Sometimes we teach and inspire in the most random of places.

My experience on a random Saturday re-confirmed for me that the heart of education and learning must be human connections. Through these simple exchanges of knowledge and skills, we can also pass on our joy, our creativity, and our compassion. 

Today I am reflecting on a recent Saturday morning. I got up and helped my two young sons eat breakfast so that my wife could sleep in a bit longer. While playing with them in the living room, I found myself counting with my youngest. This somehow led to me singing 1-2-3 by Miami Sound Machine, Gloria Estefan’s band. 

Instead of his usual “Dada, can you please stop singing?”, my six-year-old asked if I had made up the song for his little brother. I was flattered, but I set him straight. This turned out to be a perfect opportunity to introduce him to the music of Miami Sound Machine. (Full disclosure, on a whim, I went to see the musical On Your Feet: The Gloria and Emilio Estefan Story on Broadway a few years back and have been a vocal fan (pun intended) of her music ever since.)

Thanks to my smartphone and my streaming music app, my sons and I took a trip back to the 80s and the pop hits of one Gloria Estefan. Once again, my oldest son’s reaction surprised me. Instead of asking me to turn off the music or switch to one of his favorite Disney soundtracks, he started dancing. I joined in, and eventually, even my youngest (14-months-old) was on his feet, trying to contribute to the dance circle. 

After a few songs, I looked up to see my wife standing by the living room with a confused smile on her face. I don’t think this was the scene she was expecting to find on a Saturday morning, either. She asked what precipitated this jam session.

I let her know that it started very simple with a spark of inspiration, that led to a polite curiosity, and turned into an unexpected, yet engaging experience. I didn’t know it at the time, but the day would offer even more opportunities for this type of organic learning and engagement.  

The Saturday continued in typical fashion (me running errands), but that morning had inspired me. I suggested to my wife that we go out as a family to the local art museum for the afternoon. (We are lucky enough to have a fantastic art museum, Crystal Bridges, about three miles from our house.) Our first stop: The Studio, which is the children’s art making area. 

My six-year-old and my wife, who are regular museum patrons, quickly got to work on that day’s self-portrait art project. I love that my wife has been so instrumental in helping our oldest son gain an appreciation and a patience for arts and crafts. I was happy to see them engaged and enjoying themselves, so I sat and worked to keep our one-year-old entertained. 

The museum was busy that day. There were several groups of parents and children huddled around little art tables, sitting on benches and stools best suited for elementary-age children, but impressively supporting the weight of 30-60-year-olds. I smiled as I looked around the room and let the positive energy soak in. Children were working vigorously to create their masterpieces while still being willing to share materials with a neighbor. Parents were perfectly perched in strategic positions to offer guidance, art supplies, and words of encouragement. Eventually, the contagious enthusiasm got to me, and I decided to get in on the fun. 

By this point, my oldest son had transitioned from his self-portrait activity to creating origami. The timing was perfect, as origami is my go-to art form. In my younger days, I was fascinated with the art of paper folding. I would regularly travel to the local library to find books on how to create animals, shapes, and other creative figures out a single square of paper. (Keep in mind that I grew up in a working-class family in a time before the prevalence of the internet, so books and the library were my best friends when it came to gaining knowledge.)

My favorite shapes to create with origami were cranes and boxes. I could make a sitting crane or flapping crane. I could also make little open boxes to place small items in, including my cranes. I think these two particular designs stuck with me because their steps were initially the most challenging for me to learn. This required more practice, which eventually led to mastery. Even now, after a twenty-year hiatus, I can pick up a piece of paper and fumble my way through the steps without looking up the instructions. 

And so back in the Crystal Bridges art studio, I found myself reaching for a pre-cut square of brown paper. As my wife and son worked on following the directions for an origami tree, I carefully began my flapping crane. I was both amazed and delighted that I was able to recall the necessary steps to complete it. I guess Einstein spoke a level of truth when he said, “Education is what remains after one has forgotten what one has learned in school.” 

Without hesitation, I proudly displayed my work to my wife and son. I felt accomplished, yet ready to settle back into my people watching. But my artistic endeavor had attracted the interest of another, and it turned out my work was just getting started. 

As I sat holding my paper pet, gently pulling its tail to set it in motion, I felt someone beside me. It was a little girl, probably seven- or eight-years-old with glasses and a dark blonde ponytail. I watched her as she eyed my crane. My first assumption was that she might ask if she could have it. I pushed that thought aside and tried to be more optimistic, instead assuming she would react with a sense of wonder and ask, “how did you do that?” 

However, this little girl with her shy yet determined voice posed the question I least expected, but found most rewarding: “can you teach me to do that?” 

