Education is Life

There is a saying often quoted in education: “The purpose of education is not to prepare for life; education is life itself.” Childhood is the beginning of life — and a part of life in its own right. So, in truth, there is little meaning in rushing. When we try in every possible way to push learning forward, it often leads to the opposite effect. Children grow at different speeds — and there is, in fact, nothing to compare. When I first entered early childhood education, I was like many young teachers. I believed children should “learn faster”. I thought that as long as I followed the methods in the books carefully — even doing a little more — their progress would naturally exceed expectations. But reality surprised me. My efforts seemed only to make my own teaching smoother. When it came to the children’s learning and development, there was hardly any sense of them moving ahead. They simply continued to grow at their own pace. I remember one child who spent a long time just pouring water — again and again. Once, twice, three times… I began to feel a little impatient, because that day I had prepared other, more advanced activities for him. But he was completely absorbed. When he finally finished, I could sense something in him — a quiet steadiness, a sense of satisfaction, and confidence. At that moment, I had a sudden feeling: For him, this was not wasted time. He was simply living. And then another thought followed. From my perspective as an adult, it was an exercise. But for the child, it was a moment of life that he was fully living. I have also seen children spend an entire morning colouring — filling page after page. And I would find myself wondering: “What exactly is he doing? What kind of progress is this bringing?” Of course, there is no clear answer. But gradually, I began to notice that some forms of growth cannot easily be measured as “progress”. I came to accept the idea that “the process is more important than the result”. For a child, the process itself is learning. Adults often carry the mindset that “those who do not plan ahead will soon face worries”. So we think about the child’s future: primary school, examinations, long-term benefit… But childhood exists only in the present continuous. Children live in today. For them, pouring water now, drawing now, doing a puzzle now — everything they are doing in this moment is part of their life. For a child, education is not something separate from life. Education itself is life. Over the years, I have encountered countless moments like these — almost every day. They have slowly helped me understand that growth has its own rhythm — a rhythm that belongs to human development itself. This rhythm cannot be determined by a timetable. Nor can it be accelerated by adult urgency. Education should respect this pace. After twenty years of teaching and curriculum design, I have come to understand this more clearly: The essence of early childhood education is not to prepare for the future, nor to hurry children along the path. It is to honour the life they are living now. When we are willing to slow down, and respect this rhythm of growth, learning begins to happen naturally. For a child, each day of life is, in itself, growth. In recent years, I have also noticed something else.  Educational methods are constantly changing. Every few years, a new trend appears — a new slogan, a new approach. And yet, the child’s brain does not evolve every ten years. Sometimes, the urgency we feel as adults comes simply from the fact that we cannot see growth happening. Perhaps that child who kept pouring water already understood learning better than I did. When we are willing to slow down, we begin to see: Children are not preparing for life in the future. They are already living it.

