was pleased with his little journey, a journey made possible by the very nature of the construction.

For others, it was not a journey, but an enclosed space in which to work.  In the picture below, two children crawled into the space in between the box and the table.  The space both constricted and defined their play.  For instance, these two children were older and bigger so they were forced to work from a kneeling position.

Below is one more example of an apparatus that beckoned children to experience it from the inside.  I called it Big box big windows

Two children crawled into the larger box through the large side windows.   These two sat comfortably inside pouring and filling their containers.

I have always said that children are masters at exploring space. What may be just as important is the idea that spaces themselves play an active part in those explorations.   Even though all three examples show children working inside a big box structure, each has a different energy and rhythm depending partly on the construction itself.  If I try to imagine the sensory table without these constructions, the play would necessarily be different; there would not be the beauty and creativity of  "thinking inside the box."

Repurposing

This past September/October I was in Australia for a speaking and workshop tour thanks to Niki Buchan and Brownyn Cron of Real World Learning.  I did 16 sessions in 26 days all around Australia.  I am pleased to report that all the Aussies I met were great players.

Most of my sessions were building sessions.  I introduced a framework for making constructions that go in and/or around sensory table.  (The framework can be found in the right-hand column of the blog under Dimensions and Elements for Building.)  Before any building session, I asked the participants to look at my blog, not to copy what I have already made, but to get them thinking about possibilities.  In addition, I asked them to gather their own materials for building.  That way, they would come to the session with ideas about what they wanted to build.

In this post, I would like to highlight a building project that happened in my last building session at Mittagong Preschool.  I could spend a year highlighting all the building projects in Australia because no two were the same and each emerged from the effort by the participants to realize their ideas with the materials they collected.

This project, however, was different in two ways.  The first way in which it was different was what they used as the base for their project.  I can't remember exactly the story, but the gist of it was that they had this piece of equipment in storage that had been lying around for some time.  They did not want to throw it out because they thought they could put it to use someday. 

The piece of equipment was a sturdy blue metal frame.  I do not remember what its original purpose was, but here was a piece of equipment taking up precious storage space that they felt was just waiting to be repurposed.  

The second way this project was a different was the fact that someone actually drew up a plan to be realized.  It was a simple plan that included the essential elements. 

To be sure, other people have drawn up plans for what they wanted to build, but that has been the exception rather than the rule.  Most people gather materials and spontaneously start building and make adjustments as they go along.  Below is an example from the same session of a apparatus that emerged spontaneously: one piece led to another piece that led to another piece that led to another piece and so on until viola!

 

Once a groups had their plans either on paper or evolving in their head, there were a lot of similarities in the process of building like experimenting with different saws to make holes. 

 

Or experimenting with power tools like drills to make holes.  And if the holes were not big enough, how to use a tool to enlarge the hole to accommodate a tube to be embedded in the larger cardboard tube.

Another similarity no matter what was being built was how to securely attach the elements of the apparatus.  Most of that was done with duct tape, but in this case, there were also zip ties to attach the plastic tubes to a second, black metal coat rack.  Again, they took something from the classroom and repurposed it.

One final similarity in the building process was a desire to improvise.  This group found a piece of mesh that transformed the one large rectangular hole into many small square holes.  This was a spontaneous addition that they decided would add some play value to their apparatus.

At the end of the day, this group had built a novel construction from a piece of equipment that was just taking up precious space in the preschool.  They were quite pleased with their apparatus and were ready to offer it to the children for their explorations.  

How many of us have bought something great and then found little use for it other than taking up space in the classroom or storage area?  Maybe instead of looking to buy something new, we could take a tip from these teachers at Mittagong and try to repurpose something we already have. With a kernel of an idea and maybe a little help, we surely could build something that would invite children's exploration and enrich their play.

P.S.  Thank you Jeanne Vergeront from Museum Notes for helping flush out this post.

