The Rudolf Steiner Archive

4. The Child's The Child's Disposition, Talents, and Upbringing, Talents, and Upbringing

[ 1 ] Ladies and gentlemen! If one were to consider today—perhaps as an outsider—the spirit and way of thinking of spiritual science—or, as it is commonly called, theosophy—and attempts to form a judgment, based on the conceptual habits of our time, about what constitutes the distinctive character of this spiritual science or theosophy, then as an outsider one can very easily arrive at the judgment—which is, in a certain sense, justified—that spiritual science is something that conjures up lofty ideals before the human soul: ideals that point toward certain insights—perhaps the outsider will say, supposed insights—concerning the human soul, nature, and the spirit. And as an outsider, one might say to oneself: Well, these ideas, these insights, are indeed very beautiful; they satisfy the human soul’s longing for inner certainty, and so it is understandable that many, driven by this thirst, profess their belief in theosophy. — And when those who have something to say in spiritual science express what they know about the world of phenomena—and what goes beyond what our natural science (which spiritual science admires) has to say—the outsider may say to himself: Yes, what the spiritual scientist has to say about natural phenomena sounds fanciful. — The fantastical element is something that must strike the outsider first and foremost. Anyone immersed in spiritual science will find it utterly understandable that the outsider perceives so much fantasy in spiritual science. Anyone who wishes to stand firmly on the ground of natural science can really only say: “I can’t make sense of this.” — That is quite understandable. Let us now consider, by way of comparison, a person who has delved somewhat deeper into theosophy, who has familiarized themselves with what truly presents itself to the striving soul, who has educated themselves about what the human soul and the human spirit are; if we contrast this person with the other, we can see feelings of a completely different kind welling up within them. Such a person can turn their gaze to what our present age, based on its scientific views, has to say about the purpose, goal, and value of spiritual life and its role in practical work. And to those deeply immersed in spiritual science, what the materialistic mindset has to say about individual branches of spiritual life sometimes really does seem quite fanciful. One need only listen to what is being proposed in the field of education and pedagogy. To the spiritual researcher, this seems like a collection of clichés, of empty words; one can survey the broad scope of what constitutes pedagogical cultural endeavors and will find that all manner of fine words feature prominently there. Who has not heard the saying that one should avoid anything that amounts to forcing ideas into the human soul, since the goal is, after all, the development of human individuality? But who can say anything other than fanciful, empty words if they cannot grasp, through correct insights, what human individuality actually is? Compared to spiritual science, materialistic science appears as a sum of abstractions; it seems unrealistic. And if you cannot convince yourself that spiritual science is not only concerned with cultivating practical life, but that it is capable of realistically getting to the bottom of things, [then you are misjudging the significance of knowledge grounded in reality for practical life].

[ 2 ] When we reflect on the growing child—whose education is our responsibility—through the lens of spiritual science, we are overcome by the feeling, as this child finds its way into life, that we are faced with a sacred mystery in this being, one that we can only unravel with deep reverence. We sense in every growing soul that there is something within it that differs from everything we see. We sense something unknown in the developing human being, and we are right. Our reverence and awe cannot be great enough when we face the task of raising a child, nor can our humility before every being that always presents itself to us as a new mystery be great enough. I would not dare to speak of this if I had devoted myself exclusively to spiritual science. But I dare to speak of it because, during my fifteen years as an educator, I have felt these sacred mysteries myself.

[ 3 ] From the perspective of modern man, it is child’s play—perhaps not only to mock but also, with the semblance of righteousness, to refute the fantastical idea of human reincarnation, the idea of the human soul reappearing in a new life. Today, we shall speak of this idea of reincarnation only by pointing out that our soul, which is currently living out the time between birth and death in our body, has already lived through many lives, and that we are living through this present life as a cause in order to later experience its effects and fruits. It is easy to refute this idea theoretically. The matter takes on a different aspect when one is immersed in the practical work of education and observes, with the right feelings, the child’s soul growing and developing from week to week, from year to year. If one approaches this with the intention of educating properly, one must tell oneself: You must intervene in what has been laid down over millennia. — And when one views every expression of the child and takes every measure from this perspective, one sees how fruitful education is. Anyone familiar with the laws of so-called logical refutation knows how little a theoretical refutation actually means. But when one acts in accordance with this view, one senses its truth.

