Peace and the Interconnected Web

I forgot that I was the lead teacher in religious education (RE) this week until about 15 minutes before we had to leave, late, for church.

Spirit Play is not the kind of curriculum that you can pull off last minute.

Except I sorta did.

I brainstormed on peace in light of recent worldwide events, namely Paris, but also Kenya, Beirut, and so on.

This led to the story of Sadako Sasaki and the thousand peace cranes, which is a touching story about war, loss, children, action, hope, and, above all, peace.  And origami is a great project with all ages.

That led to the idea of the interconnected web of all beings, our seventh principle.  A yarn web.  This is a standard Unitarian Universalist (and also Girl Scout) bonding activity, as it's a metaphor for connection, interdependence, teamwork, and the like.  Plus, it's beautiful.

So, we started class with our usual chalice lighting, which happens to be Gandhi's prayer for peace:

Gandhi's Prayer for Peace
I offer you peace.
I offer you love.
I offer you friendship.
I see your beauty.
I hear your need.
I feel your feelings.
My wisdom flows from the highest source.
I salute that source in you.
Let us work together.
For unity and peace. 

Mahatma Gandhi

We shared our class Joys and Concerns.  We followed this with a brief metta meditation for the safety, health, happiness, and ease of all living beings.

I introduced our topics of peace and interconnection, lightly, with gentle references to world events because we have very young pre-K kids and more mature 7th graders, and a few in-between.

Then we did the yarn web.  We pulled it, loosened bits of it, stretched it, admired it, and finally dropped it.  Not stressing the metaphor too much.

I retold the story of Sadako and her one thousand cranes.  And they all opted to do origami as their class work, though I also had materials for Tibetan prayer flags.

We all sat around the table with a pile of origami paper and a few books.  Bud and the seventh-grader attempted the actual peace crane, which is a complicated fold.  The littlest girl did several flapping butterflies, really getting the hang of the pattern by the end.  Sis and another classmate folded pinwheels, while my co-teacher folded a tiny pinwheel, impressing us all.

 We talked of origami and other things, enjoying our joint activity.

By the end, both Bud and Sis had vowed to make 1000 of each of their designs, just like Sadako.

And tonight, they were still working on their projects.

Now, that's what I call a successful class--it stayed with them.  Whew!

Spirit Play: Labyrinths and Mandalas

We're well into our religious education (RE) year at our Unitarian Universalist church, where we're teaching the Spirit Play curriculum.  It's a kind of Montessori, learner-centered approach to RE the privileges storytelling and hands-on activities.  It's just our first year using Spirit Play and we only watched some videos and studied the manual; so let's call it Spirit-Play-light, since we don't have lots of felt manipulatives, pure retelling of the stories, and "I wonder" questions.  Still, we let the kids work their way through our theme using a few carefully designed and selected activities (though probably a little too much information and explaining; it's an extra challenge because our age range is 5 to 13.)

A few weeks ago, following another teacher's lesson on Sacred Spaces, I led a class on labyrinths.  I read a story entitled Ladybug's Labyrinth, which dealt with a little lost bug who follows a labyrinth and is able to calm down and not feel so lost, and we talked a little about personal sacred spaces (vs. communal ones) and meditation.  Then the kiddos had their choice of work:  making tape labyrinths on the floor, learning to draw a labyrinth, and using two of the labyrinths I brought (one finger, one ball maze.)  The eldest student worked on the two handheld labyrinths while my kids and the younger ones all worked on the large tape labyrinth on the floor (using the how-to-draw directions.)  Then they took turns racing around it like a race track.  We adults went through, too, much more slowly, but the little ones were more intent on the dizzy buzz they got running through it.  And that's okay.  (They did each try it the slow way, a least partly.) They all finished the class by drawing their own labyrinth on a white paper plate, thereby making their own finger labyrinth.  I wish the story had been stronger, but the kids had a good time, even if the whole idea of internal, personal, meditative space (or even labyrinths as metaphor for life's journey) got a little lost.  But experiencing the shape itself was very compelling for all of them.

Bud's

Mine

Today, I built upon the meditative practice of labyrinths by leading a class on mandalas.  We talked about mandalas as a (radially-symetrical) circle made by many religious traditions to aid in prayer, particularly Tibetan monks who make intricate ones out of sand, only to blow them away instead of keep them.  Impermanence.  It's also the time of death and dying--waning light, fall leaves, and Samhain, Day of the Dead, All Souls/Saints, and, of course, Halloween--when so many people feel more connection to those who have gone before us.  And we read Grandad's Prayers of the Earth, which tells of one grandfather explaining prayer to his grandson, who only really understands once his grandfather has died.  Prayer in this book as divined, briefly, as anything that connects one to the larger beauty of life, be it stillness, movement, laughter, song, or words spoken by grandparents . . . .

Sis's

And so we walked through our church's "backyard," stopping for a moment of silence by the stones of the Memorial Garden, where congregants' ashes are sprinkled.  We also picked up materials to make our own nature mandalas.  The kids worked separately and so diligently . . . and with the wind, we all experienced the impermanence of our art form.  And perhaps the older ones understood the metaphor.  At least the mandalas lasted long enough to show parents and take photos (because you know us humans, always trying to stop the impermanence.)

We called these gorgeous things "mandala leaves" for the layers of color.  No idea what tree they're from.

I'm not sure what I'll do at my next class in two weeks.  Maybe something on gratitude.