Reflections of Films and Movies

Definition from the internet, found via google search, making me feel that I am not alone in the world:

  1. Attunement | Define Attunement at

    Main Entry: attunement. Part of Speech: n. Definition: being or bringing into harmony; a feeling of being “at one” with another being 

Today I walked to the ICA with my beau and my gal. We left the house somewhere near two, both my gal and my beau having a hard day, me wishing to cheer them up, to bring us together. We walked to Davis Square, where we took the T to the museum. Before we were halfway up the hill to Broadway, my gal in her pink coat was far ahead. She continued this way until we arrived in front of the T station, making my beau wonder if he was doing something wrong, reminding me of the time I walked her to meet the carpool, and followed her all the way there. At the museum, we wandered the exhibits, mostly on our own, coming together a few times, when one of us missed the other, for a brief shared glimpse to show another what we loved, to take a photo, and for a long time, inside the exhibit, The Refusal of Time, put together by William Kintredge.

For those many moments, I stood beside my beau, our breathing in sync as we watched the black and white images projected on three walls. For awhile, my daughter stood nearby, then she eased her way through the crowd to a place on the floor, where she sat and soaked in the exhibit. Others sat on chairs, or on the floor, or stood nearby, some in groups, some on their own, some in pairs.

On the way home, my gal and I sat side by side on the subway, across from my beau. He had searched for three seats together, but the train was too full. My gal’s arms and mine touched through our coats, and our shared gaze rested on the others on the train. Earlier in the afternoon when I had asked her which route to take from the museum to Fanueil Hall, the Greenway or the Waterfront, she had chosen the Greenway, where we could see a group of skate board dudes opposite us, telling me she wanted to people watch. So on the train, arm to arm, I shared my observations of a couple across from us, observed that the woman spoke what sounded like a Spanish accented version of Spanish, much like our friend Carla, with whom we had shared two weeks in our home last spring, and a surprisingly deep connection. My daughter observed how pretty the woman was, and I observed how nice she seemed, wondered if the man she spoke with was a partner or a friend. My daughter speculated he was her partner, confirmed her suspicion in my ear when he kissed her cheek. Then I noticed her diamond ring, wondered if they were married, noticed he didn’t have one, and my daughter said they better be. I said he could be someone else, besides her husband, and my daughter noted that if she were the one with someone besides her husband she would remove her ring.

I wake up in the night with the back of my beau pressed against my own, on my side of the bed. He arrived late Friday night, straight from his mother’s home, after making a plan to send her to the hospital, which was supposed to happen via his brother’s car, driving her to New York City from Connecticut. Instead she went via ambulance, met his third brother there at the hospital where that brother’s son is in training as a neurosurgeon. One connection to the other, stringing dots to safety, or not, his mother a very old woman, on the brink of death, threading the needle on a Hail Mary prayer, as my beau had described the days ahead yesterday morning, before calling his brothers and his mom and asking the home health aide to give him a first hand report on his mom. Four days he was by her side making plans for her to get some pain relief and to be cared for in her home after a steep decline from independence, or to go to the hospital for a treatment aimed at relieving pain. It may be the end of her life, the end of my beau’s physical connection to his mother, though the relationship will live on.

All this wakes me near five am thinking about attunement, about the way a mother and a newborn baby come together after  birth, seeking to regain that shared breathing and respiration, circulation which in utero was effortless, how sharing a home or a bed or a subway train or even space in a museum or a coffee shop brings us great satisfaction and contentment, or leaves us feeling all alone.

So, I rise, in the absolute dark upstairs, to find lights on in the tv room below and my cat Frances waiting at the door, to sit beside me and purr while I type, her body warming mine through the blanket on the couch, the furnace breathing through the pipes in the house, loud now I stop to listen, filling the house with hot air, as soon we’ll all wake and breath closer together or far apart, the shared breathing moving from sleep to wakefulness a mixture of separation and contentment.

Yesterday my beau and I made frittata. Really he made frittata and I cleaned the kitchen and invited the kids to the table, a round one in my kitchen where we sit when meals are cozy. Later in the day, my beau and gal and I shared a table in the ICA, she hungry, we craving coffee, and then at 7 we met up with my boy in Davis Square to share four plates of Tibetan food, warm light, in the company of strangers who cooked and served and cleaned, and ate and talked and laughed. Then we walked home again, along the sidewalk in the cold, stopping at CVS for a razor, a binder, some nail polish, a lip gloss, toilet paper, notebook dividers, all carried home in four bags shared between four people.