Every place has a soul

I am reading the book The Wonder of Learning: The Hundred Languages of Children published by Reggio Children.  One of the reasons I find it fascinating is the language they use when they talk about young children's learning encounters with the world.  For example, in the section called Dialogue with Places, they say at the very beginning that "Every place has a soul, an identity..."(p.19).  I can identify a place, but can I know its soul?

Since this blog is about sand and water tables, the place I choose to identify is the space that holds the sensory table. The space is approximately six feet by eight feet.  The space is partially enclosed on three sides: a cabinet that holds the smocks on the right, a wall in the back and a counter with a sink on the left. 

The sensory table itself is a blue plastic tub nine inches deep on metal legs.  It is 21 inches wide and 46 inches long and sits 19 inches off the ground.  Next to the table is a five-gallon bucket.

There are a few other features that help identify this space.  Under the counter, I have tubs with extra implements to be used in the table.  There are curtains that hide the tubs which means they are not available to the children but near enough for me to reach when I want to switch out objects from the table.  In one corner, there are brooms and a mop.  I place rubber mats under the table.  And I pull the table away from the wall so it is open to play from all sides.   On this particular day in the table itself, I have put water implements with a giant sponge sprinkled with dish soap in an inch of water.

Though I have identified the space, it does not feel like it has a soul as of yet.  However, there are some hints at its soul.  For instance, the brooms, mops and rubber mats hint that messes are welcome. The table is simple so it can be easily transformed by changing what is in the table.  The pail is empty asking to be filled.

To discover its soul, they say in the book that we must learn to recognize our own soul as we interact with the space.  Since this space is an invitation for children to play, in other words, to interact, maybe I can surmise its soul by looking at the children's interactions in this space. There are really so many interactions, that I need narrow it down to one type: playing with the suds.  My thought is that at least one of the essences (souls?) of the sponge is that the children can use it to make suds.

To make suds, they use the weight of their upper body to push their hands down into the giant sponge.  One intriguing aspect of making suds this way is that they can leave hand prints on the sponge that disappear momentarily.  Maybe the intersection of the children using the sponge to make suds and the ephemeral imprints in this space that allows/encourages such explorations is part of the soul of this space.

There are other actions that make suds.  In the following video, two children first punch the sponge before pushing down on the sponge to make suds.


Beating the giant sponge from Thomas Bedard on Vimeo.

These two children interact differently with the sponge .  Their actions are much more vigorous.  Maybe the intersection of the children beating the sponge and the sponge absorbing the punches in this space that allows/encourages such explorations is part of the soul of this space.

Besides making suds, children use the suds in many different ways.  The child in the following video has dumped a pail full of suds on top of the giant sponge.  She uses her hand to spread the suds almost like frosting a cake.


Spredding the suds from Thomas Bedard on Vimeo.

The energy in this video is much different from that of the previous video.  As she glides her hand over the suds there seems to be a meditative aspect to her actions.  Maybe the intersection of the child gliding her hand over the sponge and the sponge acting as a platform on which to spread the suds in this space that allows/encourages such explorations is part of the soul of this space.

By adding implements, the children find other ways to use the suds.  In the video below, the children have filled a bucket halfway with suds.  The child hovering over the bucket grabs two small sponges from the table and drops them in the bucket.  He begins to use a long-handled spoon to stir the suds.  He chuckles and says that he is stirring the soup.


Stirring the soup from Thomas Bedard on Vimeo.

The children have appropriated the five-gallon pail to constructively transport the suds from the table to the pail.  In the process one child has also appropriated smaller sponges and a kitchen spoon to stir his soup.  Not only is there yet a different purpose (transporting the suds) to this episode, but the children have added role playing to their actions.  Maybe the intersection of the children transporting the suds out of the table into the pail and the appropriation of a couple of loose parts (small sponges and a big spoon) to stir the "soup" in this space that allows/encourages such explorations is part of the soul of this space.

Suds even have the power to change a child's identity.  When a child spreads suds on her arm with a little ladle, her arm is transformed into a...???  When a child puts suds on his face and head, is he still the same person?