[ 4 ] However, one is actually faced with a rather difficult task when trying to grasp what is developing within the soul of the unborn child. Everyone is aware of the purely external facts. But who among us has not experienced in life how powerless the educator often is when certain tasks are imposed from the outside by laws or by the demands of parents—how powerless he feels when the tasks assigned contradict the child’s innate dispositions and talents? Who among us has not felt and seen in life that, no matter how hard we try, we often cannot achieve anything if the child’s natural gifts do not align with our efforts? How often does life show us how powerless we are—not only because of the child’s lack of natural gifts, but also because of our own lack of insight.

[ 5 ] We have tried to educate the child; however, it is not immediately apparent when we have educated him or her incorrectly. When we follow a student’s later life, we often notice something peculiar—namely, that he or she must later wrest talent and aptitude from his or her soul through difficult struggles. And we realize: Had we recognized these, we would have been a source of support for him; we would have spared him much effort in achieving what only came to fruition later. And we realize how necessary it is to focus our attention on this difficult question: What is the state of the child’s aptitudes and talents, and how should we approach the tasks of education?

[ 6 ] Even regarding these fundamental questions, there is understandably a great deal of confusion today, for there are widely held, suggestive ideas and concepts that, with understandable inevitability, have a numbing effect on people, and such concepts guide the entire human mindset. One such concept is that of heredity. Who, when speaking of a child’s predispositions and talents, would not first think: What of this has been inherited from the parents and ancestors? — I have already pointed out here that Goethe once, with very understandable modesty, uttered the following words, which nevertheless stem from deeper insights:

From my father I inherited my build, A serious approach to life, From my dear mother, her cheerful nature And a love of storytelling.

[ 7 ] And after discussing a few more inheritance arrangements, he concludes with the words:

So what exactly about all this

can be called “original”?

[ 8 ] Future generations have already provided some answers to this, and future generations yet to come will provide further answers.

[ 9 ] Anyone who has studied Goethe for a little more than twenty years surely has the right to speak about him impartially. With all due respect to the Frankfurt councilman from whom Goethe inherited “the stature and serious conduct of life”! And when one observes his mother’s lively, affectionate way of looking at life and interacting with people, one also realizes what Goethe means when he speaks of what he inherited from his mother: “her cheerful disposition and delight in storytelling.” Try to add all of this up and see what comes of it. When one adds up and reflects on all these inherited traits, one will find: precisely what Goethe could not inherit was what was effective—that was the true Goethe himself; that was what the guiding forces allowed to flow in. These forces used the inherited traits that presented themselves to them to express [what was unique about him].

[ 10 ] And just as it is with great, significant individuals, so it is with every single person. One cannot make sense of it all if one tries to attribute everything to heredity and fails to take into account the individuality that unfolds according to its own laws. For those who view this life with an open mind, the question of how what we may attribute to our ancestors—what is visibly present—relates to the individual is by no means any simpler. Spiritual science does not deny what is inherited. But how does spiritual science view what is woven into the inherited? After all, heredity can be seen everywhere. There are people who say that when new characteristics appear that we do not find in our ancestors, one can still think in terms of heredity, because the predispositions one has inherited may have been present in other ancestors, only they had no opportunity to develop them. This is something that is often said. When people speak this way, they really have a rather vague notion of predispositions. That is not realistic; one can project concepts onto anything. Such people strike me as someone who says: Every brick has the predisposition to fall on a person’s head. — Only there has to be a person there [onto whom the brick can fall]. Anyone who thinks realistically cannot speak of predispositions in this way.

