Collins Brook, A Maine Free School
A Memoir
Recommendation:
"Wow! This is a beautifully written odyssey of a young visionary’s effort to translate into reality a new paradigm of teaching and learning in a free school he and his wife created in Maine in the late sixties/early seventies. Written from the enlightening perspective of forty years, it is a tender account of seven years of building, board by board, person by person, a school predicated on trusting and honoring young people, giving them space to co-create their education." - Mike Miles
Excerpts:
The kids wouldn’t arrive for another hour, so the silence was more profound; I was borrowing the space from the little kids who would soon be running around. When I sat down, the blue carpeted floor stretched out in front of me. I put on the new Beatles album “Here Comes the Sun.” The bright song filled the sun-streaked classroom with music. The kids’ energy was present. I got up and danced; my bare feet bounced on the soft blue rug and my arms swung around. The sun streamed in the east-facing low windows and cast new long rectangles of sunlight on the blue rug, the only witness to my ecstasy. The words flowed in and out of me, “Here comes the sun, little darling, the smiles returning to the faces.” I could picture the little kid’s faces. When I got tired, I sat in the stillness. I had read about meditating, and I just sat on the carpeted floor in my own way, and let my thoughts come and go, come and go. From then on, meditation became a cornerstone of my life. I smiled absurdly at my good fortune. I was dancing in the school building we had built with volunteers, now by myself for a few precious moments. I was full of joy to know in a few minutes six little kids would burst through the doors here and bound into their classroom for their day.
Chapter 11 Whipped Cream and Pine Needles 1974-75
Whenever we heard the bell ring, everything would stop and we’d gather around the wood stove in the dining room. The little kids would occasionally make the trek to the dining room for the larger meetings. Sometimes everybody knew why the meeting was called; it was obvious: there was a crisis or a problem that everybody knew we had to confront. Often, it was a mystery. People were eager to know the answer to the typical question, “Who called this meeting and why?” It was a notable query because it signaled first that we were gathered together and curious. Second, the person who rang the bell got our attention. We listened. Though we did get tired of meetings — they could and did drag on — I don’t think anyone at the school got tired of feeling the empowerment, validation and affirmation that meetings gave us. Who doesn’t like to be listened to? Who isn’t pleased that what they are concerned about is also the concern of others? Who doesn’t like to feel that they are not alone, but joined by peers and elders?
For a school meeting bell, I used a big bronze bell from the ship that my father had served on in the Navy in World War II, H.M.S. Bazely, whose name and the date 1943 were inscribed on the bell. I loved the fact that a bell from a warship was now used to call meetings where peaceful discussions and votes decided the issues, not violence.
For a school meeting bell, I used a big bronze bell from the ship that my father had served on in the Navy in World War II, H.M.S. Bazely, whose name and the date 1943 were inscribed on the bell. I loved the fact that a bell from a warship was now used to call meetings where peaceful discussions and votes decided the issues, not violence.
Currently in stock. Contact me if you would like an autographed copy. Available at local bookstores and on Amazon.