At home we took time apart around the dining room, living room, tv room, three adjoining spaces, all in separate chairs, all with separate devices, my beau and boy on laptops, my gal and I on phones, my gal watching tv, the rest of us reading, looking, watching, whatever you call checking e-mail, Facebook,and searching the internet. Then the kids and I watched New Girl, my latest addiction and pleasure in the tv world, joined for an episode and a half by my beau. Lots of casual sex seemed to be the theme of those last two episodes, though in the nuances of the series I see the cast of characters fighting against it, talk with my gal briefly about all the sex we’ve seen, noting that it seems ok, that she is a teen, and it seems normal to want to play or read or watch about those older than ourselves, remember a conversation or an article I read when she was young about Barbie play for young girls, and how many think it’s inappropriate with Barbie’s full grown silly woman’s body, but how from the time we are small, we are learning about the next phase of life through story, play, and image.

Kintredge’s work, The Refusal of Time, if the words on the entrance to the museum are true, has something to do with the standardization of time, how at one point Greenwich Mean Time, even the clock, took over the world. The piece I remember was a parade of shadow puppetry, individuals, who all appeared to be black, African, danced along from the corner nearest us at the back left hand side of the space, around the front wall to the right side wall. There were sounds and images and for awhile there was a feeling of a parade, with each member moving along in a rhythm of his or her own, with style and grace. Then, as things shifted, forms overlapped, technology, even in the form of a simple baby carriage pushed by a small girl, shifted things away from human forms, and by the end of that scene, gobs of black scattered across the images of dancing people overshadowed the dancing and stuck in my mind. It’s hard to explain this work without a shared experience of being in that room. When I got home, I encouraged my son to visit with his gal, as seventeens and under get in free and I’d really like to talk with him about it, to see what he thinks and how he and his gal might react.

In the gift shop before we left the ICA I looked at a beautiful book of the Kintredge exhibit, a store copy unbound in plastic, wishing the exhibit could go on for me, wanting to read text to explain the images, and to have more time to absorb the work. The book in it’s plastic cover cost one hundred and twenty five dollars, so I went home instead with a book of houses published by Phaidon, a sort of bird book of houses around the world, houses created throughout history to reflect a sense of home in a particular place and time. Home, that wonderful word.

As we closed up day care, my friend and I talked about home, about how hard it is to find it, how hard to let it go..She gestured with her fist over her heart, telling me how she learned, after her parents divorce when she was a young child, after living in multiple apartments, feeling homeless her whole life, where home is..and I wonder still, is it in the walls of Garrison Avenue where I’ve raised my kids, does it need to be here, or could we find it elsewhere, could I without them, could I with another, not my former husband, but my beau, or someone else, if this one doesn’t pan out? It’s the attunement we’re seeking is what I think, that sense of oneness in the world, whether in a coffee shop or a museum, whether alone in our chairs with our devices inside our shared home, or in front of one tv, snuggled up on couches and cushions and soft chairs, or with our backs pressed up against one another, sharing the same bed, breathing, temperature, somnambulance in sync.

Learn more about Kintredge. It’s not all about attunement. The colonial powers might have wanted that on some level, too, when they insisted the world live and breath on their time. Apparently Albert Einstein argued that it was possible for time to move differently, for each of us to experience time in our own individual way, for time somehow to pass differently that we think. The dancing parade made me think about that, about standardization, top down education, top down time and place, about finding our own individual rhythm and way of being, about how we more organically get in sync or don’t, about the pleasure of  a conversation, whether in day care with the fives and twos, or on a subway ride with my gal, or around the kitchen table, of how that can’t be planned or forced, though it can be orchestrated, and if we don’t try, it often won’t happen, which is probably why I love so much to cook and share a meal, the family style dining part of our day care something I can’t quite give up, in spite of being up in the middle of the night typing, really now 6 am, and needing to spend a good chunk of Sunday shopping for the day care and my home.  Stopping time is worth it, to notice together the sweetness of a pear, to hear about my son’s experience of his first college class, to look into my beau’s eyes, to have my arm rub up against my daughter’s on the train. All those times are rare in days of wandering life alone, the glue that holds me together, though not the only thing. The spaces in between the togetherness are sometimes more mysterious, like when I wake up in the night and tiptoe down the stairs, only to find the cat there waiting, and I wonder what will come in the dark if only I take time to listen and pay attention and record the thoughts inside, percolating up from the day.

