Be sure to visit Heidi Hess-Saxton, at Mommy Monsters, for the latest edition of the Catholic Carnival. It's focused on "School Daze" and parenting lessons of all kinds.
The first edition of the Charlotte Mason carnival is up and running at The Educational Life. Lots of food for thought and great ideas.
Showing posts with label charlotte mason. Show all posts
Showing posts with label charlotte mason. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Label Me Schizophrenic
(This article originally appeared in the March/April, 2006 issue of Home Education Magazine.)
Classical. Charlotte Mason. Unschooler.
Yup, that’s me.
There’s just a slight problem. The labels contradict one another, don’t they?
Yes.
And no.
They’re accurate but inaccurate. (What is the sound of one textbook flapping? I’ll move beyond the Zen musing and get to my point.)
I dislike labels. I refuse to label our homeschool. My aversion to labels has been both advantageous and embarrassing over the five years we’ve been doing this: advantageous, because I’m free to approach learning in a variety of ways. Embarrassing (in the beginning, though I’m over that now) because I never had a succinct answer to, "What curriculum do you use?"
I used to hem, haw, stutter, and say something about an eclectic mix. I was reluctant to say, "We unschool," because most people interpreted that as, “Yes, I homeschool because I’m lazy.” I shied away from saying “We’re pursuing a Charlotte Mason education” because I didn't follow CM methods to the letter, and hadn’t even read all of her original writings. I didn't want to say, "We’re classical" because, although some classical elements were present, we fell short of the mark. I feared someone would ask me to say, “My child adores The Iliad," in Latin, Greek and one other language of my choice.
So, what was I? Not having a definitive answer used to bother me. But these days, when faced with The Question, I look my inquisitor in the eye and brazenly reply, "I design our curriculum myself." It’s a true and simple answer that covers the fluid flexibility of our days. Sometimes I design structure, routines and the tackling of a workbook. At other times, our copywork from classic literature would make Charlotte Mason quiver with pride at the thought of her mentoring. And often – quite often – my design includes open-ended time full of reading, writing, observing, talking, experimenting and growing.
The point is that I have never found a single, definable “method” that works all the time for all my children. No two years of our homeschool have been the same. Well, perhaps that’s not entirely true. What has been constant is that I've included a mixture of methods that works for my kids. Each year there’s been some formal, structured curriculum, driven and directed by me. I made the choices, introduced it to the kids, and in most cases, we all enjoyed what came of it.
When we didn’t enjoy it, I asked myself, "Why am I doing this?" If the answer was that as a responsible, loving parent I’d determined this study to be in my children’s best interest, then we continued. Some parts of life are simply like that. I don’t, for example, clean toilets because it’s a “delight-directed” activity. It is, however, in everyone’s best interest that I don’t allow mold to grow in dark corners, so I push on with the toilet-cleaning. But if I push a hated school agenda not because it’s in our best interest but because I think we “should” do this, or “everyone has to go through that,” or simply because I’m having trouble letting go of "the plan," then I know it’s time to reassess. It’s usually at that point that someone will ask, “But how will your children learn to do things they hate?”
Ah, yes. The Life-Is-Full-Of-Stuff-We-Hate objection. To the surprise of some, though our homeschool is relaxed, my kids don’t always – gasp – get to do only what they love. Yes, it’s true we all must learn that life is difficult. But, life is also full of joy, beauty and unexpected delights. I don't want to stomp on all the goodness while trying to prove to my kids that the world is a tough place.
The tough stuff intrudes on the best of days, the happiest of families and the most joyful of times without my help. I don't have to create opportunities (such as six extra pages of math problems) for my kids to learn that life is hard and they must do things they hate. They can learn that when they deal with the neighborhood bully or scoop the litterbox. What I do instead is seize opportunities to teach them how to respond to life's hard edges.
And that brings us back to the hard edge of a world that demands labels. If I must be labeled, the only homeschooling tag I’ll take is “schizophrenic.” Our homeschool simply doesn’t fit neatly into one educational box and I’m drawn to a variety of approaches, from the aforementioned unschooling to touches of classical.
This collage that is our life was nicely illustrated one recent day. I had planned “A Planning Day,” looking ahead to what I hoped we’d investigate in the coming months. My planning was interrupted by my 9-year-old when she ran into the house, cupping a cricket in her hands. Suddenly, there were all kinds of questions: How long will he live? What will he eat? What can I keep him in? How can we find out? We grabbed Anna Botsford Comstock’s Handbook of Nature Study
and the kids looked up crickets. They called the local pet shop, remembering crickets they’d seen there (albeit unsuspecting ones who are food, rather than who get food, as we found out when the clerk laughed, "I do know what eats them.”) That day, my girls did some basic research, used indexing, reference and alphabetizing skills and learned that crickets will eat anything, up to and including watermelon, chocolate chip cookies and paper.