[ 11 ] It is the task of true pedagogy to clearly distinguish what is hereditary from what is not. In fact, since it is popular today to explore the animal kingdom, one could already form a picture of heredity. A chicken egg contains what is hereditary, but heat must be supplied from the outside. Thus we see that heat is an essential prerequisite, one that does not lie within the embryo itself. Nevertheless, a superficial observation shows that in animals, certain traits are hereditary, whereas in humans we must certainly also speak of non-hereditary traits. Consider how, in animals, what we call instinct is undoubtedly present from the very beginning—and so clearly so that it must lie within the line of inheritance; and the animal is a species-being in that it passes on all the characteristics that it possesses in greater abundance than humans do, for example, in terms of dexterity. In this respect, humans are at a disadvantage compared to animals. When humans are humble, they tend to interpret concepts in terms of humility; when they are arrogant, they tend to interpret them in terms of arrogance. And when they are arrogant, they are inclined to say that animals are far inferior to humans. In such an absolute sense, this is not true. Anyone can read about how civilization has developed and how long it took human intelligence to arrive at, for example, the production of paper. Wasps have been making paper for a long time. Thus, when we turn our attention to the animal kingdom, we can see the exercise of intelligence being realized directly through instinct. One might conclude from this that humans are not actually any more intelligent than animals.

[ 12 ] There are certain things that humans simply cannot inherit. Everyone will admit that the art of building a wasp nest is inherited. But no one should doubt that a person who is cast into a wilderness will never acquire language or self-awareness. Language and human self-consciousness cannot be inherited; they are not transmitted through the forces inherent in the hereditary line; they must always be learned anew. Thus, outward appearances teach us that the most important things are not to be judged as they are in the animal kingdom. Nevertheless: Who would deny that there are indeed things that are inherited? Who would deny that? When Schopenhauer says that he inherited much of his intellectual nature from his mother and his volitional nature from his father—who would deny that there is something important and true in this, even if it is expressed awkwardly? Thus we see that human beings actually come into existence with inherited traits, and our task is now to distinguish, from among these inherited traits, what is not inheritable. Experience shows this. Now someone might say: We are happy to admit that—language and self-consciousness cannot be inherited—but we don’t need to make such a subtle distinction, because that regulates itself; if a person is born into a particular linguistic region, then it will simply follow [that he speaks that language].

[ 13 ] But are there perhaps non-hereditary traits that we must first draw out from the deeper sources of human individuality? It is not quite so easy to distinguish these dispositions and talents—which lie at the core of human nature and are not based on heredity—from inherited characteristics. Certainly, it is heredity when seven musicians emerge from the Bach family. Yet anyone who takes a practical approach to education will have no choice but to separate the inner core of being from what is inherited. One must be completely clear about how hereditary factors manifest themselves in life. We see, when a child is born, that it resembles the father more or the mother more, that it has certain characteristics that point to the mother and certain characteristics that point to the father. Anyone who observes life with an open mind will soon notice that there is indeed a difference between what is passed on to the children from the father and what is passed on from the mother. Of course, the influences intermingle, but one can still distinguish between what is of maternal origin and what is of paternal origin. And when one looks more deeply, it becomes clear how the two contributions are distributed: It becomes evident that everything we see in terms of inherited traits—and everything related to the quality of intelligence or judgment, to the agility of intelligence or judgment—can be traced back to certain characteristics of the mother. And those qualities that can be summarized by saying: the firmness of character, the strength and the power to face life head-on—everything in a son or daughter that is of a volitional nature—can be traced back to the father’s qualities. I am not saying that the child’s intelligence stems from the mother’s intelligence, but rather that the child’s intelligence stems from certain aspects of the mother’s intelligence, and the child’s strength of character stems from certain aspects of the father’s character.

[ 14 ] If one examines these matters more closely, it soon becomes apparent that there are, in fact, significant differences both in the course of the parents’ lives and in the characteristics of the child’s life—particularly with regard to whether a child is, so to speak, an “early” child of the marriage or a “late” one. If a child is born later in the marriage, they display a very different relationship with their parents to the educator than if they were born when the parents were still young. Observation shows that in children born late in the marriage, the traits of the mother or father—those that, in a certain sense, have already been fully expressed in their professional lives—are more pronounced, and one sees the parents’ influence much more clearly in these children. There is much greater intellectual flexibility, and the character is much less rigidly defined. It is interesting to take these facts into account when considering the child, for we must bear them in mind and ask ourselves: What is it that heredity carries?

