By Angelina Lloyd, M.Ed.Psy
Several years ago while walking beneath a great, green canopy on a summer day, a butterfly fell on my arm. It had tumbled from its chrysalis, wings sodden and far too wrinkled and limp to fly. I was enchanted and spent the better part of two hours marveling as golden wings tentatively expanded and flexed beneath the warm sun. There was no hurry. The butterfly worked its wings. Life takes time. Then, with surprising confidence, it took flight from my outstretched hand. I watched as the last flicker of yellow disappeared into a vast blue sky, reminded of the value of a struggle.
The journey from caterpillar to butterfly is no easy business. There’s the unsavory goop stage that happens within the chrysalis prior to its celebrated, albeit laborious, emergence from a metamorphic slumber. The struggle to break free from the chrysalis is real and a well meaning but ill-informed bystander might try to help by snipping a neat hole at the tip. Doing so will produce disastrous results. Why? Because the struggle is necessary. It’s vital. As the butterfly wrestles with the walls of its former life it builds the strength to become the butterfly. The effort forces the fluid from its body and into its wings.
The struggle and the flight are inseparable.
We have a right to struggle too. It’s how we grow. It’s how we learn. It’s obvious when watching butterflies and working alongside young children. It’s a little harder to see in ourselves.
When a child wrestles with activities that come so easily to us, it’s hard not to offer a helping hand. They jostle with shoes and often come away with them cattywampus on the opposite feet. They call for help when managing toileting needs or battling snow pants. They want to draw a rhinoceros and then complain, “I can’t” when a blank sheet of paper is placed before them. We have to remind our capable hands not to make fast work of it. Their struggle, like the butterflies, is necessary. It’s how they learn. When a child groans in frustration we learn to wait. We ask ourselves, can they do it on their own? How much help do they actually need to open that snack? Would a pair of scissors placed nearby do the trick?
What if there's a disagreement on the playground? Do we rush in with the swift arm of adult justice or wait? When we delay our help we’re often surprised by the outcome. Of course, we’ll intervene if a situation escalates but more often than not a brief tug-o-war with the hula-hoop will result in a surprisingly innovative solution among the children. “How ‘bout you be the sun first and I’ll be the moon and then I’ll be the sun and you can be the moon?” Agreed. If I’d stepped in with my standard, “That’s her work. I noticed she was using it first”, I’ve not only robbed the children of their right to struggle, I’ve prioritized my need for outward harmony at the expense of their emerging conflict resolution skills. The same is true in the classroom. We set up the environment to anticipate an, “I can’t”. The works are designed to support their competence. When a child is asked to write their name on a finished work and answers with a nasally “I can’t”, we direct them to their name card to remind them that they can, however imperfectly. They can. When a child spills a pitcher of water in route to table scrubbing we have mops at the ready for them to clean it up, not perfectly of course and certainly not punitively. It’s the process that counts because it's all important. The puddle and the pour. The mismatched shoes and the tied laces. The phonetic spelling of “BTRFLI” and the reading of a chapter book. It’s how we grow. We all have a right to struggle. It’s uncomfortable but it’s necessary.
So when faced with struggle, at home or at school, we can consider the butterfly. An “I can’t” that becomes an enthusiastic “I can!” opens up a vast blue sky of possibility and that struggle is always worth the wait.
Stay Curious and Full of Wonder,
Angelina
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