The point is that I had to let go of “The Plan” – my plan for the day – and seize the new plan that had presented itself. We were all much happier and learned more than if I’d said, "Go away. I'm planning your education."
And I was grateful for yet another day of richly layered, meaningful learning, made possible by this mom’s aversion to labels.
Viva a collage of homeschooling, and long live aversions to labels.
Classical. Charlotte Mason. Unschooler.
Yup, that’s me.
There’s just a slight problem. The labels contradict one another, don’t they?
Yes.
And no.
They’re accurate but inaccurate. (What is the sound of one textbook flapping? I’ll move beyond the Zen musing and get to my point.)
I dislike labels. I refuse to label our homeschool. My aversion to labels has been both advantageous and embarrassing over the five years we’ve been doing this: advantageous, because I’m free to approach learning in a variety of ways. Embarrassing (in the beginning, though I’m over that now) because I never had a succinct answer to, "What curriculum do you use?"
I used to hem, haw, stutter, and say something about an eclectic mix. I was reluctant to say, "We unschool," because most people interpreted that as, “Yes, I homeschool because I’m lazy.” I shied away from saying “We’re pursuing a Charlotte Mason education” because I didn't follow CM methods to the letter, and hadn’t even read all of her original writings. I didn't want to say, "We’re classical" because, although some classical elements were present, we fell short of the mark. I feared someone would ask me to say, “My child adores The Iliad," in Latin, Greek and one other language of my choice.
So, what was I? Not having a definitive answer used to bother me. But these days, when faced with The Question, I look my inquisitor in the eye and brazenly reply, "I design our curriculum myself." It’s a true and simple answer that covers the fluid flexibility of our days. Sometimes I design structure, routines and the tackling of a workbook. At other times, our copywork from classic literature would make Charlotte Mason quiver with pride at the thought of her mentoring. And often – quite often – my design includes open-ended time full of reading, writing, observing, talking, experimenting and growing.
The point is that I have never found a single, definable “method” that works all the time for all my children. No two years of our homeschool have been the same. Well, perhaps that’s not entirely true. What has been constant is that I've included a mixture of methods that works for my kids. Each year there’s been some formal, structured curriculum, driven and directed by me. I made the choices, introduced it to the kids, and in most cases, we all enjoyed what came of it.
When we didn’t enjoy it, I asked myself, "Why am I doing this?" If the answer was that as a responsible, loving parent I’d determined this study to be in my children’s best interest, then we continued. Some parts of life are simply like that. I don’t, for example, clean toilets because it’s a “delight-directed” activity. It is, however, in everyone’s best interest that I don’t allow mold to grow in dark corners, so I push on with the toilet-cleaning. But if I push a hated school agenda not because it’s in our best interest but because I think we “should” do this, or “everyone has to go through that,” or simply because I’m having trouble letting go of "the plan," then I know it’s time to reassess. It’s usually at that point that someone will ask, “But how will your children learn to do things they hate?”
Ah, yes. The Life-Is-Full-Of-Stuff-We-Hate objection. To the surprise of some, though our homeschool is relaxed, my kids don’t always – gasp – get to do only what they love. Yes, it’s true we all must learn that life is difficult. But, life is also full of joy, beauty and unexpected delights. I don't want to stomp on all the goodness while trying to prove to my kids that the world is a tough place.
The tough stuff intrudes on the best of days, the happiest of families and the most joyful of times without my help. I don't have to create opportunities (such as six extra pages of math problems) for my kids to learn that life is hard and they must do things they hate. They can learn that when they deal with the neighborhood bully or scoop the litterbox. What I do instead is seize opportunities to teach them how to respond to life's hard edges.
And that brings us back to the hard edge of a world that demands labels. If I must be labeled, the only homeschooling tag I’ll take is “schizophrenic.” Our homeschool simply doesn’t fit neatly into one educational box and I’m drawn to a variety of approaches, from the aforementioned unschooling to touches of classical.