Somehow the exhibit felt familiar, all of us in the room with the breathing machine and the images on the walls, the sounds and movement bringing us along, reminding me of SVS, of WFDC, of life in the city and in my family, disunity into unity and back again, resonance and synchronicity, joint venture, conflict and harmony. Rhythm of life stuff, not always music, not always noise, sometimes silent, sometimes dull, sometimes cacophony, sometimes shiny as can be.

Check it out at the ICA, on your own, with a child or a friend, even in a group. Then tell me, if you can, how the experience was for you.

This morning I wake from a wonderful dream. In the dream I had been on a sort of vacation . The vacation home was shared by many people, all who shared the love of reading. In the home were arranged many collections of periodicals. Gradually, I found my way through them, at the guidance of guests who had visited previously (I was new), and under my own powers of browsing and engagement. I could not wait to read and read, worried I was hoarding too much material in my small corner of space, leaving the place untidy.

When I wake I am energized. I had stayed up too late last night, lost on the internet, not on Facebook or WordPress, but in a world of exploration not too dissimilar from the vacation home, though in the dream the journals were stacked neatly in alphabetical order in cozy spots around what felt like a large living room (an image that carried over, perhaps from my reading and listening on the internet, to a living room as a metaphor for the way teachers learn best). Some collections were vintage, others current. Friends were there, including Kathryn and Al, but mostly I was in new territory, exploring on my own in the midst of others who were also exploring. Before I woke up there was talk of a large meal. The feeling was festive.

This morning when I wake up, this is how I feel about my new project, not overwhelmed, but invited in to a world I want to know. The words of David and Frances Hawkins, and those who study and preserve and carry on their work are on my mind. I think of a piece I wrote here a long time ago about living as though everyone matters, and the observation in a film I found on the Hawkins’ life, the words of Karen Worth, I think, who spoke at the Lesley Pre-Institute, about David Hawkins’ interest in each person and their contribution, no matter their station or education or position in life. And I think of John Dewey and Reggio Emilia, and the blog post which perhaps has had as many readers here as any of which I have been proud, John Dewey and Reggio Emilia, Friends in My Mind, and I think perhaps the Hawkins’ are one of the missing links, friends of Loris Malaguzzi, who has been inspiring the Reggio Emilia approach many years, and friends of the early Open Classroom, grounded all three in the works of John Dewey, my intellectual introduction to this world, discovered in Mann Library at Cornell many years ago, when again I could not put the ideas down, was awakened by their power.

Last night I finished a wonderful book by James Hollis, and in it he talks again about Jungian ideas of how we operate in the world, and he calls us to find our true purpose in life. Somewhere, there is a purpose in here for me. Exploring human dignity as it relates to learning and education is at the core for me. It’s not an accident that the schools and schools of thought that interest me in education were born and reborn in progressive eras concerned with human rights, with equality, with the idea that each of us is a valued individual existing within the whole, that each of our contributions and lives and inner selves matters.

Today when I interview a new family with a small child, I want my house to be clean. I also want my walk and driveway to be shoveled and my kids to get off to school with a travel mug of green tea and a napkin laden with warm buttered toast. I have to stop writing here to do those things. That doesn’t mean I have to stop thinking. Thank you Frances the cat and Jonah and Isabel for spending last evening on the couch with me so my mind could rest and prepare. The rest of the evening was inspiring, all the way til one am, and on through the night and into my dreams and again at seven am, when my mind woke to a dream state and carried on, giving me some insight into where I’m headed and what I might do.

One takeaway from last night is that the first step in the way forward, as David Hawkins knew and wrote, is Messing About. Somehow I thought I had to know how to tackle this project without doing that. Nonsense. As David Hawkins’ fellow traveller Eleanor Duckworth must have known when she wrote her famous book, The Having of Wonderful Ideas, we aren’t given them, we have to come to them, not only on our own, but in the company of others. I had forgotten momentarily how easy it is to join these friends in my mind. On the couch and on the internet and in books is a great way to start. Eventually, again, I’ll find my way out in the world to engage with them again in real life. But for now, this is a place to start. I’ve ordered a documentary that was made last year about the lives of the Hawkins’. You can watch a trailer here:

Video released 1/6/13 about David and Frances Hawkins, trailer for documentary:

Others are on the trail, too..perhaps someday soon we’ll meet. For now, I’m happy messing about and dreaming and wondering where I’ll be next, an idea from James Hollis’s book last night as well, that not knowing where we’re headed is sometimes scary, but the only way to go through life fully engaged and making meaning. We must be open to possibility, even on days like yesterday, which start off slow. Now it is really, finally, time to shovel the walk!