Maybe the intersection of the children feeling the suds on their arm or seeing themselves in a mirror to check their identity in this space that allows/encourages such explorations is part of the soul of this space.

I know I have found my soul in this space.  It is my creative outlet; It is a place for me to play with ideas and offer them to the children.  Because each child brings something different to the this space, it becomes a reflection of their soul, their identity.  The space itself has no soul without the interactions.  Since there is no end to the possible explorations in this space, could that be its soul? Could its soul be a space that constantly allows/fosters new interactions that enrich our collective experiences? What do you think?

P.S.  If you are curious about the multitude of possibilities just with the giant sponge, you may want to look at the following posts:  Making cookies, Bubble cake,  Giant sponge with jewels, Giant sponge - 2014, Giant sponge - new axiom, Beyond the giant sponge, Giant sponge. 

Joy

Whenever I do workshops on constructing apparatus for the sensory table, I tell participants that one of the defining characteristics of play at the sensory table is pure joy. In conjunction with that statement, I show the following picture.

I always thought I knew what joy was and this picture was the essence of that joy.  I am currently reading a book of essays entitled The Philosophy of Play as Life edited by Wendy Russell, Emily Ryall and Malcolm MacLean.  One of the essays, "'Life as Play' from East to West" by Damla Donmez, has got me wondering if I really understand what joy is.  I jotted down some thoughts as I read the article and then looked for more instances of joy at the sensory table at just one apparatus, two cardboard chutes taped together and set on an incline.  

The reason I chose just one apparatus is because my reading made me think that joy is context specific.  And by controlling for the physical context, I should see joy manifested differently in different children because it is momentary and no two moments are the same.  And by seeing the different manifestations of joy, I would have a better understanding or joy and what it entails.

One way joy is manifested is through exuberance.  The video below is a good example of that.  The child in the blue pours pellets down the cardboard chute.  As he does that, he cannot contain himself; he squeals with delight and does a little happy dance.


Joyful pouring from Thomas Bedard on Vimeo.

I am not sure why he is so thrilled with his actions.  Is it the sound of the pellets as they tumble down the chute?  Is he mimicking the energy of the pellets as they tumble down?  In any case, this is joy, right?.

Another way joy is manifested is through creating precise moments of understanding how the world works.  The child in the video below explores how different objects roll down the cardboard chutes.  With each new object he tries, he shrieks with laughter. 


Down the Chute from Thomas Bedard on Vimeo.

Does he laugh because of the way the objects roll down?  Does he laugh because he is thrilled with the results of his experiment?  In any case, this is joy again, right?.

Another way joy is manifested is through an element of surprise.  The two children pictured below are engaged in a serious endeavor.  One child pours sand down the cardboard chute and the other catches the sand.  The child pouring keeps putting more and more sand in his pot and pours it faster and faster each time.

What eventually happens is that the child with the pot pours so fast and so hard that he knocks the bowl right out of the hands of the child catching the sand.  The result of that unexpected outcome is quite a good laugh.

This joint endeavor proceeds along with each child doing their part.  The surprise of the bowl getting knocked out of the girl's hand transforms that exact moment into joy, right?

What is common about all three of these episodes is that the feeling of joy bubbles up from their inner being in response to their own actions.  I contrast that with a quote from the above mentioned essay: "Every forcible act abolishes the inherent joy of play and makes it only a dull imitation." p. 47.

I am still left with many questions.  Joy is a state of being, but so is happiness.  What is the difference?  Is it the exuberance or the laughter that defines joy? Is there such a thing as a quiet, private joy? Does joy really have a purpose other than the affirmation of one's being?

In tossing around the idea of joy with a friend from Canada, she wrote the following: "Without genuine joy and joyful moments, a classroom doesn’t have the heartbeat it should."  That doesn't help define the essence of play, but it does help me understand the importance of joy.  (Thanks Gill.)

I don't know if I am really any closer to understanding what joy is.  I am left with the idea that sometimes words get in the way of understanding something as ephemeral as joy.  