This collage that is our life was nicely illustrated one recent day. I had planned “A Planning Day,” looking ahead to what I hoped we’d investigate in the coming months. My planning was interrupted by my 9-year-old when she ran into the house, cupping a cricket in her hands. Suddenly, there were all kinds of questions: How long will he live? What will he eat? What can I keep him in? How can we find out? We grabbed Anna Botsford Comstock’s Handbook of Nature Study
and the kids looked up crickets. They called the local pet shop, remembering crickets they’d seen there (albeit unsuspecting ones who are food, rather than who get food, as we found out when the clerk laughed, "I do know what eats them.”) That day, my girls did some basic research, used indexing, reference and alphabetizing skills and learned that crickets will eat anything, up to and including watermelon, chocolate chip cookies and paper.The point is that I had to let go of “The Plan” – my plan for the day – and seize the new plan that had presented itself. We were all much happier and learned more than if I’d said, "Go away. I'm planning your education."
And I was grateful for yet another day of richly layered, meaningful learning, made possible by this mom’s aversion to labels.
Viva a collage of homeschooling, and long live aversions to labels.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Understood Betsy
The other day I mentioned that we were reading Understood Betsy by Dorothy Canfield Fisher. I knew absolutely nothing about this book before we started it; somehow, it was not on my radar screen. All I knew was that Lissa and Liz had both recommended it to me (more than once each, I'm sure) and that I trusted them to know what kind of book we love. We finished it last week, and we all adored it. It was the sort of book that leaves one with that curious mix of satisfaction and mourning: the feeling that you are full and happy, content to have partaken of the feast, but so sad that it's gone, over, consumed and done. Oh, yes, of course you can read it again. And you will. But there's nothing like the first taste of a discovery.
In my last post, I mentioned that, as we read, I was reminded of John Holt and Charlotte Mason. Faith, from Dumb Ox Academy, pointed out that Fisher was a champion of Montessori methods. I'm far less familiar with Montessori than with the others, but all were advocates for children, and all encouraged a certain level of independence in learning. All, too, believed that children were capable little people who simply needed to have their natural desires to learn enthusiastically encouraged.
The first John Holt moment was just a little thing. Nine year old Betsy has been called forward in class to do math:
She hated arithmetic with all her might, and she really didn't understand a thing about it! By long experience she had learned to read her teachers' faces very accurately, and she guessed by their expression whether the answer she gave was the right one. And that was the only way she could tell. You never heard of any other child who did that, did you?
(I love the way the narrator sneaks in the occasional editorial aside.)
I was reminded here of a passage from How Children Fail in which John Holt talks about children faking their way through years of math, purely on their ability to read the teacher's face.
I was also reminded of Holt's observations about how strangely artificial school is, about how children are removed from the real world (and from normal interaction in it) when they are closed up in a school building all day. A passing farmer has stopped to join in the children's tug-o-war game at recess:
Elizabeth Ann was thinking to herself that this was one of the queerest things that had happened to her even in this queer place. Never, why never once, had any grown-up, passing the playground of the big brick building, DREAMED of such a thing as stopping for a minute to play. They never even looked at the children, any more than if they were in another world. In fact she had felt the school was in another world.
This happens when you're homeschooling, too. You become very aware that you are indeed living in something of an alternate world. A couple of weeks ago, my girls and I stopped at the grocery store after horseback riding lessons. The clerk, a very cheerful woman, said, "You must be homeschooled." My girls said that yes, they were, and we'd just come from horseback riding and the clerk said, "Oh! Then you get to enjoy this glorious weather! That's so nice. You know, we don't get to see too many children here during the day."
Back to Betsy's new world: I was reminded of Charlotte Mason in Betsy's teacher, who saw the importance of time spent outside, and who was quite matter-of-fact about Betsy being a person ... not a "student," not a "third-grader" and not a pail to be filled, but a human being who was there to grow and learn.
After the teacher utterly shocks Betsy by placing her at a 7th grade reading level, 2nd grade math level, and 3rd grade spelling, Betsy's mind is spinning:
Elizabeth Ann fell back on the bench with her mouth open. She felt really dizzy. What crazy things the teacher said! She felt as though she was being pulled limb from limb.
"What's the matter?" asked the teacher, seeing her bewildered face.
"Why--why," said Elizabeth Ann, "I don't know what I am at all. If I'm second-grade arithmetic and seventh-grade reading and third-grade spelling, what grade AM I?"
The teacher laughed at the turn of her phrase. "YOU aren't any grade at all, no matter where you are in school. You're just yourself, aren't you? What difference does it make what grade you're in! And what's the use of your reading little baby things too easy for you just because you don't know your multiplication table?"