[ 15 ] Heredity is a process that takes place in the physical world. What is inherited? That which has truly become part of the physical body is inherited. When we say that the qualities of intelligence are inherited, we must understand that in the child, what appears [as inherited] is that which is bound to the physical body—for example, the brain. Because we receive this, so to speak, as an instrument, it is natural that we exhibit inheritable characteristics. We inherit the inner structure of our organs and must adapt to it. Thus it is understandable—because our organs are inherited—that we are dependent on them. Here is a somewhat crude comparison: If one is born without a hand, one sees how dependent one is on it. Essentially, it is always the physical aspect that comes into play when we speak of heredity, as I have just done. And from this crystallizes what appears to practical observation of life as an individual core—one that we do not understand when we trace it back to hereditary factors.

[ 16 ] The child displays a certain flexibility of intelligence and judgment. We look at the mother and must say: There lie the origins. — We study the child’s character by looking at the father, and thus gain insight into the child’s character. But then something peculiar remains as a residue—and that is the most important thing for the educator. Only when the educator brings this into harmony with heredity can everything [that happens in the child’s upbringing] be successful. The judgments that develop have characteristics that point back to the mother. But within this type of judgment, there are indications of very specific spheres of life that cannot be traced back to the mother. Within the mother’s characteristics, one child, for example, shows a predisposition toward music, while another shows a predisposition toward mathematics. And it is a grave mistake to assume that we can direct intelligence in any direction we choose. The nature of intelligence is hereditary, but the specific direction—the aptitude for this or that—is revealed through the nature of intelligence, yet it is not hereditary. As educators, our task is to observe the mother and understand the flexibility of intelligence—for example, why the child must think slowly or quickly. But we must also understand the inclination toward this or that, toward what is specifically individual.

[ 17 ] In another respect, the strength of character and firmness of will—traits inherited from the father—are clearly evident to us, and we recognize this in the child when we look at the father. But there is one thing we cannot understand in this way. Something emerges before us, crystallizing like a core: the direction of interest toward which this character is oriented. We see this direction of interest in one child, that direction in another—they are specifically individual.

[ 18 ] And if we proceed wisely as educators, we will ask: What are the mother’s judgmental traits, and what are the father’s character traits? — But if we want to educate properly, we must know the direction of the character’s interests and the direction of the intellect. It is very easy to confuse these. This is why, in a family where a child takes particularly after the father, the father has a hard time raising the child. And conversely, where the child takes particularly after the mother, the mother has a hard time. Children who take after their father are more easily raised by their mother. Children who take after their mother are more easily raised by their father. If a child takes after the father, it has the father’s impulses of will; the father cannot impart the direction of interests, but the talents manifest within the mother’s sphere. One consequence is that the father will have little understanding of the child in this area; the child’s character will be shaped by the father himself, and the child’s talents will be best nurtured by the mother. Conversely, if the child takes after the mother, the mother will find it difficult to direct the child’s interests; the father will be able to do so:

Talent takes shape in silence,
Character is forged in the flow of the world.

[ 19 ] Talents are nurtured by a mother’s tenderness; character is shaped by a father’s firmness. That is a golden rule.

[ 20 ] As a rule, people do not present themselves to us as a clear blend of the traits inherited from their father and mother; rather, it is usually the case that either the paternal or the maternal influence comes to the fore. This gives rise to principles of extraordinary importance for the educator. Suppose the maternal element predominates; then we often see that the child appears to take after the mother in an outstanding way, and it will be easy to discern the specific talent within this abundance of intelligence. But if the paternal element is suppressed, then it becomes truly difficult for us to identify the particular area of interest within the suppressed paternal genetic heritage. As educators, we must therefore focus on what heredity has failed to provide; we must pay particular attention to the father—whether he himself is laid-back or steadfast—and then make up for what has been lacking in the child’s genetic makeup. We can do this by directing our attention to the opposite side. We will soon discover the talents and abilities, but what is lacking in heredity, we must make up for through education.

[ 21 ] What should the educator do? Here something infinitely important comes into play: If the educator sees that what can be inherited from the father is not sufficiently well-defined, then he must work to ensure that the child’s talents and gifts are not left to develop without guidance. He must work to direct the child’s attention toward activities and tasks that correspond to his or her talents. Talents must be linked to external objects. Interests must be awakened. A child who takes after the mother must be especially accustomed to having objects in their environment that correspond to their talents, to which we direct their attention. However, we must not follow the principle: “The child has their aptitudes, so let them follow them.”

