.

.

How can one recover from a Waldorf "education"? Nowadays, there are support groups and services for Waldorf graduates and their parents, such as the "survivors list" at People for Legal and Nonsectarian Schools (http://waldorfcritics.org/). As far as I know, there was nothing of the sort in the dim, distant year of 1964, when I graduated from a Waldorf school. The upshot was that if I was going to get deprogrammed, I would have to do it myself. This, I think, is probably why the process took so long.

I think my essential nature inclines toward rationality, more or less. I like things to make sense, more rather than less. But my essential nature was deeply buried, and almost obliterated, by my Waldorf schooling. When I graduated from Waldorf, I was truly directionless and befogged. Trying to figure out who I really was — trying to reconnect with my true nature — was a miserable, dark slog. It took me decades, literally. But eventually I started to see a little light.

The first step toward sanity was college. When I arrived on campus, I was a nut. Because of my Waldorf "education," I was deeply disconnected from the real world, and deeply ignorant of it.

To my surprise, I loved college. It was an intellectual feast for one who had been intellectually starved. So, I started learning about the real world. I have always loved to read, and now I started reading sensible books, bracingly different from the novels of C.S. Lewis, the epics of J.R.R. Tolkien, Norse myths, screeds attacking science, gullible accounts of fabulous creatures, and all the other fantastical stuff I had been fed at Waldorf.

I don't want to misrepresent anything or applaud myself. I say that I loved college. But it took me awhile to figure that out (d'oh). I was not wholly the product of my Waldorf schooling, of course. Other factors influenced me: my family, my church, my neighborhood non-Waldorf friends, the TV shows I watched (contrary to Waldorf principles), the magazines and newspapers I read (after my parents were finished with them), and so forth. So I was not completely shaped by my Waldorf education. Indeed, I had become a bit skeptical of Waldorf during my final years there (see my essay “Unenlightened”). Nonetheless, I emerged from Waldorf as if from a brainwashing experiment. If my mind had not been wholly captured, my imagination and desires had been. I yearned for things this world does not offer. One consequence (for me and many other Waldorf graduates) was a disinclination and an inability to lead a normal life, engage in normal activities, or seek normal objectives. I was unfit for reality. 

I dropped out of the first college I attended. The classes and the academic workload were, to me, a shock. The hordes of strangers were a shock. Living in a dormitory was a shock. I was disoriented and directionless. So I dropped out, hoping to catch my breath and reorient. But I was so lost, I couldn't even begin to guess where my salvation lay. A few months after my first collegiate misfire, I enrolled at another college, and I completed a few courses before dropping out again. 

I could have drifted away at the point and become — what? A deadbeat? A backwoods recluse? I don't know. And I can't wholly explain how I avoided such descents. But something had happened to me at that second college — I'd been exposed to a few examples of rationality and good sense. I'd taken courses in psychology, and Shakespeare, and anthropology (that’s “anthropology,” not “anthroposophy”) — I'd gotten just enough exposure to real learning, I guess, to lead me to a third college. This third time stuck. I stayed right through graduation, becoming an "Honors Scholar" along the way, and winning a scholarship as (supposedly) the best English major. (This message is being brought to you by an uninterested member of Phi Beta Kappa.) But believe me, I was still a mess. 

If I became a good student, that was, in a sense, the pose I adopted so no one would see what a whacked-out screw-up I really was. Once or twice, I tried to describe my Waldorf schooling to my college friends, but what I had to say was so inconceivable to them that I got very little benefit from the effort. I also tried psychiatry — I visited the college's shrink a few times — but again, there seemed to be no point. I couldn't articulate my confusion and pain, and the compassionate man who wanted to help me had no way of grasping what I'd experienced during my Waldorf childhood.

My "pose" as a good student was just about the only thing I had going for me. (I certainly didn't have a social life going for me. Looking back, I don't think I had more than three or four dates during college, and they were all awkward, embarrassed exercises in mutual misunderstanding. I never dated the same girl twice, and my dates occurred perhaps once per year. Good grief.) But I was a good student, and this eventually became more than a pose. I loved learning, so much so that I went on to graduate school and then became a college instructor. 