This is simply too much for Betsy. This is not at all what she's been taught, not at all what she thought an education was all about:
"Well, for goodness' SAKES!" ejaculated Elizabeth Ann, feeling very much as though somebody had stood her suddenly on her head.
"Why, what's the matter?" asked the teacher again.
This time Elizabeth Ann didn't answer, because she herself didn't know what the matter was. But I do, and I'll tell you. The matter was that never before had she known what she was doing in school. She had always thought she was there to pass from one grade to another, and she was ever so startled to get a little glimpse of the fact that she was there to learn how to read and write and cipher and generally use her mind, so she could take care of herself when she came to be grown up. Of course, she didn't really know that till she did come to be grown up, but she had her first dim notion of it in that moment, and it made her feel the way you do when you're learning to skate and somebody pulls away the chair you've been leaning on and says, "Now, go it alone!"
Fisher has a lovely, sly sense of humor, and finishes the first section on school with this:
They ran along to the little building, and there I'm going to leave them, because I think I've told enough about their school for ONE while. It was only a poor, rough, little district school anyway, that no Superintendent of Schools would have looked at for a minute, except to sniff.
And the whole book is every bit as delicious as that.
I won't share every detail we loved, as I don't want to spoil the book for those of you who haven't read it. But know that it's full of surprises and delights, a bit of pathos, a lot of compassion, sincere love and humor.
Dorothy Canfield Fisher had a keen understanding of human nature, knew children terrifically well, and captured a wonderful array of arresting personalities in this all-too-quick-a-read.
Understood Betsy is an altogether enchanting book, and a new family favorite here in our Holt-inspired/Masonish/Montessori-touched/Betsian homeschool. Thanks, Liz and Lissa.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
It's a lifestyle, not a system
From today's Charlotte Mason quote at A Full Life:
Yes. Living beings cannot be pegged into systems. For us, a combination of CM and unschoolish ideas, seasoned with some classical flavor, allows for individuality, flexibility and the following of interests and passions in way that a more prescribed curriculum (or system) might not.
If a human being were a machine, education could do more for him than to set him in action in prescribed ways, and the work of the educator would be simply to adopt a good working system or set of systems.
But the educator has to deal with a self-acting, self-developing being, and his business is to guide, and assist in, the production of the latent good in that being, the dissipation of the latent evil, the preparation of the child to take his place in the world at his best, with every capacity for good that is in him developed into a power.
Though system is a highly useful as an instrument of education, a ’system of education’ is mischievous, as producing only mechanical action instead of the vital growth and movement of a living being.
Yes. Living beings cannot be pegged into systems. For us, a combination of CM and unschoolish ideas, seasoned with some classical flavor, allows for individuality, flexibility and the following of interests and passions in way that a more prescribed curriculum (or system) might not.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
CM today
From today's Charlotte Mason excerpt, found at AmyAble's new blog, A Full Life: The Works of Charlotte Mason
One of the first things that attracted me to Charlotte Mason's ideas was this "Science of Relations" business. It matched up so perfectly with my (admittedly limited at the time) observations about how my own child learned. Anne was constantly making connections about things in her world, in our world.
Reading a book about ducks would lead to talking about baby ducks, which would lead to talking about baby people, which in turn led to playing with our own baby person, her little sister, and that led to counting said person's fingers and toes. Amidst satisfied giggles from baby-person-Betsy, Anne would ask about how God made babies, and how did God make dirt, for that matter? And did God have sisters? And speaking of dirt, could we go outside and play in some?
I could have said, "Now, now, hold your horses. One thing at a time. We can either talk about science (ducks and human reproduction), or math (counting those scrumptious little toes), or about theology, or we can go do P.E., but we can't jumble it all up like that. One subject at a time, please."
No, no, no. Anne didn't break the world into "subjects" ... that would have been absurd. All the "subjects" are connected. So, why should I attempt to divide the whole world into subjects? Learning seemed to happen more quickly, more completely, and in a more integrated way when I allowed the Science of Relations to influence our "studies."
One might argue that it's all well and good for a toddler to follow connections in an
If You Give a Mouse a Cookie sort of way, (and, of course, one of the reasons I love Laura Numeroff's books is that she understands how children's minds work) but continuing to do so as they get older will just lead to ADD. Hmmm. Maybe. But, my personal experience has been that following connections and looking for the ways in which the "subjects" are interconnected has paved the way for a greater appreciation for what a real education is. For example, when we read about Archimedes were we covering history or math or science?