[ 22 ] Let us now assume that a child takes after his father in particular; in that case, it becomes difficult for us to discern his talents, abilities, and aptitudes. In contrast, his interests then present themselves to us with an extraordinarily strong impulse of will. This interest will manifest itself in the intensity of the child’s desire. And we must be especially careful to recognize that we cannot always infer the correct talent from the direction of the child’s interests. In such a case, we must above all focus our attention on studying the child’s interests in the right way. But if we allow interests to develop for which no talent exists, we harm the child. Whatever manifests as a quality of the soul but does not correspond to any talent reverberates back into the soul. This is a constant source of illness that disrupts the physical nervous system. Many such disorders can be traced to a failure to harmonize interests with talents and aptitudes. It will become apparent—and this is extraordinarily instructive to observe—how certain interests manifest impulsively but lead to clumsiness, while others, on the contrary, lead to dexterity. Far too little attention is paid to this. But one should carefully distinguish between different interests. And then, as an educator, one has the task of keeping at bay whatever would lead that interest toward clumsiness.

[ 23 ] The best way to handle this is to ask yourself: What is the father like, and what is the mother like? — and then carefully examine what emerges as the crystalline core within the father’s and mother’s genetic legacy. In this sense, we can say that upbringing must truly be grounded in a kind of insight and not in the cliché: “You must raise your child harmoniously!”—or: “Take individuality into account!”—Indeed, how can one raise a child harmoniously if one does not know where their interests lie? How can one emphasize individuality if one does not know how to identify what is specifically individual?

[ 24 ] Now, this is only one aspect of education. Human beings are not placed in the world for their own sake, but for the sake of humanity. We cannot simply take into account what appears to be inherited in the child. The educator will soon realize that the law of karma expresses a profound, harmonious relationship in spiritual scientific terms. You can easily observe out there [in nature] how a being is placed where it belongs. The edelweiss does not grow in the lowlands, but on mountain peaks. Every being grows into its environment and cannot thrive where it does not fit in. So it is with the human soul, which settles into the “environment” to which it belongs. Things harmonize better than one might think. That is why talents also harmonize quite well with the mother, and interests quite well with the father. Nevertheless, we must turn our attention to something else. Human beings are not designed to speak their own language, but rather that of the community into which they are born. This is what defines the human species. Thus, through the common language, the entire way of thinking and feeling penetrates the soul.

[ 25 ] This can already be observed in broad terms. Try comparing the soul of a Franconian with that of a West Prussian, and try to understand how their respective ways of thinking and feeling influence them. This is true of everything into which a human being is placed in accordance with their nature and species. If we educate consciously, we must realize that we are not merely educating the individual. Just as we cannot give a child their own language, we as educators cannot create something special for each child. Human nature is such that a person integrates into what exists within the cultural process. Human beings must be educated into that which belongs to humanity; they must take root in it. If we bear this in mind, we will say to ourselves: In the face of these elements, we seem to be completely powerless. — When we look at a child’s gifts and the demands of life, it might seem impossible to us to bring harmony into this situation.

[ 26 ] [Only a close observation of human beings can help us here]. I would like to describe two children to you, [presenting them as examples]. One was born into an environment where a particular language was spoken. He grew up with this language; it has become part of his soul—a part of his entire inner being. Anyone who has reflected on language in relation to the human being will know: Through language, a person learns not only to judge logically, but also to judge through feeling. For example, the way the “a” or “u” sound functions in any given language has an immense effect on the soul’s capacity for feeling. Language provides a “skeletal framework” for feelings and sensations. Let us place beside this child—who is so intimately interwoven with his language that he has learned not only to think in it but also to “be” through it—another child who, by a twist of fate, is forced, having barely learned his mother tongue, to learn and make his own another language. We will then observe how his inner life is much more fluid, much less firmly grounded within himself. I would say that a language that acts as a “skeleton” for the soul produces more robust personalities. A language that the soul wears like a “clothing” makes the soul more fluid, less firmly grounded. The result is that the soul of such a child is much more easily affected; it cannot face the external influences of life with the same resilience.