The thing about sharing

Sharing is a good thing, right?  Don't we want a world in which children and adults share, especially when we are talking about finite resources?  However, the thing about sharing is that IT is not so simple.  That became abundantly clear to me in a recent discussion I had with three other teachers while recording an episode of the early childhood podcast Teaching with the Body in Mind.  (The sharing episode should come out on or about December 3rd.)

In an early childhood classroom, the problem with sharing begins with how we generally use the word.  When we ask a child to share something with another child, we are not really asking them to share.  In truth, we are asking the child to give the thing in question to the other child.  Children learn the code early.  They understand that you are asking them to give the toy they are playing with to the other child who wants it.  Is it any wonder children do not want to "share?"  That is especially true if a child who has the toy is totally engaged with the toy in question.

A child who wants a toy from another child, has also learned the code.  That child will say something like: "You should share."  If the child doesn't get the toy they want, they have learned to go to an adult to mediate the "sharing."  The child might say something like: "Johnny is not sharing with me."  To which the adult intervenes with a statement to the affect that we "share" with our friends.  And more often than not, the adult will manage the "sharing" by setting the stage for taking turns.

Taking turns may indeed be a form of sharing.  However, I would venture to guess that our idea of taking turns as a form of sharing would include the child voluntarily taking turns instead of simply acquiescing to the adult managing the turn-taking.  In fact, we probably think the ideal is for children to turns on their own. 

A teacher may ask: "Then how do I get children to share?"  Is the way to get children to share making them share?  Do we think that by practicing adult-mediated sharing, children will form a sharing habit?

I contend that children in an early childhood classroom are already sharing.  The problem is that we do not see it because we are too busy implementing our own idea of what sharing is.  In fact, because we are so focused on the above idea of sharing, we are blinded by all the real sharing that goes on in the classroom---or in life.  I further contend that if we start looking for true instances of sharing, we start a virtuous circle in which we recognize and encourage such sharing, which in turn leads to even more sharing.

If you are looking for concrete examples of what I am talking about, take a look at the following three posts.  The first post goes all the way back to December 11, 2011 where I write about acts of kindness, which include acts of sharing.   The second and third examples deal with conflict: conflict 1,  conflict 2.  Conflict is important in the classroom because resolving conflicts in a respectful manner lays the groundwork for real sharing.  How?  Conflict---and its resolution---is one way children begin to understand their own wants and needs in relation to that of others.  Is that not one of the prerequisites for true sharing?

In a way, this blog post is a way of sharing an idea.  Hopefully it is also a invitation for you to share your thoughts on the idea. 




 

The science of sloshing and the moon landing

I am always looking for real-life analogues for children's scientific inquiry at the sensory table.  In looking over my documentation lately, I found a video of a child walking with a pretty full tub of water around the sensory table.  As he walked around the table, the water sloshed from side-to-side in his tub so he was forced to change his gate to minimize the spillage. 


Water sloshing from Thomas Bedard on Vimeo.
  

So what does sloshing have to do with the moon landing?  As it turns out, quite a bit.  In 1969, Neil Armstrong set the lunar lander on the moon.  In the course of landing on the moon, he was forced to maneuver the lunar lander with the propellant sloshing around.  Because the propellant was dwindling, the sloshing was more pronounced and that made it more difficult to keep the lunar module steady.  We all know he landed on the moon.  However, because of all the sloshing, the space agency installed extra anti-sloshing baffles on subsequent missions.  Anti-sloshing baffles; I never knew such things existed.


The amount of sloshing was unexpected.   I would venture to guess that Neil Armstrong was able to handle the sloshing because as a child, he carried or transported water in containers that allowed for plenty of sloshing.  In other words, he had an embodied knowledge of the physics of sloshing.


I contend that the child carrying the sloshing water was building that very same knowledge.  I do not begin to presume to know how the child will use that knowledge.  However, can you imagine how the parent would feel about what the child is learning when I make the analogy of his operations to those of Neil Armstrong.  Instead of just seeing the child spilling water on the floor, the parent would appreciate how the child is learning about the physics of sloshing.