The kids, ahem, didn't really care which category it fell into.
I remember the first time another child asked my kids what their favorite subject was. Anne and Betsy were about 8 and 6 years old, and they looked at the child as if she were a Klingon. "What do you mean?" they asked.
I explained the whole school-and-subjects thing. I told them that since they loved books of historical fiction, they could honestly say that two of their favorite subjects were "reading" and "history." Or, because they loved to draw and paint, they could say "art." Or, because they loved to swim and ride horses, they could say, "P.E." But, really, I assured them it isn't important to break it all down into subjects. It can be helpful, especially where the Dewey decimal system is concerned (and that led to another discussion) but it wasn't necessary.
So.
That's my take on today's bite-sized chunk of Charlotte Mason.
Be a rebel. Don't do subjects.
Tags: Charlotte Mason, home education, curriculum
"One thesis, which is, perhaps, new, that Education is the Science of Relations, appears to me to solve the question of curricula, as showing that the object of education is to put a child in living touch as much as may be of the life of Nature and of thought. Add to this one or two keys to self knowledge, and the educated youth goes forth with some idea of self management, with some pursuits, and many vital interests."
One of the first things that attracted me to Charlotte Mason's ideas was this "Science of Relations" business. It matched up so perfectly with my (admittedly limited at the time) observations about how my own child learned. Anne was constantly making connections about things in her world, in our world.
Reading a book about ducks would lead to talking about baby ducks, which would lead to talking about baby people, which in turn led to playing with our own baby person, her little sister, and that led to counting said person's fingers and toes. Amidst satisfied giggles from baby-person-Betsy, Anne would ask about how God made babies, and how did God make dirt, for that matter? And did God have sisters? And speaking of dirt, could we go outside and play in some?
I could have said, "Now, now, hold your horses. One thing at a time. We can either talk about science (ducks and human reproduction), or math (counting those scrumptious little toes), or about theology, or we can go do P.E., but we can't jumble it all up like that. One subject at a time, please."
No, no, no. Anne didn't break the world into "subjects" ... that would have been absurd. All the "subjects" are connected. So, why should I attempt to divide the whole world into subjects? Learning seemed to happen more quickly, more completely, and in a more integrated way when I allowed the Science of Relations to influence our "studies."
One might argue that it's all well and good for a toddler to follow connections in an
If You Give a Mouse a Cookie
sort of way, (and, of course, one of the reasons I love Laura Numeroff's books is that she understands how children's minds work) but continuing to do so as they get older will just lead to ADD. Hmmm. Maybe. But, my personal experience has been that following connections and looking for the ways in which the "subjects" are interconnected has paved the way for a greater appreciation for what a real education is. For example, when we read about Archimedes were we covering history or math or science?The kids, ahem, didn't really care which category it fell into.
I remember the first time another child asked my kids what their favorite subject was. Anne and Betsy were about 8 and 6 years old, and they looked at the child as if she were a Klingon. "What do you mean?" they asked.
I explained the whole school-and-subjects thing. I told them that since they loved books of historical fiction, they could honestly say that two of their favorite subjects were "reading" and "history." Or, because they loved to draw and paint, they could say "art." Or, because they loved to swim and ride horses, they could say, "P.E." But, really, I assured them it isn't important to break it all down into subjects. It can be helpful, especially where the Dewey decimal system is concerned (and that led to another discussion) but it wasn't necessary.
So.
That's my take on today's bite-sized chunk of Charlotte Mason.
Be a rebel. Don't do subjects.
Tags: Charlotte Mason, home education, curriculum
Friday, July 14, 2006
Cleaning up the schoolroom
Thanks to Melissa Wiley, I discovered Small Meadow Press awhile back. It's a beautiful, peaceful website full of beautiful, peaceful things. Just clicking over there calms me down and makes me rethink my pace.
And, thanks to Lissa again, I recently found Lesley's blog, The Bower. Go ahead -- click over.
Are you back? Don't you feel peaceful? Don't you long for beauty? Don't you want to incorporate just a little bit of that detailed and deliberate strewing of all things lovely through your own home?
Now, click on this post and read the quote on the handmade piece shown there.
I'll repeat it for you here: "The mother's heart is the child's schoolroom."
I've loved this quote since I first heard it -- where? I'm sure it was through Real Learning and Catholic Charlotte Mason -- and I love it still. It summarizes the reason I homeschool.
I want to pass on to my children, to the best of my ability, all that I hold dear: my faith, the joy I find in family life, the profound responsibility and blessing of motherhood.