All the while, however, I still considered myself a romantic (in the Wordsworthian sense), a spiritual seeker, perhaps a transcendentalist. I knew I wasn't a disciple of Steiner's. I'd tried to read a couple of his books, but they seemed to me arid and dull. I sensed that they represented what I wanted to get away from (almost, more or less), but I wasn't sure, and I didn't know how. Mostly, I was confused. I remained in many ways a specimen of Anthropop brainwashing. I was still in the clutches of a vague mysticism and a Waldorf-induced alienation from reality. Take a specific, Waldorf-weird example: My Waldorf school's small library contained books on UFOs, abominable snowmen, and other fictitious phenomena, presented as if these things were real. We students at Waldorf were encouraged to give credence to all manner of fabulous nonsense. Thus, I left Waldorf believing in UFOs. [1] All during college and right up to the time I got tenure on an English faculty, I would scan the night skies looking for UFOs. And I saw some! Except, except... My rational nature was slowly emerging, and I eventually realized that all I had seen were lights in the sky, which could have been anything. I never saw a flying disc, I never got abducted, I never met a little green man. I came to understand that I was fooling myself, wishing so hard to see something (flying saucers, visitors from beyond) that I (almost) convinced myself that I had seen it. But I hadn't.

So: Reading, mulling, doubting, trying to be honest with myself. I was half trying to get past my Waldorf upbringing, but I was also half clinging to it. But time passed, I keep reading and mulling and doubting and trying to be honest with myself. And slowly things changed. I had to admit, eventually, that I could not defend any of my romantic, Waldorfish beliefs or attitudes. There was a severe mismatch between the real world, about which I was gradually learning, and the visions I still carried around in my head.

Discovering existentialism was a big step for me — the concept of authenticity. I slowly realized how inauthentic I was. I slowly realized that, if I wanted to be authentic (real, rational, sane), I had to throw away a large portion of my very identity and try to build a new one, almost from scratch.

Stumbling across Zen Buddhism was also a big step. I am not an existentialist, today, nor am I a Buddhist of any stripe. [2] But I was glad to get help wherever I could find it. (I read I'M OK, YOU'RE OK — an embarrassing admission — and got some good out of it. The idea that I might be OK was a revelation.) So: Zen. I loved the parables and conundrums — delightful, funny, and beneficial teachings. No doctrines. No unprovable claims about alternate spirit realms. Buddhism is therapeutic, and the underlying ethic is: If it works, if it lessens your suffering, do it; and if it doesn't work, stop.

My favorite Zen parable was and is the one about a goose egg that hatched inside a bottle. The goose grew up there, trapped inside the bottle; it became far too big to crawl out through the bottle's neck. How can the poor goose get out of the bottle? The Zen master claps his hands and announces, "The goose is out of the bottle!" Right on. Yes! It made sense to me. Don't be where you don't want to be; get out, get on. Don't try  to stop suffering. Just stop suffering. Just be outside the bottle. Easier said than done, of course. But, still, I found this to be useful advice. Waldorf screwed you up? Get over it.

Another of my favorite Zen sayings is this: "Is your bowl dirty? Then clean it." For most people, I suppose, this little saying is nothing more than common sense. But for me it was a flash of illumination. If you find yourself in a mess, clean it up. Don't ask someone else to do it for you. Don't buy a dishwasher. Just clean your dirty bowl and stop whining. Own your mess, fix your mess, and move on.

So I made a little progress, slowly, haltingly. It was not a straight-line ascent, by any means. I had periods of suffering, depression, nervous exhaustion. Ten years after Waldorf, I was still a secret loony. Fifteen years after Waldorf, I was walking around in the real world, but I felt it to be a very strange place — I was a misfit in almost all ways. Twenty years out — I guess I can say I had more or less deprogrammed myself by then. But think of it. Twenty years after I was 18: I'm saying I can't claim to have found my footing in reality until I was approaching my fortieth year. Good grief!

