The sensorial area of the Montessori curriculum has always been fascinating to me. They tend to be the more colorful materials in a Montessori classroom, standing out against the plainness of unadorned walls and shelves, making silent proclamations to the children to investigate and peruse. The red rods beckon them. The pink tower stands erect as a quiet monument towards budding curiosity. The constructive triangles seek one to dream new dreams. Children have this natural curiosity and desire to have engagements with the world around them through their senses. These days we adults don't have time for such exploration. But what is mindfulness if not a reconnection to our inherent ability to engage with the world around us in this present moment through the God given receptors we've been given, namely our senses?I'm still learning to give children (and myself) space for exploration. To do so is to lead one's heart to praise of some sort. There's just so much beauty around us. Meanwhile, we are often so inundated with screens that give us information (often times false) about a word of terror, depravity, and near annihilation at every turn. To buy more because what you have will not be enough. To buy quickly, because there isn't enough to go around. I do not deny such things exactly (except that last part). Rather I want to temper such terror with another reality of beauty. Both realities exist. Both are true. Yet time and again, I notice the child gravitating towards the beauty, even in their messiness. And that, among other things, gives me hope. So that's where I choose to dwell.
It's been a long while since I've used writing as an outlet for thinking about Montessori pedagogy. But I have been using my voice in other ways. When I was growing up, I was slow to speak and would more likely be found writing in a journal rather than talking to others. There are some tendencies (not in the Montessori sense) that stick with you, even into adulthood. But lately, even in shyness, I've been speaking more rather than writing; sometimes to my colleagues regarding the lessons I've learned about the classroom; sometimes to parents to remind them that they are doing the most difficult of jobs, and that I know they're child well. But what I'd forgotten is how the written word has a magic to it that cannot--or perhaps ought not--be forsaken. It is in the written word that the ideas of one person can be conveyed, at least in part, to a completely different person. And in that transfer, hearts can be shared as well as minds. It's how I learned about...
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