But, the quote acts as a wise warning as well. If what's in my heart is less than the true, the good and the beautiful ("Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things." -- Philippians, 4:8) then what am I teaching my children?
Beecher's short quotation packs a powerful punch.
It reminds me that I want to embody the true, the good and the beautiful for my children. But I have to confess that some days I think, "Who am I kidding? I'm not the right type ... I'm not the teatime type, not the Ma Ingalls type, not the Marmee type ... I'm not gentle enough, not Victorian enough, not anything-enough to pull this off."
But then gently, always gently (through friends, books, the Bible, Mass, or through my own children's love) God reminds me that there is not simply one particular "type" of mother capable of passing on truth and beauty to her children. Because, you see, He fills in the spaces I leave blank. His truth, beauty and goodness are at work in me, helping me to become the vessel through which He will shine for my children.
I'm not there yet. This vessel still needs a lot of polishing. But I'm not giving up. This work-in-progress will continue to rely on the Source of All Things to bring all that is true, and good and beautiful into my children's lives. That includes indulging the part of me that is Ma Ingalls/Marmee/teatime/Victorian and many other things of beauty that I may not yet be, but admire and aspire to, the things that will help to make my heart the schoolroom I want it to be.
(above painting is Renoir's Girls at the Piano, 1892)
Friday, May 12, 2006
Re-Connecting
This post, at the Bonny Glen, is such a beautiful summary of how connections happen, work, and happen again (and again.) It sums up a living, breathing education, and what I love about homeschooling: instilling an excitement for and love of learning. I want to instill a love of learning about all things true, good and beautiful ("Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things." -- Philippians, 4:8) and I hope that this love affair will continue throughout my children's lives.
And, I see Lissa's post as connected to her most recent post on "Nitty Gritty." It's certainly true that life and homeschooling can resume so quickly after the birth of their baby because having older children is such an enormous help. But's it's also true that the Bonny Glen can pick up their routine where they left off because they're all excited to do so. They love learning, they love reading together, and they love to explore the world. "School" isn't just checking off a bunch of boring boxes in a workbook ... School is Life. Life is School. They're connected. When we lose sight of the fact that they're connected, then "school" becomes nothing more than "that thing to get out of the way so I can get to real life." But, when we keep "school" connected to "real life" and it becomes a way of life.
This reminds me of the first time I taught Anne-with-an-e what the word "allusion" meant. She was very young and we were reading a Clifford book together. There was a storm, and through the window Emily Elizabeth saw a witch riding a bicycle, "just like in Wizard of Oz movie!" I told Anne that when a writer deliberately reminds us of a scene from something else, it's called an allusion. The term stuck. And so I had a 5-year old who said things like, "Mommy, this book has a talking pig. Do you think that's an allusion to Charlotte's Web?" And those kinds of comments continue ("Mom, do you think J.K. Rowling read the Narnia Chronicles? Because some of her stuff reminds me of them.")
Mind you, my kids are not especially brilliant. We just talk a lot around here. But, I've found that when we talk a lot, the payoff in words, ideas and connections is worth all the chatter time (and, of course, I love our chatter time.)
When they're young, you point out the connections and provide your children with names and labels for those interesting, intricate ways in which ideas are woven together, build upon each other, and inspire new thoughts. When they're a bit older, you encourage them to keep making connections. And soon, one happy day (it will be much sooner than you think) they are pointing out so many connections that your brain will start to hurt. But it's a good kind of hurt.
And you say a silent prayer of thanks that a word like "allusion" is not just an excruciatingly boring term from a meaningless grammar class. Allusions have become a part of real life; they have meaning. They're exciting, compelling, and worthy of lots of chatter.
They're connected to us and to our lives. And isn't that what a living, breathing education is all about?
Tags: Read-alouds
Children's Lit
And, I see Lissa's post as connected to her most recent post on "Nitty Gritty." It's certainly true that life and homeschooling can resume so quickly after the birth of their baby because having older children is such an enormous help. But's it's also true that the Bonny Glen can pick up their routine where they left off because they're all excited to do so. They love learning, they love reading together, and they love to explore the world. "School" isn't just checking off a bunch of boring boxes in a workbook ... School is Life. Life is School. They're connected. When we lose sight of the fact that they're connected, then "school" becomes nothing more than "that thing to get out of the way so I can get to real life." But, when we keep "school" connected to "real life" and it becomes a way of life.