This, of course, is why I am now a Waldorf critic. It's why I have posted so many essays on the Internet. If I can, I'd like to help others avoid the Waldorf trap my parents and I fell into. Not that I have any illusions about making a big difference for anyone or anything. Nor do I think mine is the Saddest Story Ever Told. Billions of people have had, and now have, harder lives than I've had. But if I can help one family, here or there, just a little, then I'll feel that perhaps I've made a contribution.

P.S. At just about the time I started my studies as a grad student, I met my future wife. (We’ve been together ever since — you do the math.) She was my invaluable partner in my efforts to de-Waldorf myself. She knew nothing about Waldorf, Steiner, or Anthroposophy. Nonetheless, her contribution to my recovery cannot be overstated. For some reason, she found worth in me, and today, looking back, I doubt that I would have made it without her. So, thank you, dearest. To my surprise, life can be good. As John Lennon sang, Love is the answer.

[1] UFOs are not a major topic in Anthroposophical discourse, but they crop up from time to time. [See the entry for "flying saucers" in The Brief Waldorf / Steiner Encyclopedia.] My point is that I left Waldorf having been encouraged to believe in all sort of fabulous nonsense.

[2] Existentialism is largely anti-scientific, while Zen is anti-rational. As a confused refugee from Waldorf, I found these forms of thought congenial because Waldorf had schooled me in an anti-scientific, anti-rational attitude. True rationality was beyond me in those days, but I could climb a rung or two toward it. Today I would call myself a rationalist, one who stipulates that verifiable, factual information is at least as important as our capacity for reasoning. We find truth, I would submit, by thinking logically about verifiable facts. Easier said than done, of course.

P.S.

Late in August, 2009, I wrote the following sequel. 

The occasion was a message on an online discussion list; 

I read the message and posted the following reply 

(which I have revised for use here). 

In waldorf-critics@yahoogroups.com, Peter Staudenmaier <pstaud@...> wrote:

"[T]here is absolutely nothing wrong with being wrong."

I think this, understood properly, is an important point. There is no shame in making mistakes. We all make them. And I'll propose a corollary: The way to handle being wrong is not to give a clever explanation, or find a way to minimize the error, or put up a stout defense — it is to change your mind. That's what truth-seeking is all about.

I'd offer this gross generalization: Followers of religious faiths resist changing their minds, often adamantly. They have faith. With the best of intentions, they believe — or hope to believe — that their faiths are True.

I'd also say, as a gross generalization, that scientists and serious researchers in all academic disciplines are prepared to change their minds. They do their research, offer a conclusion, defend it — and, if it is swatted down, they hitch up their britches and move on.

Of course, there are many exceptions to these generalizations. No one enjoys being wrong; all people (talk about gross generalizations!) get emotionally wrapped up in their ideas and hate to let them go. Brilliant scientists are not immune to this attitude. But serious researchers realize that admitting error is crucially important, and they are prepared (however much it hurts) to do it when they must.

The distinguishing characteristic of real research — seen in emotional, human terms — is that each researcher wants to be right, but each researcher would also love to see the basic concepts of her/his discipline overturned. Specifically, each researcher would like to do the overturning. There are thousands of biologists out there today, for example, who essentially accept Darwin's account of evolution, but who would love to prove it wrong. Each Professor Smith would love to show that Darwinism must be abandoned and Smithism must be accepted instead. That way lies fame, glory, and probably tenure.

Very few followers of religions share this attitude. Few Christians want to see Christ's teachings overturned; few Buddhists want to see Buddha shot out of the water; few Muslims want to see Mohammed rebutted.

