When I was in elementary school, way back just after the rocks cooled, I went to a hippie school based around a Montessori program. It was all very soft and carpeted and smiley and encouraging. The room was flecked with couches and oversized pillows and such. And there were books. There were books everywhere.

Kids were free to roam when and wherever they wanted. About the only semblance of structure there was were several little tables peppering the room. “Activity Centers,” they called them, organized around subject matter. One was math. Another spelling. You get the idea.

Kids were expected to attend each one at least once a day. And once there, we were expected to complete a pre-determined amount of work before being released.

I read a lot. Talked a lot. But I didn’t do much schoolwork.

Every couple of weeks, I would be sent to the other side of the room’s partition with a pile of required work that I hadn’t done.

Beyond that partition was what I later came to know as a regular classroom. There were desks arranged in neat rows, all facing forward. It was weird and structured and foreign and calming.

Isolation, they called it. The separation from the collective was supposed to be a punishment. It was quiet. There were no distractions. There was just me and my work.

I got a lot done. I still do.