This reminds me of the first time I taught Anne-with-an-e what the word "allusion" meant. She was very young and we were reading a Clifford book together. There was a storm, and through the window Emily Elizabeth saw a witch riding a bicycle, "just like in Wizard of Oz movie!" I told Anne that when a writer deliberately reminds us of a scene from something else, it's called an allusion. The term stuck. And so I had a 5-year old who said things like, "Mommy, this book has a talking pig. Do you think that's an allusion to Charlotte's Web?" And those kinds of comments continue ("Mom, do you think J.K. Rowling read the Narnia Chronicles? Because some of her stuff reminds me of them.")
Mind you, my kids are not especially brilliant. We just talk a lot around here. But, I've found that when we talk a lot, the payoff in words, ideas and connections is worth all the chatter time (and, of course, I love our chatter time.)
When they're young, you point out the connections and provide your children with names and labels for those interesting, intricate ways in which ideas are woven together, build upon each other, and inspire new thoughts. When they're a bit older, you encourage them to keep making connections. And soon, one happy day (it will be much sooner than you think) they are pointing out so many connections that your brain will start to hurt. But it's a good kind of hurt.
And you say a silent prayer of thanks that a word like "allusion" is not just an excruciatingly boring term from a meaningless grammar class. Allusions have become a part of real life; they have meaning. They're exciting, compelling, and worthy of lots of chatter.
They're connected to us and to our lives. And isn't that what a living, breathing education is all about?
Tags: Read-alouds
Children's Lit
Monday, May 08, 2006
Connections
Charlotte Mason wrote extensively of connections and of the ways in which reading "living books" can help children to make vital connections between themselves and the world in which they live. Recently, we had a nice series of connections occur, related to our read-alouds (this is one of the reasons I consider our read-alouds to be at the core of our home education.)When we read Caddie Woodlawn, we discussed the scene in which the settlers were banding together at the Woodlawn home, preparing for an attack by the Indians. The purported attack was based solely on rumor, but even so, a couple of the settlers began to plan an offensive attack, rather than to merely defend if that became necessary.
"Why would that be wrong?" I asked the girls. They weren't entirely sure, so we talked about it. I gave a small example:
"Let's say that there's a boy in our neighborhood who looks kind of tough. You've heard that he's a bully. You've heard that he's beaten other kids up, but you've never actually seen it happen, you've just heard the rumors. What if one day you said to yourself, 'I'm not going to wait for him to hit me ... I'm going to hit him first and get it over with.' What would you think of that?"
They were horrified. "We wouldn't hit someone for no good reason!"
Ah, good. We were getting somewhere. Back to Caddie's neighbors. Had the Indians actually done anything wrong? Had they attacked the settlers? No .... If they did, would the settlers have been justified in fighting back to defend themselves? Yes .... But, if they (the settlers) have not been attacked, should they strike first, just to get rid of their perceived problem? No, the girls agreed, that would be wrong, just as it would be wrong to hit the boy rumored to be a bully.
From there, we moved into Church teaching. I briefly explained that the Catholic Church has very specific teachings on what is considered a just war, and that it is very rarely considered moral to strike first, but that defending oneself can be another issue altogether.
This sounds as if it were all very dry and didactic but the conversation really took only a minute or two and was a marvelous way of connecting the literature we were reading (Caddie) to real life (the bully) to our faith (teachings on violence, aggression and self-defense.)
And from there, the connections continue. As we started Little House by Boston Bay a few days ago, we came to a scene in which one of the boys is excited over who might be "whupping" whom, and suddenly Betsy's eyes got that look (the look that tells me connections are clicking into place in that adorable little brain of hers.)
"No ... wait," she said. (Click, click ... ) "It's not right to strike just to strike. You have to wait and see if there's a good reason. And if there is, then you can fight back, but you can't just start a fight or a war just because you want to."
Ka-ching.
Aren't connections fun? Oh, how I love our homeschool.
Tags: Home education
Charlotte Mason
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Masterly inactivity
What would one think if one were to happen upon a scene such as this:
A girl is lying on a couch, doing nothing. It is evening, around sunset. She remains in the same spot for some time. Is she lazy? Or sullen? Has she no evening chores to do? No one to care for, nothing to accomplish that is more worthwhile than wasting an evening in slothful lounging?
Hmmm.
