by Sarah Flynn, Parent

Last year, we were a brand new family at the Great Barrington Rudolf Steiner School, with a Sun Room kindergartener, a first grader, and a third grader. You could say we “hit the ground running.” Before that, we had no experience whatever with Waldorf education. There have been many “Ahaa!” moments for us as we come to understand more deeply the levels on which this education speaks to our children, as well as the care with which it is offered to them here at GBRSS.

One of those moments came on a cold day in the winter, when my kindergartener was home. We decided to make our very own “soup day.” I had heard all about how the children cut the vegetables and made their own soup, and I was eager to see this in action. So we went to the fridge together, and my daughter instructed me on which vegetables to get out (beets, carrots, potatoes, and kale). Then she picked out her knife and cutting board, and sat at the table expectantly. “Does Mrs. Kuzia give you the vegetables raw, or are they soft?” I asked. She told me they were raw and very hard. So I hesitantly handed her a raw beet. “Like this?” She took the beet, looked at it skeptically, shrugged her shoulders, and began to try to cut it with her butter knife. After the beet had shot across the kitchen a few times, I realized there must be more to it than that. I cut the beet in half and handed it back to her. “That’s more like at school,” she said, but of course she still couldn’t cut it. When I finally cut the beet into thin strips, she beamed and said encouragingly, “Just like that!” and proceeded to cut all the vegetables for a wonderful pot of soup.

While we ate our soup, I realized a few things. The children are not doing “little child things.” They are engaged in real-life tasks, at an age-appropriate level. Mia is learning to care for herself, others, and the space we inhabit, which is the first and most basic life skill. And at a very young age, the children are learning that it is enjoyable to be competent. These are things about the school that are difficult to explain. How do you tell someone looking for reading readiness that chopping veggies is actually exactly what kindergarteners need most? I did not know that myself just a year ago!

So, many thanks to the loving early childhood teachers who carefully prepare the veggies for little ones to chop, and who reverently break bread with them on bread day. I appreciate the intention and purpose that are behind these seemingly simple gifts you give our children.

by Heather Bellow, Parent

Twinkle twinkle little star,
how I wonder what you are…

This was a favorite song of my children’s when they were very small. They still love it, the way they love all reminders of their babyhood. But now, my eight-year-old is seeing stars in a different light. She informed me one night, as she was settling in to bed, “the sky is so black and big and all those little stars… I know it is called the universe, mama, and it’s keeping me awake.”

The universe does have that effect. I see she is growing up and that concepts which may not have stuck a year ago, are provocative now.

I suppose this has to happen. For all our efforts to preserve the wonder of small children, it fades rapidly in our material world, that material paradigm that Rudolf Steiner—at the turn of the twentieth century—said could be the undoing of a spiritually healthy humanity. The notion that everything must be measured and analyzed to be understood has taken its toll on the West. And now, at the beginning of the twenty-first century, it seems we are in real trouble.

As I climbed the stairs with yet another cup of warmed milk for my restless daughter, I recoiled at the idea that a feeling of unease about the universe may be a signpost of the arduous journey into the mainstream of modern Western consciousness.

Yes, the universe is dark and mysterious. We all are confined to this spinning globe, in miraculous suspension, as though in the cupped palms of divine hands. Native peoples see the earth as a living, breathing being. It birthed us all. And the universe really is our mother home. The ancients knew this and they charted the paths of the stars. The universe is vast but we belong to her. The stars are her children as well.

Now, instead of a wondrous garden of celestial magic, the universe and her inhabitants are seen as a scientific cosmos to be navigated with machines. The modern world, with its need for abstraction and measure, is wonderful and necessary. Steiner, too, recognized this. But children live in a different consciousness; the world has not yet shaped them or assigned constructs. To a child, the star—whether in the heavens or in the apple’s core—are products of divine construction.

When my daughter was a baby, her crib lay directly under a skylight. Deep in the northern Vermont woods the stars above her were a source of comfort, easing her into sleep. Why should it be that they now inspire unease? In this world we live in, wonder and awe can slide into dread. I think this is what we are trying to avoid by preserving wonder in our children. Perhaps this preservation is an antidote to the existential fear that can lead humans down the material chute, in danger of becoming stuck there. Or is it the other way around? Perhaps the Waldorf way is so good for children precisely because it delays abstraction long enough to prevent becoming mired in a sense of dread that we parents, raised towards the end of the twentieth century, are prone to feel.

Of a renowned astronomer in our extended family, my daughter asks, “How does she study the stars?” I explain to her about the observatory and the powerful telescopes. But I also tell her that the stars have secrets which they will not tell. From earth they are magical lights which urge us to remember who we are and where we are.

Wonder precedes great scientific discovery—reason enough to keep it intact. The wonder of the astronomer must be as infinitesimal as the universe itself. Surely that wonder can only increase while the stars are examined. After all, knowledge acts as a rich fertilizer in the garden of wonder. But wonder, it seems, must come first. Watercolor by Senta Reis

by Roger Reed, Parent

On the first day of school after the picnic, I headed to Marlborough, New Hampshire, where I would chaperone the 7th grade on their class trip to Glenbrook. There they would not only have the opportunity to navigate through both low and high ropes courses, but also hike to the top of Mount Monadnock. During these action packed days, the children transform in many ways. They have the chance to challenge themselves and their peers both physically and mentally. Every one of them certainly came home with new experiences and new horizons. There were many wonderful moments of discovery during those days, but there was one specifically that stands out in my mind.

On Friday, after main lesson in the dining room, we made our bag lunches and headed off to hike up Mount Monadnock, a 2 hour trek up, (and 2 back!,) up to the barren rocky top, where on a clear day you can see Boston. There was also another school group there, making it quite noisy on top of the whistling wind. It was clear but we had to settle for the mirror reflections sent up by the staff back down the mountain at Glenbrook.

After our lunch, we started to explore around a bit. There was a small pool of water in a depression of the rocks in which some of our students and some of the other group had discovered that there were pollywogs in this high altitude pool. Bright green, with four legs formed, their tails slowly being absorbed. Fascinating little ecosystem. One of our girls carefully scooped them up for closer observation while the other students grabbed wildly and futilely for their prey. How did they get here? What were they? How many are there? The questions were almost as thick as the little creatures, when a voice boomed out, “Get your hands out of that filthy, disgusting water. If you can’t show some responsibility, then I guess you will have to lose some of your freedoms.” It was the voice of one of the adults from the other group. By her tone of authority, I guessed it was their teacher. I stood in utter shock. Filthy? Disgusting? I figured it was rainwater, there was no other source up here. It was full of life, intrigue and discovery. Her charges shirked away, back to sit on the rocks. I was so thankful for our teaching philosophy of hands-on (in) learning.

The woman returned to later again chase her students away. This time I challenged her on her description. She said, “Well, there might be Giardia!” I assured her that I hadn’t seen any signs of a beaver the whole trip. “Well, someone might have peed in it!” So. . . ? There was no logical or intellectual discussion to be had. I was very tempted to jump into the little pool but it would have scared the little critters. One of our students had deducted that they were in fact tree frogs, by observing their sticky foot pads. They would mature, head for lower territory when the time was right or end up as part of the food chain. What a great view I had that day. I chortled to myself all the way down.