"This is my magic wand. It's broken. 'Cos I left it out in the rain"

. This was the news item that Billy chose when it was his turn to stand in front of his classmates as they sat expectantly on the mat. Other pupils had told us stuff like "I like my cat" and "I went shopping with my Granny". Billy's wand waved around majestically at them. This was his moment of glory, he had waited impatiently for his turn.
 "It's not broken" from Johnny.
 Billy retorted "It is broken. The light on the end can light up when you press this button, see, 'cept it's broken 'cos I left it in the rain". "What rain?" from Eliza. "The rain in my garden" from a rather irritated Billy. "Rain can't break things" from Eliza. "Yes it can, 'cos the light did light and now it is broken  'cos I left it out in the rain". A few more rounds of 'No it can't" and "Yes it can" followed, with various other pupils joining in the debate with comments on whether rain can break things. Eventually, with no prompting from me, Billy introduced the word 'battery'. The debate continued as to how rain can break a battery.

"'Cos my magic wand is full of water, and the battery won't work when it's full of water": Billy had started off his 'news' with short rather stammering sentences. All reticence is now forgotten. He is in full swing of an argument he understands himself, and wants to help his class mates to learn too. He is the teacher. He is teaching his classmates. They are learning the importance of asking the right questions.

I, their teacher, remain silent. Billy is teaching them at a level they can grasp. He is learning how to frame his words in ways they will understand. The magic wand was the catalyst. They are now embarked on a community of enquiry into the relationship between water and light, and how batteries fit into this relationship.

I really liked Samantha's question "Well if it's broken because it's full of water, why don't you just tip the water out?"

Today I met Howard again. He could smile and use appropriate facial expression. He is still handsome. He has no words.
I first met Howard in his home. He was alone, apart from the cat. His wife was at work. He was not. Prior to his diagnosis of dementia, he had been a top engineer. Since diagnosis, he had attended regular social support groups and sat on service user committees.
He was suggested to me as a person who might benefit from a sustained cognitive programme.
I took Organisation of Dots assessment task. First I needed to establish his baseline.
He had lost the ability to join the diagonal of a triangle. I taught him to do it. Again. A mere trifle for an engineer, to be able to join two dots to make a diagonal. For him and for me, an enormous effort resulted in new learning. We had proved something to each other. Howard was still able to learn. He could forge new neural pathways.
It took every ounce of effort on his part, and tremendous determinatioin to succeed. He succeeded.
His words were faltering as he led me to the door. With deliberate and rather formal tone, he said " you are the first person who's actually done anything about ...... " there was a break as he waved his arms in a searching manner ......"this"

What we had done together was not accommodate dementia. We had tackled dementia. We did not win the war, but we did win a battle. And it felt so good.
Sadly, I only worked with Howard once more. My employment changed. I moved on.
Today, I had the chance to tell him that his words to me were the inspiration I needed to train as a trainer in the cognitive programme.
I thanked him. He smiled.

"I can't believe I'm so good at it" Henry said towards the end of his music therapy session.
Henry suffered a catastrophic brain hemorrhage 3 years ago. He was unconscious for many months. As consciousness gradually returned, few shared his daughter's belief that he would walk and talk again. For many many months he lay there, tubes everywhere, no sign of the old Henry who was every body's darling. The Henry who had cared unstintingly for his wife through the trajedy of early dementia.
About a year ago, he was well enough to be able to swallow tiny amounts of food. To his great delight, the tubes came out. He could taste and feel his food again.
Today I watched in amazement as he walked down the corridor of his care home, leaning ever so lightly on the arm of his nurse. No sign of the zimmer today. He walked all the way to the therapy room. Here he played a variety of musical instruments to the sensitive accompaniment of the therapist. He grinned from ear to ear after the three of us all sang a selection of nursery rhymes - practising for when he holds his new baby grand daughter on his knee.
The change in Henry in the last few months has been astonishing.
How can we know which of all the various therapies he receives is the main catalyst?
The truth is, we can't. Not for sure.
How can we know whether the progress to regain cognitive processes would have been speedier if he had followed a course in Feuerstein's Instrumental Enrichment?
We can't.
We can hypothesise.
We can quote carefully documented research.
But in the end, each unique person, with each unique circumstance, produces a unique life experience.
I know though, if I lived nearer to where Henry is being cared for, I would most definitely be taking Organisation of Dots along with me on a regular basis - if only to hear him tell me "I can't believe I'm so good at it".

Intelligence is a static commodity. An IQ test measures it.

That was the basic tenet that Professor Reuven Feuerstein challenged. He taught youth from displacement camps how to take the IQ tests so that their scores increased. He devised his own programme to teach them how to be intelligent. He was a catalyst for change. Their futures changed.

This was how Instrumental Enrichment began, in the late 1940s. His work was, and still is, totally child centred. He believed that the system he was instructed to use by the government of his day did not suit the children in front of him.

He taught the children that they could change. He showed them how to be in charge of their own developing cognitive processes.

And in doing so, he began, ever so slowly, to change a system.

Honey bees are clever. They can make honey. Man can't. They can make wax. Man can't. (At least not such good wax) If a bee wakes up one morning and says to itself "I am fed up with honey. I fancy marmalade" there is absolutely no chance. Honey for ever.
An attention grabbing start to a lesson on cognition.
My students have to believe that they can change.To recognise it. To feel the joy of  change. To know it will bring great satisfaction.
If their cognition is to grow, it must involve change. For some students, the prospect of change is daunting. For some it is frightening. For others it is exciting. Hey ho! The wonder of teaching.

Feuerstein's Instrumental Enrichment (FIE) is a programme of paper and pencil tasks that build cognitive processes through the mediation of a trained adult.
It is a programme that I stumbled across in a series of TV programmes in 1995 called ''The Transformers".
Over a decade later, I am using the theories and materials of Professor Reuven Feuerstein to transform the lives of students I work with. In the process, my own life is enriched with their successes.