Don’t Teach Them

A Story.

My daughter was three and a half years old. We were sitting outside. She was looking at the fingers on one of her hands and decided to count them. She counted and counted. Each time she arrived at a different result. Sometimes eight, sometimes seven, sometimes six, sometimes nine. Every time she was dissatisfied.

She did not ask for my opinion, and I did not correct her, but it was difficult for me. Very difficult.

I told myself that fortunately no one was watching. (!)

After all, she was already three and a half! She could count to twenty with almost no mistakes! How many leaves are on a stem? How many cars are in a picture? I was very proud of her! Only a week earlier she had counted correctly to seventeen and fourteen without hesitation or doubt, and now she couldn’t count to five? I was tired and distracted, and I reacted slowly enough that she moved on to the next stage…

Suddenly she called out, “Oh, Mom! Maybe they mean both hands?!”

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I remembered that a week earlier I had introduced her younger sister to the song “I Have Ten Fingers,” and this one, the older daughter, had been trying to verify what the song claimed. With all her might she was trying to arrive at the correct result of ten fingers, but using only one hand. After trying and trying and not giving up for a long time, an idea for solving the conflict arose in her mind. She formed a hypothesis—perhaps the song was referring to both hands? Immediately she tested it, counted the fingers on both hands, and in no time reached the long-awaited result. She counted correctly to ten.

“Hey Mom, I have ten fingers on my two hands!!!”

And immediately another research hypothesis: “Let’s see how many fingers Ayelet has.”

Indeed, ten.

Then: “And you, how many fingers do you have?”

What joy. What delight in discovery. Little purrs of satisfaction, laughter, smiles—a moment of pure pleasure.

And immediately she charged onward, tirelessly:

“And on our feet—how many toes do we have on our feet?”

And so, by the end of her self-directed lesson, there was etched into her forever a realization she had reached through her own efforts: she had ten fingers on her two hands, and so did her sister and her mother and, in fact, everyone else—and even toes on their feet!

End of story.

How much did we gain from this learning? And how much could we have lost?

She initiated and conceived her own chapter of learning (without being able or wanting to define it in words for me), experimented with forming theories and disproving them, generated an alternative theory and verified it, experienced frustration in the face of failure, and rejoiced beyond measure—not because of “success,” but because of the experience of discovery.

From that moment on, she would never forget this embodied numerical insight.

And also—and more importantly—the skill of self-directed learning would become part of her.

The confidence in her own power and abilities, and the memory of her independence and achievement—an achievement entirely her own—would never be erased.

And what could we have lost?

I could have corrected her when she counted incorrectly—and then she would have lost confidence and would actually have known less. Because despite how it appeared, she did not have a problem with counting itself.

I could have instructed her—and then, in addition to the damage of my previous intervention—the loss of confidence and the weakening of her knowledge—she would also have received the message that she did not know what was right or good to do, did not know how to learn, and that I did not believe in her power, her way, her feelings, or her choices. It would have been clear to her that I did not trust her to reach good and desirable places. And perhaps, as a result of my intervention, she really would not have gotten anywhere. It is a vicious cycle that feeds itself.

I would also have diverted her from her research task, and the question, the wondering, and its resolution would have been lost forever (or at least diminished). I would not have been exposed to her personality, her experiences, that awe-inspiring moment, and another golden thread connecting us would not have been woven.

I could also have become annoyed, disappointed, impatient, critical, or cynical—and the damage caused by those responses needs no elaboration.

So all I really needed to do was not do.

But I did need to remain fully present beside my daughter, with all my senses, to respect the process, and not interfere or presume to know better than she did. Because although I know how to count (and even better than she does), I still could not have guided her better in the task she had chosen for herself, nor could I have chosen a better task for her.

So we need a measure of humility when accompanying any learning process, and we must always remember that we do not know everything, we do not see everything, and we are not aware of everything—even when it comes to our own children.

And conversely, if we open ourselves to experiences like these, a whole new world opens before us: full, rich, and wondrous. We will not trudge through the tired and boring territory of repeated counting lessons. Instead, dozens of times each day we will experience new moments of learning and exploration—through our children’s eyes.

And as an added gift, our relationship will deepen and become enriched through moments of happiness, discovery, and shared experiences.

And one more thing: self-directed learning develops—or at the very least does not atrophy—initiative and inner resources.

Remember the issue of repetition?

How many times in conventional learning do we demand that a child (or any learner) keep practicing, memorizing, and repeating over and over again?

Twenty arithmetic exercises! (?)

And the learner has had enough. They squirm and protest, or struggle and endure.

In natural, uninterrupted learning, it is the child who repeats again and again, while we, the observers, become tired and bored and urge them to stop turning over the same stone they have been examining for long minutes already, or to move on to the next structure in the playground.

When we interrupt our children’s learning and exploration processes in this way, beyond the obvious disrespect we display, beyond closing our eyes to the processes taking place, and beyond the enormous cumulative loss of closeness and love that are built through sharing such spiritual experiences—

when we stop natural learning, we weaken the spirit and the soul, especially the learning and exploring part of them.

Another example:

“Mom, let’s change the hamsters’ water.”

“No need, we changed it yesterday, remember?”

“But Mom, I feel like it.”

And here, fortunately, I paused to think—or perhaps simply stopped for a moment and breathed—and said:

“All right. If you feel like it, then go ahead and change their water.”

Of course, all sorts of thoughts ran through my mind: the mess, the water that would spill and need cleaning up, the trouble, the faucet that might not be closed properly, and on and on and on…

But I let go.

And my daughter went and changed the water herself, for the first time. She dealt with taking apart the dispenser, unscrewing it, emptying it, cleaning it, refilling it, and assembling it back into place.

And what joy and pride she felt. From herself, in herself.

(And there was no mess, no trouble, and no wasted water.)

Every time our children want to do something of their own, fears and worries begin blowing through us: the mess, the effort, the lack of usefulness—after all, it isn’t really necessary…

And then later, when we ask them to repeat, memorize, or write another paragraph in an essay, they have no energy. They become listless. And we are surprised, and proceed to lecture them about diligence and responsibility.

Because when they wanted to fully experience the joy of learning (which must include practice and repetition), we stopped them because we did not have the energy. Because our own joy and skill in learning had also been damaged. It did not suit our needs at that moment, and we did not truly respect our children’s spirit. And so, time and again, we clipped their wings.

And now, whether in adulthood or in youth, the joy of learning—and the capacities they might have developed—have been lost, perhaps beyond recovery.

So please, do not teach them.

Respect and accompany their processes.

You will not believe how much joy, freshness, and magic you will encounter.

And of course, you cannot imagine the amount of self-directed learning they are capable of, nor its rich, multidimensional quality.

Good luck.

It is not easy, but it is worth learning.

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See you,

Lilach

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