Broadening the Scope of a School, by Mary-Ann Ridgway
What if a school were a vibrant hub for change? Change that starts with the inner blossoming of oneself, inspiring further shifts to happen within the community and impacting action locally and beyond. What if our endeavours to develop ourselves within an educational setting were deeply connected to a compassionate movement towards change in society, such that ambition for individualistic gains were replaced by a feeling of responsibility for the evolution of a saner world?
School as we generally know it focuses mainly on individuals gaining knowledge, skills, and ‘drive’ in order, as many parents must be hoping, to find a secure niche within the accepted culture of their upbringing. Most schools, intentionally or not, will aim for the child to fit into the general trends and behaviour by which the majority of organisations function, therefore making such aspects as competition, hierarchy in relationships, and coercive strategies the prepared environment for the jockeying for jobs s/he are likely to hold in the future. Unless the adults working or co-operating in our learning settings are regularly questioning the status quo of behavioural manipulation and profit-based thinking, they will continue to blindly mould young minds to reinforce the trends that promote division, sorrow and environmental degradation.
The school has the potential to break down individualistic thinking and to put each unique human being in the context of his or her immediate surroundings: their relationship with others, with objects; with animals, plants, the soil, the walls and corners of their lived-in environment. The children need to feel connected to what is living and what is serving them, to the stories of people and the stories of stuff, so that deeper respect and sensitivity for one another and our planet’s finite resources can emerge.
Developing a sense of place and responsibility for this physical venue (called a school) was a consistent focus throughout the growth of Inwoods. Whether you were part of the pioneering cohort of parents, staff and children when there were classrooms to build and renovate, or joining years later into by then well-established facilities, there was always something to clean, paint, plant, look after or create on the grounds and in the structures of this shared space. There was always some aspect of the immediate setting, of the physical school, that needed maintaining or improving in some minor or major way.
Work parties were a regular event. When cupboards and shelves needed sorting, leaves required raking, dirty windows were calling for a good wipe, and outdoor equipment for a thorough tidy-up, children and teachers would get into groups and set to work with a healthy dose of team effort and energy. Some weekend hours were also scheduled for the parents throughout the year to paint walls, uproot weeds, and deep-clean the classrooms and kitchen. Major adjustments also took place from time to time: a whole shed was lifted by might and muscle and moved a few feet to give some extra gardening space; the walls of the strawbale classroom were built by a novice group of curious eco-build learners; a balance play-feature was designed and created by eager parents; an earth-oven constructed by an eclectic mix of folk from in and outside the school. Such working party days included refreshments and much chatting as hands and feet were toiling, minds and hearts were converging on important issues, and children were playing among this benevolent ambience generated and modelled by their parents and teachers.
Rather than preaching about climate change and the global plastic crisis to young children, we focused on bringing awareness to the immediate ramifications of our relationship with material things, and our responsibility to the space in which we all worked and played. There were boxes full of packaging for creative constructions, wastepaper baskets for recycling, a used paper drawer for aeroplane and origami designs, compost tubs for the garden, and plenty of corners where excess educational resources were stored waiting for potential use, rather than thoughtlessly thrown away.
Needless to say, it was a relentless task to raise awareness in different ways as to how we use, abuse, and tend the many, many objects that we were privileged to acquire at school and home. When pencils were carelessly dropped and broken, paper only partially used and then discarded, badminton or tennis rackets left lying in the mud, punctured and abandoned balls uncovered in the winter among the brambles, and bits and bobs seen floating in the well, here was an opportunity, not to rant and punish, but to consider together the journey and life of these much-used items. What energy, resources and sacrifices would have been made for us to have the benefit of them? How could we look after them better? Why would we look after them? Whose responsibility was it? Here was a learning opportunity not to be missed.
Born into a Western environment full of replicated objects that seem to come and go at the click of a button, it’s no wonder that children are not naturally acquiring a sense of preciousness for every item. To encourage less recklessness and more carefulness without stifling the youthful explorative spirit is an ongoing challenge, though a wholly necessary one. It needs individual attention as well as a collective effort.
One day I brought all the mud-coated play objects: bats, balls, sheets for dens, sandpit equipment and other bits and bobs that had been left lying around into the centre of our morning circle. Inwoods’ soil was clay in the Summer and sloppy mud in the Winter. It was an abundant source of creative earth sculptures one season and wicked sludge creations and shenanigans the next. Endless fun, until the mud got onto the walls, doors and parents’ car-seats, and prematurely buried useful equipment until it was forgotten or destroyed.
That day we needed to witness, collectively, the repercussions of ‘fun’ taking priority over responsibility. I asked the children what they noticed, pulling up one dreary looking item at a time – something that was a joy to hold and play with yesterday but a repulsive nonentity today. Those objects spoke volumes. Few words were needed by me as even the questions were initiated by the children: Oops; yuck; oh dear; that’s a shame; what shall we do?; I have an idea; what about this… that… Eventually an array of solutions were offered from all ages of the circle as to how to play, then put away and take care of these well-crafted objects whose components were once upon a time a ‘living’ thing. Information about the global crisis for powerless young children risks creating fear and despair, but brainstorming solutions as to how better to care for the elements (human and non-human) of one’s immediate visible surroundings is, by contrast, an empowering affair.
Yes, it was a relentless task year after year, but when a child spontaneously picked up a hidden fork in the grass, returned a book left outside that was about to be rained on, turned off lights, or cupped with utmost care a stranded insect to release it outside, one stopped complaining. Children learnt to look after their belongings and to encourage each other to respect the surrounding wildlife: I can still picture Ollie, releasing a baby slow-worm into a safer location, saying, “let’s give it some privacy,” and then removing himself from the spot, waving for the others to follow.
