During my project in Colombia, I taught English through creativity and movement, which gradually evolved over time. The project included children of different ages, but in this blog I focus on one group, aged six to eight. Their energy, curiosity, and willingness to play shaped how the sessions unfolded each day.
The first thing I noticed in Colombia was the noise, joyful, unstoppable noise.
The children in Fredonia came bursting through the door, chattering in Spanish, full of stories and energy. They didn’t want to sit in a circle; they wanted to dance in one.
And so, I stopped trying to contain them.
Instead, I joined their flow, weaving English words into movement, using yoga as a bridge rather than a boundary. The body became a second language; movement, the grammar of understanding.
The Girl Who Liked Being “Mean”
One afternoon, a group of children gathered around me to complain that one of the girls was “mean.”
“She’s always mean,” they said.
When I asked why, the girl shrugged, half-smiling: “I’m mean because I like it.”
Before I could speak, another child turned to her and said, “You might like it, but others don’t.”
Then another added softly, “Nobody wants to be your friend if you’re mean.”
Silence fell.
I looked at her gently and asked, “If you like being mean, but your friends stop playing with you… who will you be mean to?”
The room stayed still for a long time. Then we practised saying, “I’m sorry,” “I forgive you,” “Let’s be kind,” in English.
The next week, she was different, calmer, kinder, helping others tidy up. The group even clapped for her.
I didn’t plan to teach empathy that day; it just unfolded, like language does, when we listen.
Learning Through Movement and Play
As the weeks went on, the children began inventing their own games.
They’d act them out in Spanish and gestures, and I’d gently introduce the English words: “jump,” “breathe,” “together,” “smile.”
Rather than correcting, I scaffolded: guiding without taking over.
They learned English not by memorising, but by embodying. Their joy became the lesson plan.
Over the weeks, children would insist on showing me yoga shapes during storytelling or play. As they moved, they began attaching words to the shapes, first individual words, then short chunks, and eventually simple phrases.
Parents later shared that the children would sometimes shout out English words at home when they recognised something on TV, especially during cartoons, small echoes of the class, finding their way into everyday life.
The Magic of Stillness
Stillness didn’t come easily.
The first time I dimmed the lights and invited them to breathe, they fidgeted, giggled, peeked under their scarves. They weren’t used to slowing down.
We used scarves, paper, and breath to play with air; to see movement in stillness.
Through these playful and sensorial activities, and simple mindfulness exercises, children slowly began to experience moments of calm and stillness.
Over time, during the sessions, they began to join in naturally, embracing moments of quiet and calm.
When the Village Joins In
By the final weeks, the project had become more than a class, it was a small community.
Parents helped organise excursions and contributed materials.
We started dreaming about taking our mindfulness outdoors: to the coffee farms, the hilltops, the sound of wind.
The children’s learning became everyone’s learning.
Closing Reflection
I noticed patterns that echoed ideas explored by educators and psychologists. The initial bursts of energy, playful and chaotic, reminded me of Rollo May’s notion that unstructured energy can be a precursor to authentic creativity.
As the children suggested games and shaped activities, it became clear that freedom works best when guided: a balance of autonomy and support reminiscent of the Reggio Emilia approach, where learning is co-constructed and everyone participates.
Moments of teasing, frustration, or hesitation revealed the shadows of their emerging selves, in the way Carl Jung described: even negative impulses hold meaning when expressed safely.
Through play, children practiced language, shared rules, and negotiated meaning, reflecting Vygotsky’s idea that social interaction and guided participation help learners build understanding.
And as they explored, imagined, and embodied ideas together, I saw something akin to Winnicott’s concept of “play reality”, the space in which learning, empathy, and creativity grow simultaneously.
Teaching in Fredonia reminded me that freedom takes practice.
When children are used to rules, silence, and correction, freedom can feel like chaos at first. But with time and care, that chaos becomes creativity.
The children learned English words, but also new ways of being kind, of listening, of breathing together, and expressing their emotions and ideas.
And I learned that the most fluent language of all is joy.