P.S. The other thing David Hawkins said which I found inspiring this morning was that he could not understand how people can separate feeling from cognition..the quote was quite marvelous, possibly shared by Karen Worth..about how feeling informs cognition and vice versa, but said more eloquently. I’ll find it and record it in its’ full glory, soon! Good to be feeling it again, for sure!

I read two interesting articles Tuesday night, the night I was alone in the house without kids or beau, after a therapy appointment where I talked an hour, and two phone calls, one to my sister, one to my brother, before I talked to my beau. One was a NYTimes article was about public support for preschool in the US, the other was based on a talk by Neil Gaimon in support of British libraries. Both were in support of conversation, of imagination, of exploration of the mind, alone, and between people.

Yesterday I talked with my day care colleagues and children and families. As I was washing dishes at the end of the day, one of the day care dads, who is a psychiatrist, happened to ask me about the NYTimes article, and we talked about the importance of conversation in our day care. The line he remembered from the article was about the fear that in an attempt to introduce more language to early childhood classrooms and to increase the vocabulary of young children, early childhood educators would mistake talking about flash cards for real conversation. This line triggered for him a deeper recognition about what we are doing in our family day care, where we talk freely and all day, and write midday about our day and our conversations with the children in observations shared with the families and other teachers.  We then talked about the challenges he sees in his work with struggling clients who may not have grown up in environments rich in conversation, who may be struggling mightily, and about the importance of conversation and connection in healing and in making meaning in life. We went on to talk about this in the field of medicine, as office visits become less about conversation and more about charting, and in schools, where accountability takes precedence over relating, about my experience at Sudbury Valley, where the understanding that free conversation is a basic human tool for learning has created an environment with constant, intense conversations all around.

In the evening, my son and I were on our own, a rare event for us in our lives of sixteen years of family. We put away the groceries, made and ate our steak and sweet potato dinner, drank tea, ate cookies, listened to a really funny guy my son introduced me to, and talked and talked and talked.  I learn a tremendous amount from talking with my son. He knows and is curious about so many things. We talk about music, about humor and comedy, about writing and reading, about love and friendship, about the day care and school, about family. Last night we talked a bit about the John Stoessel tv episode on Sudbury Valley which was recently released online. The scene my son most loved, which was invisible to me until he pointed it out, was at the picnic table outside, where his favorite new four year old sat, along with kids from what my son described as “nearly every age group” up to his old friend, who is now eighteen. I realized aloud to him how rare that scene would be at any other school, asked him how it felt to be attending the most radical school around, while also musing at how normal life there can feel, in the context not of school, but of how people chose to spend their everyday lives.

On some level it feels abusive to deny the basic needs we humans have to talk freely, to play, to walk and talk and sleep and eat. These are what humans do, what we have done since we were able. Putting small children and teens and adults in settings where these basic activities are restricted seems to me to limit our potential in devastating ways.

As I struggle with my work and personal life, I try to keep all this in mind. Sleep restores. Good food nourishes. Conversation connects and makes meaning. Love heals. Play enlivens. Walking eases the mind, and settles the soul. All these things have the power to help us learn and grow and thrive, and if we can get them right in our basic settings for living, school, child care, home, work, community, we’ll be accomplishing a whole lot. The constant question is how and why and with whom and for how long do we work in one context which seems to get it right or not and when do we move on.

Had thought I would write more, but time is up. Must wake the boy, prepare for the day, drive the carpool, see the doctor, meet an old friend for lunch, return for day care nap and wakeup time, make dinner for the kids, prepare the house and self and kids for another weekend when I will be away in Western MA with my beau, doing all the restorative walking, talking, playing, eating, sleeping I can manage, while the house I call a home is home to only the cat. Weird, yet happy life.

