William Blake once wrote, “If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is, infinite.” I returned to that line as I watched the children in my program shift from their lively, layered explorations of color into something that felt quieter and more distilled.
For weeks, the room had been filled with color. They had explored hue on the overhead projector, mixed pigments at the easel, and layered translucent shapes on the light table. They revisited color again and again, each time discovering something new about how colors shift, merge, and interact with light.
But then I found myself wondering:
What happens when color disappears altogether?
Would their curiosity hold? Would they feel frustrated? Would this inquiry deepen or dissolve?
And, perhaps the most important question:
What might they notice about the “absence of color” that adults often overlook?
So, I followed the wondering.
Introducing Black, White, and Everything Between
One morning, instead of offering bright paints or vivid gels, I placed several sticks of charcoal in the center of the table—simple, dusty, matte black. Next to them, I set out large sheets of bright white paper that almost glowed in the natural light.
I said nothing. I just invited them in.
Immediately, the children noticed something had changed.
“Hey! What’s this?” Jamal asked, picking up a charcoal stick between her fingertips.
“It looks like a crayon,” Ari said, “but… it’s dirty!”
A few of them giggled as the charcoal left smudges on their palms.
“It makes black!” Ella announced triumphantly after dragging it across the white paper in a bold line. Another child rubbed her finger over the line and gasped:
“It’s like smoke!”
This small observation—developmentally perfect in its poetry—opened up the room. They began rubbing, tapping, dragging, and pushing the charcoal to see what marks it could make. The charcoal crumbled, dusted, smudged, and transformed under their hands.
Aurelio held up his drawing proudly and said, “Look! It’s like the shadow in the corner!”
And that was the moment I knew the inquiry had shifted.
Revisiting as a Way of Deepening Understanding
Revisiting is not repeating.
Revisiting is returning with new eyes, new experiences, and new neural pathways.
These children had spent weeks learning that color changes when layered. Now, without any hue at all, they began noticing value—dark, light, smudged, bold, faint, strong, soft. The foundations of color theory were still present, just hidden inside the absence.
The charcoal allowed them to explore contrast in a way that was intuitive and deeply sensory. They pressed harder to make deeper blacks. They brushed lightly to make soft grays. They smudged with their palms to create gradients they excitedly called “shadow nights.”
What they were doing developmentally was meaningful:
- experimenting with pressure and control
- comparing visual differences
- linking earlier learning (shadows, light, layering) to new observations
- using language creatively to describe abstract concepts
This is what revisiting looks like in early childhood.
Not a return to sameness, but a return to possibility.
Exploring Light, Shadow, Translucency, and Opaqueness
To extend their new discoveries, I intentionally set up the light table with only white and black—nothing colorful this time. I added translucent white pieces, opaque black shapes, and a few frosted materials that blurred the light.
Again, I stood back.
Again, the children made the connections immediately.
Kia placed a translucent white tile onto the glowing surface and whispered, “It’s like the paper… but the paper has no light inside.”
Aaliyah moved his hand above the light and shouted, “Shadow! Shadow follows me!”
Ella placed an opaque black circle on top of the glowing white one and said, “Look! It turns off the light!”
Their thinking was raw, genuine, and beautifully aligned with how young children reason through physical experience.
They weren’t studying theory; they were living the properties of light.
They were discovering:
- transparent versus translucent
- light-blocking versus light-softening
- shadows as extensions of the body
- the relationship between object, light, and space
Their questions were simple but profound:
“Why does black stop the shine?”
“Where does the light go?”
“What happens if I put two whites on top?”
“Can a shadow have a shadow?”
These are the kinds of questions that come only when children revisit ideas long enough for them to become personally significant.
Remaining Flexible as an Educator
I hadn’t predicted any of this. I had simply followed the thread of their previous investigations, trusting that the children would show me where to go next.
As educators, we often talk about being co-learners, but the act of staying truly open—truly flexible—can be uncomfortable. It requires us to release our plans and trust the process. It asks us to honor the children’s thinking even when it leads into unfamiliar territory.
When I introduced black and white materials, I worried it might feel too limiting for them.
Instead, it opened their thinking further.
When I removed color from the light table, I wondered if they would ask for the rainbow pieces back.
Instead, they found new ways to play with brightness and shadow.
Remaining flexible allowed me to see that the depth was already there—the children simply needed a new doorway into it.
Where the Journey Moves Next
As I watch them continue to explore, I find myself thinking differently, too.
What does it mean to explore “nothingness” with young children?
What happens when we slow down, strip away, and offer less instead of more?
What do children reveal when given space to wonder freely in the quiet parts of an inquiry?
These children—two, three, four, and five years old—remind me daily that learning is not linear. It spirals. It circles back. It deepens. It surprises.
Revisiting is not about “doing it again.”
It is about discovering what was always there, waiting to be seen.
Call to Action
If you work with young children—or care for them, or love them—I invite you to revisit something familiar with them. Offer a simple material. Remove a colorful distraction. Change the light. Slow the moment. Watch what emerges.
Let the children show you how rich the smallest shifts can be.
And let yourself be changed by what they reveal.
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