“Okay, time to go back to the real world!”

These were the parting words from one of our students a few weekends ago. The response from the rest of the room? Several sympathetic chuckles, and a few knowing sighs. Indeed, it was time to drive home, make dinner, and attend to the regular rhythms of our daily living.

If not in the real world, where had we been for the last 8 hours?

We had arrived as a group of strangers, writing name tags, and offering the expected assortment of morning greetings and introductions. By lunch time, we knew each other’s names and stories. And by day’s end, our work together had transformed us into a collective of curious problem solvers, neighbors, and friends. We had learned something new, spending the day fully immersed in the craft and stretching ourselves in new directions. As we wrapped up the class, it was striking the way we’d cracked open entirely, discovering new belief in ourselves and in one another.

Whether inoculating logs with mushroom spawn, partnering up for improv scenes, or tackling a sewing project side by side, Green Door Folk School classes provide a space where we can try something for the first time, learn new skills, ask questions, and meet people that share our sense of wonder.

The act of making itself is quietly radical, altering our sense of time and self. We learn about transforming plants and soil into rich ecosystems, or watch as fluffy tufts of wool shrink and contort into firm fabric, and branches turn into sleek, curved utensils. We lose ourselves in the process of creation, finding ourselves deeply rooted into the community of the classroom and the collective task of crafting together. Vulnerability and shared learning experiences lend themselves to openness. Conversation flows easily as the making begins, and we find ourselves surrounded by supportive and encouraging classmates. Ideas are shared, challenges are met with collective problem solving, and connections are forged amidst the making.

Cheers have erupted as classmates take turns stepping forward to stir a pot of compost preparations for biodynamic farming. Careful moments of council have been sought regarding whether a felted piece looked more like a fish or a rodent. Gentle reminders have been given to truly say, “yes, and” during the improv game, and “wait” has been shrieked over the start of a chainsaw to ensure that a fellow student received a pair of earplugs. These are students that trust one another, look out for each other, and work together.

In addition to the relationships we build, it is the time we have, during these folk classes, to focus on the making that continues to transform us. While a two hour workshop might conveniently fit into your regimented schedule of grocery shopping, emails, and driving around town for various appointments, long-form classes require a pause. The work of slowing down and returning to your body begins here, signing up for something you “don’t have time for.” Once you’ve arranged your schedule to find yourself in the community of a Green Door Folk School class, it is like time has stopped altogether. You experience something rare, spending the majority of a day focusing on just one thing.

Being in this setting for an entire day, or even an entire weekend, does something remarkable to our minds. We’re rewiring pathways in our brains, and changing the narratives that hold us back from exploration, play, and true connection to ourselves and our surroundings. It is valuable to pause and disrupt our habits and routines. New people, places, and experiences stretch our brains and improve our cognitive functioning. We have the time to pause, create, and engage with one another, hands-on and face to face. This kind of environment is exceedingly rare in our world of constant notifications, distraction, and immediacy. Indeed, it might feel like we are packing a bag lunch and taking a field trip to another world entirely.

The reality is that everything we’re learning in a folk school class is relevant to the real world. Yes, we’re gaining valuable craft skills that connect us to cultural traditions; but within these lessons on knife carving grips and stitching techniques, we’re also learning skills that will make us better community members. The folk school is preparation for real life, not an escape from it. We navigate breaking projects down into smaller steps, and practice collective problem solving. Often, students begin to offer suggestions and insight to one another as the class progresses.

We also practice listening to one another, and sharing about ourselves. At the beginning of each class, students are asked to share some of their interest in the craft. It often takes a while before someone is prepared to speak, but as the day goes on, students become storytellers, revealing deep connections to the crafts at hand. Students instinctively pause to take breaks, walking away from their projects to stretch or peer out the window. There is laughter when things don’t go as planned, and encouragement offered when trying again. We’re learning the skills of slowing down, letting go of expectations, and finding grace and humor in making mistakes.

Our hope is that upon “going back to the real world,” these are lessons that stick. We might respond to stress at home or at work with the same grace that we allow ourselves in a weaving class. We might approach tasks in the kitchen or the backyard with the same careful planning as carving a spoon. We might even remember the patience of agitating wool in wet felting when dealing with a small child or a nagging family member. The “real world” is full of opportunities to say yes to new opportunities, to fail, and to try again.

Though you might feel like a long-form folk school class transports you away from reality, it just might be bringing you back to some of the most basic skills necessary for human living. Perhaps it’s time to view our reality through the lens of a folk school class. We can invite openness and humility into our daily living. We can relate to one another, solve problems creatively, and surprise ourselves with what we’re capable of. Because the truth is, the “real world” isn’t somewhere we return to, it’s something we co-create, one spoon, stitch, or shared story at a time.