[ 27 ] If we set aside the question of language for a moment, this can still teach us that it is of great importance for education that what later becomes the guiding principle of education and the purpose of life builds upon what came before. Any abrupt changes in education cause immense damage to the inner life. One of the greatest harms to the inner life is a failure to build upon what has gone before. In contrast, consciously building upon the past has a wonderful effect. If you have a child with a weak character and you sit down with him often and begin, quite imperceptibly, to talk about what he did three years ago—then you can reprimand him much more effectively than in the present moment; by directing his thoughts toward the past, you can strengthen his present behavior. One can make the gravest mistakes when, in a fit of anger, one immediately lashes out at the child with punishments and reprimands. When the incident is fresh, it’s easy to make mistakes. Life is not without contradictions; one cannot help but make mistakes, but they can be corrected. If you feel compelled to punish, sit down with the child and talk about a past misbehavior; the child has moved past it and no longer feels the weight of the past as strongly. Emotions dull over time; they follow a very different path than thoughts and memory. It becomes clear that we can discuss past events objectively, and the more often we do so—refreshing their memory and turning our attention to the past—the more we can contribute to the development of their character.

[ 28 ] These are individual rules that become apparent to the impartial observer. However, one needs the perspective of the humanities to correctly group the details. But then one can understand this and derive important principles from it. One is compelled to look not only at the individual, but also at the bigger picture. But then one must look for harmony between the individual, unique nature and general human nature. By looking back to the past, one can cultivate a certain sympathy. One will encounter great difficulties in reconciling the child’s selfishness with the demands of the environment, but if one looks back on earlier experiences, one realizes how the child responds to them. The educator must reconcile the past with the present. They must ensure that what is needed to bring the individual into harmony with the demands of all humanity is achieved by drawing on past experiences. The more you draw on the child’s earlier experiences, the better you will educate them.

[ 29 ] So we must seek out those things that are good for raising children. In particular, it is wrong to leave obvious talents undeveloped, thereby placing the child in constant conflict with their surroundings. All of these are causes of illness. Suppressed talents and interests seep into the human psyche and can later manifest as mental illnesses. We commit a sin against a person’s health when we leave their natural aptitudes undeveloped and their interests unutilized. And we are equally wrong when we fail to take into account the need for adaptation to the environment. If we fail to do this, then what appears as a conflict between the child’s soul and the demands of life is reflected back into the soul and is experienced as a deep sense of dissatisfaction in life. And when it comes to all those people who walk through life constantly lamenting, “My soul is in such turmoil”—then the connoisseur of the soul must say to himself: “Yes, there are interests that should rightfully have been nurtured; there are talents that should have been developed, and this was neglected. And that is why the person cannot come to terms with finding their place in life and remains dissatisfied.”

[ 30 ] One could very easily say: What you’re describing pertains to the more intimate qualities of the soul, which can be discovered within intelligence and the direction of the will. — But these are precisely the most important things for the educator; it is here that the core of the soul is revealed, and it is here that he can cause the most harm. Why? The interests and talents we nurture initially lead to a certain agility of judgment, and by the age of thirty, this manifests as dexterity of the fingers and hands. If someone who is thirty years old handles something clumsily, this points back to the time around his seventh year, when he had not yet learned the agility of thought. And the apathy that sets in when we fail to develop these interests manifests itself as carelessness in all practical tasks. Above all, one must note that it is precisely in these qualities that the child’s individual essence is expressed.

[ 31 ] The humanities scholar will recommend that the child be kept occupied, but in a way that happens through play. Why does the child play, and why should it play? I want to mention something from later life. You are familiar with a phenomenon in life: fatigue. Where does fatigue come from? You will often be told that it appears in the evening when the muscles are worn out. Is it true that muscles, by their very nature, can enter a state of fatigue? If that were the case, then the muscles that move your heart would have to come to a standstill from fatigue. It is not in the nature of a muscle to become tired. The muscle does what it is supposed to do; it does not get tired. The heart muscle remains unaffected by external activity. Fatigue occurs only when you ask your muscle to do something related to the outside world—something connected to a conscious action. One could say: A lack of harmony between our muscles and the demands of the external world causes fatigue. This is true: Fatigue arises because the internal organization is not in harmony with the external world. It indicates that a certain contradiction exists between the external world and the internal organization.

