The first time I pounded jacaranda blossoms into fabric with the children in my classroom, the air was full of laughter, color, and curiosity. The petals left faint blue natural stains—marks that seemed to whisper stories of sunlight, soil, and transformation. I remember the children’s hands, tinged purple and gold, their eyes wide with discovery.
Now, years later, I find myself on a similar journey—this time with my own toddler, in our home. We gather fallen bougainvillea petals and turmeric roots, pressing and boiling, curious about what colors might emerge. The natural stains once again tell stories—this time of home, family, and the unending cycle of learning that continues to unfold between educator and child, mother and son.
Revisiting Journeys Framework: The Parallel Journey
In Revisiting Journeys: Understand How Children Reflect, Reimagine, and Redesign Learning, Miriam Beloglovsky and I describe revisiting as a natural, dynamic process in which ideas, materials, and relationships evolve through reflection and iteration. Within this framework, one of the key pathways is the Parallel Journey—a journey that children and educators embark upon simultaneously, each exploring, testing, and transforming understanding alongside one another.
In the ink-making exploration, the children and educators shared a parallel journey. The children experimented with pounding petals, watching how flowers released their color. The educators mirrored this curiosity, researching anthocyanins, tannins, and the science behind natural pigments. Both groups were engaged in scientific thinking, though in different ways—children through embodied experimentation, and educators through reflective inquiry and intentional planning.
At home, my toddler and I have entered our own version of the Parallel Journey. His words are still few—agua, mama, papa, afuera—but his gestures speak volumes. He signs más with bright eyes when he wants to keep exploring. He grinds dried natural hibiscus petals with his tiny mortar and pestle while I stir a pot of vinegar on the stove. When the color deepens, he leans close, points, and says softly, “¡Más!”
In that moment, I hear curiosity made visible—not through sentences, but through movement, sound, and shared attention. Like the children in my classroom years ago, he leads the direction of our exploration, while I adapt, follow, and learn anew.
Revisiting as Relationship
Revisiting is not just about returning to an idea—it is about returning to one another. The act of revisiting invites us to slow down, to see how children construct knowledge through relationships with materials, with peers, and with us.
When we made natural inks in the classroom, we were reminded that children’s theories are living entities. Harper once wondered aloud, “I wonder if the flowers can make paint.” That single question opened a pathway to months of exploration, experimentation, and reflection.
At home, my toddler echoes this spirit, though not in words. He watches the petals swirl in the warm water, his fingers hovering just above the steam. He signs más again, grinning, as if to say, let’s see what happens next.
Sometimes he simply watches, silent and still, his hand resting against mine as the liquid shifts from pink to burgundy. His silence is full of language—of trust, curiosity, and connection. I can almost hear echoes of the classroom children in his gaze: the same poetic attention to transformation, the same awe for how nature reveals itself through time and touch.
Revisiting, then, becomes a bridge—between classroom and home, between educator and parent, between scientific inquiry and the quiet language of wonder.
Scientific Thinking as a Pathway for Wonder
Natural ink making is a perfect example of how scientific thinking emerges through aesthetic experience. The children’s experiments—mixing, observing, hypothesizing, testing—were rooted in the scientific process. Yet, unlike traditional science instruction, this was not about correct answers. It was about cultivating curiosity.
The children wondered about how rain affects flower color, about how boiling water changes pigment, and about why blue was the hardest hue to make. They were developing the foundational habits of scientists: noticing, questioning, testing, and revising.
At home, my toddler’s approach is simpler but no less profound. He notices when one pigment “disappears” in water or when another stains his fingers bright pink. He looks up at me, holds up his hand, and says, “Agua.” Then, with a little grin, “Más.”
His instinct is to repeat, to try again, to revisit—and that is where scientific thinking begins. Each repetition is a small hypothesis: What will happen this time? His exploration may be preverbal, but it is deeply intentional.
The Educator’s Parallel Reflection
As educators, our own revisiting journeys unfold in tandem. The more we observe, the more we question. We test methods, materials, and ideas, reflecting not only on the children’s discoveries but also on our own assumptions.
In our classroom journey, we learned to see ink making not just as a science or art project, but as a pedagogical metaphor—a way of understanding that knowledge itself is fluid, layered, and always evolving. The stains left behind by petals became a reminder that learning leaves marks—visible and invisible—on both children and educators.
At home, I find myself revisiting that same truth. My hands stain just as easily as they did years ago, but now, each mark feels like a bridge between past and present—a trace of how my own learning continues alongside my child’s. His small hands, marked by color and curiosity, remind me that discovery doesn’t wait for words; it blooms in shared attention, repetition, and joy.
Invitation to Readers
Each revisiting journey begins with a spark of curiosity—an idea, a question, or a moment of noticing.
Perhaps in your classroom, a child has wondered about shadows, gravity, or how sound travels through different materials. Maybe they’ve noticed something ordinary—like how leaves change color—and turned it into a theory worth exploring.
What if you revisited that moment? What possibilities might unfold if you followed their idea just a little further?
Revisiting is an act of trust—trusting that learning is not linear, that curiosity is contagious, and that our role as educators is not to deliver answers, but to journey alongside children as they uncover their own.
So I invite you to reflect:
What journey might be waiting for you to revisit?
What small moment of curiosity could you nurture into a long-term exploration?
And how might you join your children in their parallel journey—learning not just about the world, but with it?
Closing Reflection
Natural Ink making taught me that every stain tells a story—of time, experimentation, and connection. It reminded me that revisiting is not repetition; it’s evolution.
As educators, our most meaningful work often comes from the moments we choose to revisit—the ones that challenge us, surprise us, and invite us to see the world through children’s eyes again.
May you find the courage to revisit your own journeys—and let them color your practice in unexpected ways.
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