Coordinating ‘Care Jobs’ and ‘Kitchen Rota’ with children was another unrelenting mission for the sometimes-frazzled educator. In the worst-case situations, we had to coax and chase children who wanted to ‘find the fun and evade the mundane’. Calm conversations were needed to arrive at consent, and then the learning to do a job well could begin; otherwise, it was just a battle. But once the children were included in discussing possible formats for these needed chores – with songs and harmless banter agreed on – the motivation increased, followed by independence and then initiative. “We don’t need your help today, Mary-Ann”, Aura told me one day. “Us Redwoods (the eldest group of children) can take care of it and help the younger ones.” And so I disappeared to the office for an urgent task while the mixed-age team of youngsters rinsed dishes, loaded the dishwasher, washed pots, wiped tables, swept and put away food. Perhaps the standards weren’t quite mine, but it was a job completed with an initiative to be appreciated and worth every minute of those past careful conversations.
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Looking after the precious part (the child) that has an impact on the whole, requires seeing the significance of this connection. Educators need a deep sense of responsibility for the planet to foster the necessary qualities in a child to support positive change. With this outlook, the organisation’s identity becomes less important; it is simply a venue to gather, explore, enquire, and learn together. Thinking is no longer in terms of my earnings, my status, my security. Management is no longer in terms of creating a profitable institution, a marketable enterprise or an efficient system. Children are not seen as commodities. What matters is relationships and the qualities of sensitivity and care that can be nurtured within the context of an inclusive place of learning for everyone. While on paper Inwoods belonged to the Trust, in its day-to-day relationships and modus operandi it was a mini-ecosystem of multiple interconnected organisms; people with tasks, contributions and ideas who came and went and helped the environment to thrive (or not) and organically grow over time.
When it wasn’t thriving, it was because we were caught in trivialities. Why? Most probably because the emphasis had swung too much to the individual, and problem-solving had become limited to fixing rather than enquiring, with issues heavily revolving around personal concerns. It didn’t matter if communication was between colleagues, between adults and children, between parents, parents and staff, or regarding managerial tensions or irritations, when the issues became too self-centred, we lost sight of the whole. The reactive discomforts of having one’s image ruffled, one’s actions questioned, or one’s hurts exposed, pulled us away from the vital work of nourishing the child’s environment with the necessary ingredients for both individual development and wider change.
When no amount of thinking and talking was going to remedy the personal issues between people, something else was also needed. Something that is hard to put into words but is there when there is a quality of listening between the lines of one’s conversations, or when eyes meet, arms embrace, or hands touch. It is there when we are both sit-spotting quietly with our heads to the sky, watching the birds of prey. It is there when we walk side by side, feet firmly on the ground, drawing from the earth a different kind of energy for resolution or understanding.
For that something else – whatever it was – to do its magic and dissipate any built-up tensions coming from our tangled interpersonal concerns, we needed other forums for connecting. We needed opportunities where words and thoughts could be replaced by smiles and laughter, nourishing food, music, fireside warmth, bouquets, games, performances, singing and dancing. Inwoods regularly hosted seasonal events that brought the community together both in leisure and in cooperation to prepare for them. Autumn was celebrated with hot chocolate, earth-oven pizzas, apple cakes, lantern parades, and a story around the fire-pit while roasting the children’s harvested chestnuts. Spring was marked by painted eggs, baskets, hunts, presentations and games. There were bright flower-woven crowns, impressive spreads of pot-luck food, theatre and folk-dancing in the Summer, and home-crafted gifts and Winter celebratory feasts for the December closing of the year.
As we know, music, food, merriment and celebration are traditions common as much to modern cultures as to our many ancestors across the globe. And on these occasions, there was no alcohol or other substances needed for any festive enhancement. We simply brought ‘ourselves’, with our crafts and talents, to make something beautiful together and honour our little school, our privileged natural setting, the seasons and life itself – a life that can be joyful, light and simple when we connect with each other beyond the fixing and problem-solving mindset, and away from our personal ambitions. On these occasions nobody plugged into their digital devices. Perhaps, if anything significant is to arise out of these informal gatherings, particularly for this new generation entering the increasingly online world of work and virtual social living, it is going to be the ability to experience that joy of relationship when it is grounded in the physical presence of a familiar space, in nature, cared for and rejoiced by everyone. Perhaps, if this is nourished sufficiently when young, the digital stuff of our adult lives will find its proper place among instinctive initiatives for more tangible and varied engagements with one another.
This article constitutes chapter 12 from Mary-Ann Ridgway’s book, In Other Woods, The Story of a Small School (Troubador publishing, 2024).
Mary-Ann Ridgway is a proud mother of two sons, now young adults. She says:
“My passion for education ignited at a young age. As a child, I would often play ‘school’ with my younger siblings, adopting a fantasy teacher role that embodied a more affectionate approach than my own school experiences.
During my teenage years, I had the privilege of attending a unique international school founded by J. Krishnamurti. This transformative experience inspired me to pursue a career in teaching. I began my journey at Neel Bagh, a rural school in India for underprivileged children but with a beautiful campus and unique activity-based approach. I then studied Montessori pedagogy and have since explored various progressive educational approaches, connecting with like-minded radical educators who have enriched my understanding of teaching and learning.
One of my most significant experiences was co-designing and developing a small rural school in the UK, where I dedicated 20 years of my career. This all-encompassing journey taught me the essence of engaging with young minds and hearts, and how to create an environment where learning and living are not separate.
Currently, I am focused on reimagining education and collaborating on initiatives that prioritise a deep connection with nature and the cultivation of healthy relationships.”