What would one think if one were, while reading, to happen upon a passage such as this:
"Jo was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking at the fire, and thinking. It was her favorite way of spending the hour of dusk; no one disturbed her, and she used to lie there on Beth's little red pillow, planning stories, dreaming dreams, or thinking tender thoughts of the sister who never seemed far away." -- Little Women
Charlotte Mason used a phrase of her time -- "masterly inactivity" -- to refer to the time that must be allowed children (or young adults, as Jo was in the above passage ... or old adults, such as I ....) to simply be. To think, to ponder, to make connections between life, faith, literature, and sunsets.
How far we have wandered, in our "I'm so proud of how busy we are" world, from the idea that masterly inactivity is of intrinsic value. When we lose the time needed to think and ponder, we lose connections. We lose sunsets. And we forget that life cannot and should not always be managed, scheduled and controlled. We forget to dream dreams and before we know it, tender thoughts are forgotten, because we find we have been too rushed to allow ourselves the luxury of them.
If you can, plan to spend some unplanned time soon ... a quiet twilight, time on the couch, a fire, and tender thoughts.
A girl is lying on a couch, doing nothing. It is evening, around sunset. She remains in the same spot for some time. Is she lazy? Or sullen? Has she no evening chores to do? No one to care for, nothing to accomplish that is more worthwhile than wasting an evening in slothful lounging?
Hmmm.
What would one think if one were, while reading, to happen upon a passage such as this:
"Jo was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking at the fire, and thinking. It was her favorite way of spending the hour of dusk; no one disturbed her, and she used to lie there on Beth's little red pillow, planning stories, dreaming dreams, or thinking tender thoughts of the sister who never seemed far away." -- Little Women
Charlotte Mason used a phrase of her time -- "masterly inactivity" -- to refer to the time that must be allowed children (or young adults, as Jo was in the above passage ... or old adults, such as I ....) to simply be. To think, to ponder, to make connections between life, faith, literature, and sunsets.
How far we have wandered, in our "I'm so proud of how busy we are" world, from the idea that masterly inactivity is of intrinsic value. When we lose the time needed to think and ponder, we lose connections. We lose sunsets. And we forget that life cannot and should not always be managed, scheduled and controlled. We forget to dream dreams and before we know it, tender thoughts are forgotten, because we find we have been too rushed to allow ourselves the luxury of them.
If you can, plan to spend some unplanned time soon ... a quiet twilight, time on the couch, a fire, and tender thoughts.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
You are what you read, Part II
I often found myself thinking of Charlotte Mason's methods of education as the kids and I read Little Women.
This excerpt is from Chapter 33, in which Jo is trying to learn German from Mr. Bhaer:
I took four lessons, and then I stuck fast in a grammatical bog. The Professor was very patient with me, but it must have been torment to him, and now and then he'd look at me with such an expression of mild despair that it was a toss-up with me whether to laugh or cry. I tried both ways, and when it came to a sniff or utter mortification and woe, he just threw the grammar on to the floor and marched out of the room. I felt myself disgraced and deserted forever, but didn't blame him a particle, and was scrambling my papers together, meaning to rush upstairs and shake myself hard, when in he came, as brisk and beaming as if I'd covered myself in glory.
"Now we shall try a new way. You and I will read these pleasant little MARCHEN together, and dig no more in that dry book, that goes in the corner for making us trouble."
He spoke so kindly, and opened Hans Andersons's fairy tales so invitingly before me, that I was more ashamed than ever, and went at my lesson in a neck-or-nothing style that seemed to amuse him immensely. I forgot my bashfulness, and pegged away (no other word will express it) with all my might, tumbling over long words, pronouncing according to inspiration of the minute, and doing my very best. When I finished reading my first page, and stopped for breath, he clapped his hands and cried out in his hearty way, "Das ist gut!' Now we go well! My turn. I do him in German, gif me your ear." And away he went, rumbling out the words with his strong voice and a relish which was good to see as well as hear. Fortunately the story was the Constant Tin Soldier, which is droll, you know, so I could laugh, and I did, though I didn't understand half he read, for I couldn't help it, he was so earnest, I so excited, and the whole thing so comical.
After that we got on better, and now I read my lessons pretty well, for this way of studying suits me, and I can see that the grammar gets tucked into the tales and poetry as one gives pills in jelly. I like it very much, and he doesn't seem tired of it yet, which is very good of him, isn't it? I mean to give him something on Christmas, for I dare not offer money. Tell me something nice, Marmee.
I, too, have found that teaching grammar and spelling through literature are indeed very much like hiding pills in jelly. The medicine is not noticed yet one is treated ... The lessons are not dry and torturous but rather become delightful.
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