What's Not Said

Anyone who has spent time with children will, sooner or later, realise this: Children are like mirrors. They reflect back to us the small actions and habits we hardly notice in ourselves — replaying them, often with surprising accuracy. A friend once told me that for a period of time, her two-year-old son would often lie flat on the floor, pressing his face against it, for no apparent reason. Later, she suddenly realised why. One day, while cleaning, she had done exactly the same thing — lying on the floor to check underneath the sofa. Her son had been watching. He didn’t understand what she was doing, but he learned it anyway. Ah… so that’s how it works. Which makes me wonder: When parents say to their children, “Didn’t I tell you to put things back after using them?” “Why do I have to repeat myself so many times? Where has your memory gone?” Perhaps we should believe that the issue is not poor memory. Perhaps the child has simply never seen the right example. Some people say that children possess a kind of instinctive observational ability — almost like that of animals — far sharper than that of adults. At first, I wasn’t entirely convinced. But when I think about it more carefully, it does seem true. When we can’t find something at home, it is often the child who remembers where it was put. Not long ago, many parents told me that it was actually their children who first noticed that Basic Chinese 500 is organised using beads, rather than numbers, to mark the books. I remember when I used to teach children in my classroom how to wash their hands, pour water, or roll up a work mat. As teachers, we were especially careful not to explain. We didn’t say: “First prepare the basin and the sponge,” or “Hold the cup with your left hand, and the handle with your right…” Instead, we demonstrated. Quietly. Slowly. Clearly. The children would watch once — and then they could do it. And when they practised, they would move in the same way: Slowly. Attentively. Repeating the same actions again and again. What we say, children may not always understand. What we do, they almost always follow. Some children are naturally quiet. Especially in new environments, or in the presence of unfamiliar people, they may simply stand to one side, saying nothing. We do not know what they are thinking. Sometimes, we are not even sure where their attention has gone. Some parents begin to worry: Is my child falling behind? But in reality, quiet children are often observing more carefully. They are learning — silently. And when they take in more, their minds need more time to process. Communication with children is often, in fact, beyond words. Time and again, I have noticed this: When I am genuinely moved by a child’s progress — when the feeling comes from within — they sense it immediately. In those moments, praise and reward stickers almost feel unnecessary. Sometimes, we consciously try to use more encouraging language — because experts often tell us to do so. But children are not so easily persuaded. They can tell the difference. I remember when my child was four. One day, holding up a drawing, he asked me: “If I show this to my teacher tomorrow, what will she say?” Without thinking, I replied: “She’ll say, ‘Oh, that’s beautiful!’” My child nodded seriously and said: “Yes… because she’s very busy.” That answer surprised me. Because it was exactly the kind of thing adults say when we are being perfunctory. And clearly, he knew it. Children, by nature, have a uniquely sensitive and perceptive way of observing the world — perhaps even as a matter of survival. Over the years, I have gradually learned to make use of this ability. Instead of forcing learning, instead of adding pressure, I rely on their natural sensitivity — allowing them to move forward and learn in their own way. And it works rather well.

The Art of Listening

“You’ve had this way of thinking all along? How come I never knew?” “I’ve always thought this way. Maybe it’s because whenever I tried to say it before, you interrupted me halfway.” Recently, my child — now working and grown — said this to me in passing during a casual conversation at home. I was momentarily taken aback. “You never let me finish what I’m saying. So how could you know what I really think?” In that moment, something struck me. I realised that I did not, in fact, truly understand my child. It felt like a quiet alarm bell sounding somewhere inside me. Decisive. Efficient. Quick to act. These are qualities I have always valued in my work. I like things to be clear and direct. I dislike wasting time on what feels unnecessary. Often, after hearing just the first half of someone’s sentence, I feel I already understand the whole situation — and the rest no longer seems essential. It may not be particularly polite, but in the adult world, it rarely affects the outcome. And I have always known that what works in the adult world does not necessarily work with children. But knowing something — and truly experiencing it — are very different things. I had never realised that my “efficiency” could leave my child’s words suspended mid-air. Their thoughts were cut off before they had time to fully take shape. What they wanted to say never had the chance to become complete. And I began to wonder: Could these interruptions also be affecting their language — their ability to think, to express? For the first time, I felt uneasy. I have often told parents: Ask open-ended questions. Encourage children to speak in full sentences. Listen patiently. But if I was the one constantly interrupting, wasn’t that a contradiction? I remember that when reading stories with my child, I was able to slow down. Because I saw that time as “teaching time”, I took on the role of a teacher. I would follow the pages, ask questions, and patiently wait for each answer to be completed. But in everyday life, I was often one step ahead. “I don’t want to wear the green one—” “Then wear the yellow one.” I thought I had solved the problem efficiently — even democratically. Only later did I realise: It was never about the colour. It was about the hood. “Adam got a lot of Christmas presents, and—” “Christmas isn’t really about presents, it’s about—” I rushed to explain values, afraid my child might be influenced by material things. Only weeks later did I realise: At that moment, my child simply wanted to share how much fun they had playing with Adam. My child once said to me: “It’s not that I care whether I can finish a sentence. Sometimes it just feels like my thoughts aren’t even worth one minute.” That stayed with me. One minute. To let a child finish speaking — it only takes one minute. Why didn’t I wait? I began to reflect. How many of my child’s unique thoughts had I missed? If I only ever heard half of what they said, could I really understand their feelings? Perhaps I had only come to know the version of my child that I could see from my own perspective. Because I never paused to listen, I had missed the child as they truly were. Only then did I begin to understand the importance of listening. And also how difficult it is. I may never do it perfectly. But then again, life itself is a continuous process of learning.