When my son first started primary school, his Teacher-Librarian was Gandalf.
"Gandalf" by Black Zack (2018). Licensed under Creative Commons CC BY-NC-SA 2.0. Retrieved from https://flic.kr/p/2byZVG1
Gandalf was a brilliant man. He had three Master degrees under his belt and had home-schooled his own children. He would speak passionately about reading, learning and life in general to everyone who came his way. He would rub his fingers down his frosty beard and his grey eyes sparkled with possibility. He gave his knowledge away freely and generously. Always with kindness and wisdom. Always with a smile.
On any given day, Gandalf could be found in the centre of the school library, in a sectioned off area which was open to all. During break times, it was one of the busiest places in the school, brimming with the energy of discovery. Pushed against the walls were shelves, cabinets and drawers, of different sizes, colours and shapes, filled with materials, equipment and tools for students to create with. Wood, foam, cardboard, plastics, wool, paint, nails, screws, wire, glue, computers, 3D printers, circuitry - even a soldering iron or two could be found in this space. One morning, I interrupted Gandalf as he helped a student adjust the ropes and pulleys of a Rube Goldberg machine which was (naturally) tied to the ceiling. I asked him what this place was. Without missing a beat or even looking up, he chuckled, "It is our makerspace". And with that short and seemingly insignificant statement, my life hit a turning point.
I found myself spending more and more time with Gandalf and his maker space. Mostly I watched him and the students working on their various projects, sometimes individually, sometimes in groups. Occasionally on multiple projects at once. There was an energy in the makerspace that was almost tangible. The atmosphere was invigorating and addictive. The sounds and movements buzzed with purpose. Making things was clearly a serious business.
But the most interesting and exciting part of all of this was that each child was completely engaged. Each child was absorbed in the flow of making.
When in the makerspace, the children's work was meaningful and challenging. It was relevant. It was hands-on. It was authentic. Not once did I witness Gandalf tell a child what to work on, or demand that work be completed. The makers could try to make - or stop making - or not make at all - whatever they could imagine. Gandalf was merely there to support them, encourage them and guide them along the way. He was a finder and supplier of resources. A design collaborator. An adult hand when little fingers weren't steady enough. A guide on the side. A shoulder to cry on when creations fell apart. A cheer squad spurring them to keep trying. He personified all of the good parts about learning in the real world - the organic and rich type of learning which is usually experienced outside of school.
The children were voluntarily spending their spare time learning in the makerspace. Gandalf had developed a movement in the school where learning was not only fun but also desirable. He had sparked a love of learning in each and every one of those students. He had developed lifelong learners. And I had, unintentionally yet willingly, become one of them. - BJK This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.
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