[ 32 ] I simply want to draw attention to one thing: We must be clear that the human cultural process by no means can proceed solely according to innate laws, such that it corresponds only to the inner [physical] organization. The essence of human soul life is not directed toward the preservation of the species, but toward the development of the soul-spiritual. Two currents are expressed here: the progress [of this soul-spiritual] and what constitutes inner [physical] organization. It is written in the eternal laws of existence that human beings must sacrifice the purely organic laws to the spiritual laws. Anyone who sees through these things will not complain about them. But they will find it understandable that, on the other hand, a balance is necessary. We must be properly prepared for life so that we can grasp external things with our hands and think about external things with our minds. A balance must be established, and this is achieved only when, at certain times, we are able to engage in an activity that is not directed toward the external world but is content with the activity itself.

[ 33 ] In play, human nature follows what is called for here. We serve the child best when we tailor play to the individual; in this way, we strengthen the inner self. If play is structured in a formulaic way, people will see for themselves what the consequences are. After all, people today want to fit everything into a mold; not even when it comes to clothing are they willing to admit that it is tailored to individuality. It is a fundamental trait of contemporary culture that, for example, even those who are the most ardent followers of Nietzsche—[that is, the most ardent individualists]—still allow themselves to be served a meal together at a “table d’hôte.” We must not allow this to seep into education, especially not in play. We must organize play in such a way that we foster individuality, that we pay careful attention to the talents and interests of this or that child; otherwise, we commit a sin.

[ 34 ] This can lead us to the realization that, as practical educators, it is necessary for us to believe in the spiritual aspect of the child and not in the muscles, which are supposed to have the strength to counteract their wear and tear. The spiritual-soul aspect should be independent during play; the physical aspect should not interfere, so that the child can be free from the “exhausting” influence of the outside world while playing. If we do not believe in an inner, self-liberating soul being, then we cannot educate in a practical way. But if one approaches this in a truly practical way, one can gain another significant insight; one will also be able to recognize that it is necessary, during childhood, to be free from the coarse, material laws of the outside world. The earlier these laws are imposed on the child, the more they bring about a situation that does not allow for free activity in play. Childhood needs truths that do not slavishly adhere to what exists in the external world; it needs truths that it can embrace with heart and soul. That is why we should give fairy tales and myths to the child’s soul; in this way, we bring about the liberation of the soul through inner truths. Humanity did this in the past out of a sound instinct, and in our time it will be necessary to give this greater consideration.

[ 35 ] Now one might ask: Yes, how does the educator acquire these special talents? — It is not that difficult, for what I have already mentioned is essentially what defines the educator, and to a very comprehensive degree: a sacred reverence for that which strives to emerge as the individual core of a human being. If we have this sacred reverence for what has been developing over millennia—and in whose development we must assist—then a sense of responsibility arises that brings us joy; that is to say, it has a certain quality: it makes us “genius” educators. The educator often has no idea why he is doing the right thing. The child itself tells him what it needs. What is essential in the teaching profession is love, which is characterized by our learning to love the sprouting of the child’s innate capacities; and we shall see what love can accomplish in the spirit. In outward life, love may often be blind. When love relates to inner development, it opens the soul, for behind this love there is always a powerful faith—the faith that truly enables us to view life in its proper sense, and that reveals to us the human being placed within a world of both spiritual and sensory life, between which we must establish a connection. In the child, we see the descent of the spirit, the union of the spirit with the physical body. And when we see in the child how the spirit unites with the physical body, then our educational work can become an expression of what we might call the true faith in life, which may be expressed in the words:

It presses upon human consciousness
Mysteriously from the depths of the world
The rich abundance of matter,
It flows from the heights of the world
Deep into the soul, full of meaning
The clarifying light of the spirit.
They are found within the human being
As a reality full of wisdom.