I will admit that it caught me off guard. I initially fumbled over my words and eventually responded with a tempered, yet enthusiastic “Yes!”. I recommended that the young lady find a paper color that she liked, and we could get to work. 

As she carefully examined her color options on the table, I looked up to see my wife shrug and smile at me, as if to say “just go with it.” I also looked to see the girl’s mother, who was also giving me the nod, as if to say thank you for humoring her daughter. With this proper send-off, I was ready to embark on this learning journey with my new origami apprentice. 

The young lady enthusiastically selected a bright square of fuchsia paper. I put on my teacher hat and we began, starting slowly with the first folds. With each step, I had to resist the urge to do the work for her. Instead, I focused my attention and energy on modeling the steps and giving her time to apply them to her work. 

When I knew a more challenging fold was approaching, I would intentionally offer words of encouragement and emphasize the process over the product. If one of her folds didn’t look exactly like mine and I could see her anxiety growing, I would say things like, “you know not all birds look the same in real life, so our cranes can look different too.” I was impressed by the resilience of this young lady and how positively she responded to these simple words of encouragement. 

Eventually, we made it through the last fold, and I watched as the young lady beamed with pride as she gently flapped the wings of her crane and put it into flight. Her eyes lit up behind her tween-sized glasses, and she turned to show her mom and sister her work of art. It was a gratifying experience, and once again, I felt that I could go home feeling accomplished for the day. 

However, again, I had gotten ahead of myself. After marveling in the joy of her crane creation, the young lady, now much less shy and much more determined, turned to me and eagerly asked, “do you know how to make anything else, and can you teach me?” I have to admit I was flattered and excited to show off my skills. I told her that I did, in fact, know how to make a nest for the crane. (The nest was just an origami box, but I thought that calling it a nest had more appeal.) The little girl’s eyes lit up, and she eagerly went to work on finding a suitable paper color for her soon-to-be crane’s nest. 

This time around, she was a quick study. I didn’t have to go as slowly, and she began to anticipate the folds. Another interesting thing happened as we started the first folds of our origami nest. Other children in the room caught wind and wanted to get in on the action. 

As I looked up from my folding, I noticed two additional children at the table gathering paper and trying to make sense of what we were doing. At first, this brother and sister pair, probably ages 5 and 7, stood quietly and tried to just follow through observation. The sister, the older of the two, would watch me, and the younger brother would watch his sister. As the folds got more complicated, the sister eventually stopped me and softly asked, “can you please show me how to do that?” Once again, I had to restrain my inner joy and responded in a mild-mannered way. 

I found a good transition point where my original apprentice was working to clean up a couple of her folds, and I paused to help the two siblings. By this point, we had attracted a small crowd. A few of the parents were watching this Pied Piper of Paper scenario unfold. Younger siblings were watching their older siblings work to get their folds just right. I continued to offer words of encouragement, especially to the newcomers. I would say things like, “The nest doesn’t have to be perfect. Have you ever looked at a real bird’s nest? They are a mess.” Comments like these would give these fledgling origamites the boost they needed to persevere. 

In the end, each of the young learners was successful in completing their crane’s nest. The young lady with the glasses and the ponytail proudly set her crane in the nest and headed for her mom to show off her work. But mid-stride, she turned around as if getting a reminder from inner politeness, and softly said, “thank you.” 

I smiled and said “you’re welcome.”I also knew that it was about time for my family to pack up and head on to our trail walk. I turned to see the brother and sister pair off. The younger boy had already left to go and find something else to do. The sister was still there looking at her nest. I congratulated her on her work. She seemed proud of her craftsmanship, yet not fully satisfied. Looking over at the young lady with the glasses and ponytail, she softly said, “but I don’t have a crane for my nest.” My heart sank a little bit because I could tell from her voice that the crane was a big deal. I was conflicted because I wanted to keep the moment of the learning going, but I also knew that it was time to go. 

Before the sister could request a lesson, I turned to her and offered up the demo crane I made with the ponytailed apprentice. I wasn’t sure how she would react. Would she not like the color? Would she prefer to learn how to make her own? Was I inequitable in not taking the time to teach her the way I did with the girl in the glasses? Luckily, all of my anxieties quickly faded. The sister smiled, thanked me, and joyfully placed the crane in the nest she created.

It was a good reminder to me that equity is not necessarily treating everyone the same, but rather giving each learner what they need. I walked away with a renewed sense of purpose for my chosen profession. 

So in reading this post, I hope that in the same way that many of us keep ourselves open to the opportunity for random acts of kindness, we will also stay open to random acts of learning. I guarantee you that there is no shortage of willing and able learners. We might just have to look beyond the walls of the classroom into the random, yet authentic spaces. For me, that is where the learning truly takes flight, and the music never stops. 

Your friendly neighborhood teacher-man,