The great appeal of Anthroposophy is that it claims to span the divide between religion and science. Steiner said his teachings delineate "spiritual science," that is, the investigation of spiritual realities using strictly scientific means. Sounds terrific. But Anthroposophy hinges on clairvoyance, which does not exist. It requires the development of incorporeal "organs of clairvoyance" (chakras, lotus flowers), which cannot be developed. [1] So Anthroposophists are thrown back on belief, perhaps with an admixture of self-deception (if they convince themselves that they are clairvoyant). They are, in the end, adherents of a religion, which helps explain the fervor with which they defend the doctrines (or "scientific findings") of their faith (their mischaracterized "science").

Now, of course, I could be wrong. I hope not; admitting it would be hard. But perhaps I am wrong, in which case I will (I promise) change my mind. I've been wrong a few times in my life, so I know what it feels like. (I'm joking, of course. I'm never wrong. Or, no, wait. I'll take that back. By a conservative estimate, I make about twenty-umpteen dozen mistakes every day. Give or take.) Just yesterday, I suspected that I had made a mistake in one of my essays, and I proceeded to do what I always do. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I reread the essay, then reopened several volumes of Steiner's lectures to check myself; and I went online to do new research. As it happens, yesterday I learned that I had been right (see?!?). But, on many other occasions, I have learned that I was wrong, and I have made the necessary corrections.

Let's stay with me as an excellent example (one of my favorites, anyway): For the first many years after I graduated from a Waldorf school, I held onto many of the attitudes and beliefs instilled in me there, and I tried to convince myself that they were true. I read Thoreau, Emerson, Eiseley, Gardner, even Steiner (a little); I prayed and meditated; I kept an eye out for UFOs; I argued for the existence of spirits, and unseen imminences, and Nessie. In short, I was a flake. But I was also divided in my own soul. I wanted to believe this stuff, but I also had my doubts, and I knew that Waldorf had been a bad trip in some ways. So I kept wrestling with myself and all the authors and information I confronted. For a long while, I thought I was still a Christian; then, for a while, I thought I was a Buddhist (in a very informal, private way), or maybe a Hindu (in an extremely informal, unreal way), or...

To cut this shorter: Eventually I changed my mind. I became convinced that I had been wrong, and I became what Steiner derided as an abstract, materialist, intellectual, so-called educated adult.

What a touching story.

My only real point is that I changed my mind. And I continue to change my mind, often. If I confront undeniable evidence that Steiner was right and I am wrong, I will change my mind again. But the more I study Steiner, the less likely this seems. All of science (real science, real knowledge) and most of logic indicates that Steiner was wrong. Where's the evidence that he was right? Please produce it. An Anthroposophist, Frank Thomas Smith, recently challenged historian Peter Staudenmaier to disprove the supernatural (as if Staudenmaier has any interest in doing so). But this has things back-to-front. Staudenmaier is under no obligation to disprove the existence of, let us say, the god Thor. Rather, all believers in the god Thor have an obligation to substantiate their belief in that supersensible being — or they have this obligation if they want any of us to take them seriously. If they don't care what anyone else thinks, if they just want to embrace their belief, fine, they have that right. But they shouldn't be surprised if the rest of us find their belief a tad zany.

Steiner believed in goblins, auras, a fortress on the Moon, dragons, ghosts, horoscopes, populations on various planets, Zeitgeists, racial souls, guardian angels, Old Saturn, Vulcan, floating continents, non-orbital planets, Christian Rosenkreutz, Buddha's mission to Mars, Ahriman, black magicians, and one or two million other occult phenomena. This is all extremely interesting. But, please, help us out. Where is the evidence? Change our minds. Teach us. (Please don't say that these things cannot be proven — if that is so, then you should not believe in them any more than I do. And please don't say that they can be proven only by the use of nonexistent faculties, such as clairvoyance. I don't have them, and — unless I miss my guess — neither do you. And please don't tell me that I can understand only if I start from an attitude of devotion. This is tautological: To learn to believe, I must first believe. Steiner used this tautology, but he shouldn't have, and neither should any of us. [2] Illogic is illogic, and "spiritual science" cannot rely on it if it is, in fact, a science.)