I’ll add links to the articles and video below. See what you think about the NYTimes and Neil Gaimon pieces and laugh at the silly stuff Jonah and I laughed about over chores and dinner last night. How nice to share a world this way, in print and video, over the internet and in real life, whatever that distinction means at this point in time.

This morning I woke up to another Tony Hoagland poem in my e-mail box, the Writers’ Almanac selection of the day. This evening I made it to the movies with my kids at last, Quartet at the Kendall Square Cinema following dinner at The Friendly Toast. In between my daughter and I made a trip to her chosen destination, All That Matters, returning with the van seats folded down and a piece of old painted wood waiting for a home. Later she tidied her room while I read to her from two delicious books, Songololo and Brian Selznik’s Wonderstruck, a request that hasn’t come from her in months. In between she had her first off site babysitting gig while I had time with her brother, who made us coffee, played music, read books, and talked, interspersed with time on each of our computers. I even found time to write to some friends and to read from my newest book, a collection of poems by Louise Gluck. Love in many forms.

We’ve moved the instruments back to the living room. What is living if not music anyway, opera, saxophone, electric guitar, pop, rap, folk?

On the way home from the movie near midnight, my son played music from his iphone in the van. I was astounded again that my children’s music makes sounds I enjoy, that my children often listen to music I first loved, Neutral Milk Hotel from both my boys for me tonight, Tracy Chapman for my daughter earlier in the week, Bob Dylan for my boy in the upcoming show. I wonder if what I listened to while the kids were in utero affected their brains, if the music streaming while their father cooked and I lay on the couch soaked into their heads, if the life we’ve lived together has predisposed us to our tastes.

In any case, Quartet was my daughter’s choice and we both loved it. You might, too. The Tony Hoagland poem is here below, in case you want to start and end your day with opera as I did. Odd to have a day so unplanned and so synchronistic. Some are that way.

My ten year old Honda Odyssey never sounded so good as it did this morning when I read the poem or this evening when Neutral Milk Hotel sang us home.


Honda Pavarotti

by Tony Hoagland

I’m driving on the dark highway

when the opera singer on the radio

opens his great mouth

and the whole car plunges down the canyon of his throat.

So the night becomes an aria of stars and exit signs

as I steer through the galleries

of one dilated Italian syllable

after another. I love the passages in which

the rich flood of the baritone

strains out against the walls of the esophagus,

and I love the pauses

in which I hear the tenor’s flesh labor to inhale

enough oxygen to take the next plummet

up into the chasm of the violins.

In part of the song, it sounds as if the singer

is being squeezed by an enormous pair of tongs

while his head and legs keep kicking.

In part of the song, it sounds as if he is

standing in the middle of a coliseum,

swinging a 300-pound lion by the tail,

the empire of gravity

conquered by the empire of aerodynamics,

the citadel of pride in flames

and the citizens of weakness

celebrating their defeat in chorus,

joy and suffering made one at last,

joined in everything a marriage is alleged to be,

though I know the woman he is singing for

is dead in a foreign language on the stage beside him,

though I know his chain mail is made of silver-painted plastic

and his mismanagement of money is legendary,

as I know I have squandered

most of my own life

in a haze of trivial distractions,

and that I will continue to waste it.

But wherever I was going, I don’t care anymore,

because no place I could arrive at

is good enough for this, this thing made out of experience

but to which experience will never measure up.

And that dark and soaring fact

is enough to make me renounce the whole world

or fall in love with it forever.

“Honda Pavarotti” by Tony Hoagland, from Donkey Gospel. © Graywolf Press, 1998. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

On Columbus Day, the makers of the Caine’s Arcade short film I shared last fall are inviting the world to join them in creating with cardboard. When Jen found out about this, the day care decided to take the challenge, not on our day off next Monday, but throughout this week before the holiday. Here we are!

We’ve collected lots of cardboard bits in the basement, in the project room, and on the back porch. Two of our after school girls watched the video awhile back and spent an afternoon making and testing and sharing a cardboard hockey game. Yesterday some younger kids watched the video with Jen. We’ll see what happens the rest of the week. Here are some things we think might happen. With kids you never know.  Feel free to join in.

