This year’s Silent Journey was a smaller gathering than the one I attended two years ago, though first-timers wouldn’t have known the difference. Still, it was fabulous. I wish it were offered annually—or even twice a year—to increase attendance among parents. But given the immense effort required from staff (on a weekend, no less, between two busy school weeks), I understand why it remains a biannual event.
As I’ve attended before, I won’t revisit the full structure of the experience. Instead, I’ll share new reflections from this year’s journey. For a deeper dive into the overall format and my first impressions, you can read my 2023 blog post here.
A Brief Overview of the Event
The Silent Journey is a two-day event where parents explore every classroom in the school, from toddlers through middle school, guided by teachers (or “guides,” as they are called in Montessori education). Montessori materials are among the best in the world for fostering hands-on, student-led learning. Rather than relying on the traditional industrial-era education model of large lectures, Montessori classrooms emphasize individual exploration and small-group collaboration, with larger lessons typically reserved for older students.
Montessori schools follow a three-year cycle in each classroom: children begin as the youngest in the group, advance the next year, and spend their final year as the eldest before moving up. This structure allows for deep relationships with their guide and a natural flow in their learning. While this particular school ends at 8th grade, some Montessori schools continue through high school.
Friday Night’s Silent Walk
The first evening’s “Silent Journey” portion is about half the length of Saturday’s interactive “Discovery” portion. Parents walk through each classroom sequentially, in complete silence, without interacting with the materials. We’re given a few reflection questions to ponder, and each space speaks for itself: the organization, the learning materials, the layout.
This quiet observation period is essential. Without it—or if Friday included discussion—it would be easy for Saturday’s hands-on exploration to feel overwhelming. Parents only see these spaces occasionally, sometimes just at admissions tours or annual school events, so this silent time allows us to absorb and appreciate the environment before fully engaging.
Saturday’s Hands-On Discovery
Two years ago, I recall getting pulled into some group lessons, which were enjoyable but took me out of my natural introversion. This time, without thinking much about it, I gravitated toward solo lessons. I began the morning in the Toddler Community, carefully cleaning leaves and gluing papers—simple tasks that naturally encouraged a slow, mindful approach.
In today’s ever-distracted world, the ability to focus on one thing at a time is becoming rarer and more valuable. This is something Montessori education instills in children from the very beginning: mindfulness, presence, awareness, and the ability to work with full attention. Watching the youngest students practice this so naturally reminded me of how vital these habits are, not just for children, but for all of us.
A Missing Element: The Socratic Discussion
One change I noticed this year was the absence of the Socratic discussion I had loved in 2023. That said, I understand that the program varies each time, and I appreciate the school’s willingness to experiment. The two lessons we did have—a mathematics discussion and a hands-on STEAM project—were both excellent. The latter involved bending copper wire just right so that, when placed over a small battery and magnet, it would spin using electromagnetic force. About half of us got it to work. Mine is still sitting here on my desk, taunting me, waiting for the perfect adjustment.
The missing Socratic discussion was a loss, but the interactive lessons were a wonderful addition. The school made a great choice in trying something new, and I applaud the teachers for their engaging presentations.
Reminders from a Tulip
In one of the Lower Elementary classrooms—one my child might enter soon—I settled into a lesson on flower naming. Two small workstations sat in front of a vase of flowers, possibly arranged by the younger students. The activity was simple: take out a flower, examine its parts, and use laminated cards to label and sketch what you see.
It was a beautiful moment of slow, deliberate learning, and it reminded me of Zen in the Art of Archery. In the book, the author’s wife, as part of her cultural immersion in Japan, takes up flower arranging. Meanwhile, he learns archery, though his true lesson is not about hitting a target but about presence, practice, and patience. This is, in essence, what the Montessori method is teaching: what you learn matters, but how you learn is far more important.
Mindfulness, curiosity, and intrinsic motivation—these are the real lessons. Whether a child is studying math, language, or botany, what stays with them is the way they engage with the material. That’s what will serve them for life.
As I sketched my flower, I began numbering the parts in an order that made sense to me. My mind connected it back to my own path—the one that led me to study biology as an adult.
A Personal Reflection: Returning to My Own Lens
In my early twenties, I was at a crossroads. I had left college, was living in Hawaii, and was considering joining the military. At the same time, I was devouring books on human biology and evolution. Just before I enlisted, I read The Moral Animal, which reframed Darwin’s life through the lens of evolutionary psychology. That book was the spark—I knew I had to study biology.
I finished my degree while in the service, later pursued a master’s, and eventually left to travel before settling down to raise my child near family. But throughout my adult life, I have viewed the world through the lens of the study of life—the logos of the bio-.
This flower lesson made me realize something: my child isn’t fully aware of my love for biology. It’s a part of me, but not something I’ve consciously shared with him yet. That needs to change.
Helping My Child Find His Own Lens
A quality education should help a child find the lens through which they view the world. It doesn’t have to be science. It doesn’t have to be what I would choose.
Right now, it might be soccer. My child is already a better player than I ever was. But I tell him often: “I can coach you in ways no other coach can.” Not because I know more about soccer, but because I know him.
Through this game, I can help him understand fairness and ethics. I can teach him when to sacrifice personal glory for his team, when to shake the hand of an opponent who fouled him, when to balance humility with confidence. If soccer becomes his lens, then through it, he can learn about the world.
Or maybe it won’t be soccer at all. Maybe his lens will be something entirely different. And that’s fine, too. My role is simply to help him find it.
A Wish for More Schools to Open Their Doors
I wish we could do the Silent Journey more often. I understand the burden it places on staff, and I think all parents who attend respect that. But beyond this school, I wish more schools—especially public schools—would do something like this.
Let parents step into the world of their children’s education. Let us explore the classrooms, touch the materials, and see the lessons firsthand. Let us play and learn, even if we occasionally break something we weren’t supposed to pick up. The benefits will echo for generations.