The classroom
A classroom is the least abstract place I know. Teaching history to high-school students is where most of what I believe about education stops being a theory and has to survive a Monday morning.
The personal half of a two-sided site. Not a curriculum vitae and not a list of appointments — those live in the Public Square. This is the classroom, the neighbourhood, the kitchen table, and a few quiet frameworks I have kept notes on for years.

A third-generation Anak Seputeh, humanitarian and lawyer, in that order.
That is how I describe myself, and the sequence is the whole argument. The place comes first. The obligation to the people in it comes second. The profession — the part most easily printed on a card — comes third, and only because the first two asked for it.
It is the plainest test I know for whether the rest of the work is still pointing the right way.
None of these is a service, a credential or a position. They are simply the rooms I spend my unbilled hours in, and between them they explain most of what I write.
A classroom is the least abstract place I know. Teaching history to high-school students is where most of what I believe about education stops being a theory and has to survive a Monday morning.
The oldest habit on this list. Neighbourhood, school and family — close-range, unglamorous, and mostly unrecorded. It is where I learned that a problem has a name and an address long before it has a policy.
I am a mother. That is the whole of what this page will say about it — my family did not choose a public life, so there are no names, no ages and no photographs here. What they have taught me turns up everywhere else instead.
Small rooms, few people, and long silences. I facilitate and coach occasionally rather than at scale, and I would rather do a little of it properly than a great deal of it loudly.
A vocabulary I have kept notes on for a long while, and the one strand here with a page of its own. I treat the chart as a description and never as a prescription, which is also why it gets its own room rather than a paragraph in mine.
Stretches of sitting still, usually somewhere without a signal. There is nothing to report from them, which is more or less the point of going.
Conscious education. The wellbeing of children and families. The unhurried business of developing capable human beings. Every strand above is a different angle on the same preoccupation, and I have never been able to keep them apart for long — the bored teenager at the back of a history class and the argument in a courtroom upstairs turn out to be the same question asked twice.
I write about it here rather than pronounce on it. The reflections are notes to myself; the reviews are what I am reading while I think.

You will not find qualifications, practice areas or appointments on this page. They belong to the other half of the site, and they stay there on purpose: what happens in a retreat or a classroom should not borrow its authority from what happens in chambers.