We hope to post a photo of us doing stuff with cardboard on the Caine’s Arcade Cardboard Challenge page. If I take some good pictures, I’ll post them here. I’ve graduated a bit from day care life, so I’ll probably see and hear most of what happens from the other teachers in their reflections, observations, and photos. Life goes on without me..all over the world:)

Some of our cardboard wonderings..I wonder if the kids will:

*Paint cardboard pieces and boxes

*Climb in and out of boxes

*Make cardboard box trains and planes and automobiles

*Put their dolls and animals to bed in boxes

*Make cardboard houses or space ships or other homes for their adventures

*Invent more cardboard box games. This summer and fall they made checkers out of a huge cardboard tray and pipe cleaners and hockey out of some plywood, cardboard, and clear packing tape to keep it slippery.

*Explore with balls and cardboard tubes

*Make cardboard masks or costumes, shields or weapons, or other props

*Revive the old WFDC after school theme, cardboard electronics – cell phones, lap tops, and possibly the items not yet invented last time around, smart phones and ipads

*Make little worlds in shoe boxes

*Make puppets and puppet theaters and puppet shows

*Ride a cardboard box down the climber slide

*Put a box on their head

*Or Surprise us with something new:)

Liana shared this Youtube video with me this morning. I loved it. Made me smile down deep and leak tears. I recommend it. It’s all about a 9-year-old boy, Caine, and his dad and a filmmaker who finds them in dad’s auto parts store, where the film begins to take shape with the magic of Caine’s cardboard box arcade, and no doubt, his contagious energy and enthusiasm.

The video makes me wonder on the cardboard box, on all the creativity that lies in that humble piece of trash/recycling, after the package is out. When I was a girl, it was the shell for our Barbie Doll houses. My mom gave us space in the basement for our creations, as did my best friend’s mother in their basement. One of those boxes is still in my house, a Girl Scout Cookie box turned little girl’s bedroom for my favorite non-Barbie Barbie, Angie, a small plastic bendable doll with a beautiful face and short cropped brown black hair who was just the right size to be a Barbie Doll’s kid. I lined the box with blue gingham fabric and wallpaper or carpet, amazing I can’t remember that, made furniture and accessories out of trash from around the house. Kids have been doing this a long time, longer than the cardboard box, but the cardboard box is an underrated medium for kids’ creative pursuits. No wonder I have a house full right now, waiting on the creative kids who live and play and work here to make them into something of their own.

Smile, laugh, and cry with Caine. The part that makes me feel old is the film maker and the youtube. No way that would have happened when I was a girl, though the Corn Palace of my youth and the signs and hoopla leading up to it showed the way for us earlier seekers of creative oddity gone wild, and my sister and I, lovers of the cardboard Barbie house, could hardly wait to get there.

While I cut and paste the link, I remember how much I also just loved the film..the music, the voice of Caine’s dad, the gorgeous light and color and energy and smiles captured by the filmmaker, the understated/polished feel of the thing that makes me think my boy could make one of these some day, or maybe not..the digital camera, the computer, the internet are making the world a place I hardly know that I can peek into at any time of day or night from the comfort of my own home.

Don’t you also wonder what this kid does in school all day? What’s he like in the rest of his life?

The youtube video I posted here originally has been taken down. Here is a link to the Caine’s Arcade website, with a link to contribute to Caine’s scholarship fund. Enjoy.


Here is a youtube video shared by ExchangeEveryday. It so inspired Macky that she wrote to our park group of family child care providers to see if we wanted to contribute to our own scrapstore playpod at the park, a mobile version, as we don’t have a shipping container to hold the stuff or the right to put one at the local park where we’ve gathered with our kids each day for many, many years.

This afternoon I was in the day care with kids from three to eight. The seven and eight spent their afternoon in the yard, nestled in the hay of the tree house, on the platform of the climber, and laying a pathway of loose bricks from one end of the year to the other, ending at the base of the tree house ladder.

Later, one dad and his brother, both in their fifties, came to pickup their girl. They admired the tree house where our three year old children were then gathered, and remembered the yard of their childhood, with rope walks twenty feet off the ground connecting platforms high in trees with no railings. Our tree house by comparison, is very tame. The Scrapstore Playpods in this video give kids a chance to invent with castoffs in a way these guys in their fifties did when they were kids. It’s a lot of fun to watch and easy to imagine setting up all around the world, if kids had time and space to use the materials, and adults had the interest in making it happen. What do you think? Watch and admire the kids and their creativity. Things like this could happen every day if play and happiness and children’s natural selves were granted the respect they are due.


Next Page »