Anyway, in sum, to wrap this up: There is nothing wrong with being wrong. But the next stage is to change one's mind and try harder to be right.

Or something like that. 

[1] See "Clairvoyance" and "Steiner's Blunders".

[2] Steiner says that seekers must 

"have a respect that forbids them, even in the deepest recess of their heart, to harbour any thoughts of criticism or opposition." — Rudolf Steiner, KNOWLEDGE OF THE HIGHER WORLDS AND ITS ATTAINMENT (Anthroposophic Press, 1944), p. 10. 

Steiner says this attitude begins, for fortunate people, in childhood. It then extends into the adult years: 

"What was once a childish veneration of persons, becomes, later, a veneration for truth and knowledge. Experience teaches that they can best hold their head erect, who have learnt to venerate where veneration is due; and veneration is always due when it flows from the depths of the heart." — Ibid.

This amounts to an admonition to check your brain at the door. Don't think; feel, from the heart; be like unto a child. Perhaps this is the proper attitude for matters of the spirit, but it is certainly not a scientific attitude. It is a religious injunction, not a scientific procedure. Science requires critical thinking, and it requires us to not be misled by our hearts. This is real scientific respect for "truth and knowledge." What Steiner describes is something very different. If we must start by foreswearing critical thought and by feeling veneration, then we cannot know whether whether the object of our veneration is "due" such veneration. We have posited it, we have let veneration flow out of our hearts without allowing our brains to intervene. Instead of respecting knowledge, in other words, we have forsworn knowledge; instead of attaining truth, we have made the attainment impossible. Thus, we may venerate an object that merits veneration, or we may venerate something that does not deserve it. Indeed, we may very easily persuade ourselves that the things we want to venerate exist (when they may not; they may be imaginary), and we may persuade ourselves that these things are divine (when they may not be; they may simply be subjective objects of our desire). In fact, what Steiner has described is indistinguishable from self-deception. 

Waldorf schools invite you to climb the steps 

into Steiner's fantasy universe. 

I climbed some of those steps, once. 

But then, somehow, I stopped, 

and I walked back down to reality. 

[This is the entry to the eurythmy training center 

on the campus of the Anthroposophical 

headquarters, the Goetheanum. 

R. R. sketch, 2010.]

ADDENDUM

Leaving a Waldorf school can be traumatic. Young children are separated from their playmates; parents lose contact with former friends; families depart from a community in which they may have invested much energy and many hopes.

One of the hardest parts of leaving is that people you knew and liked may turn their backs on you and your child — they may treat you as turncoats, traitors, pariahs. They may shun you for rejecting the Waldorf faith.

If the difficulties of leaving a Waldorf school are large for ordinary families, parents and kids, think how much greater they can be for teachers in the school. If they bought deeply into the Waldorf worldview — as so many of them do — leaving may mean upending their lives completely.

Late in June, 2009, a former Waldorf school teacher with whom I'd had some debates posted a message on the Internet, saying he'd left a Waldorf school in part because he felt betrayed by his Waldorf colleagues. While working at the school, he had felt the need to separate himself at least slightly from the tight bonds of the Waldorf community. But as he set about creating a life for himself outside the school, some of his fellow teachers turned on him. Eventually, in the face of this hostility, he decided he needed to leave Waldorf altogether. He added that since that time, he had lived largely as a loner, fending off the possibility of additional betrayals.

I posted this reply (edited slightly for use here):

I realize this may be an unsettling idea for both of us, but I think you and I are much alike. I, too, am largely a loner. Partly this is because I was formed in a Waldorf school, which meant that, growing up, I was quite different from all the kids who went to other kinds of schools. Later, after struggling for years to overcome my Waldorf conditioning, I was — and remain today — different from most other adults in that I have spent so many of my years contending with a problem that none of them have experienced or even imagined. I sometimes think my tombstone might read: "Roger Rawlings. b. 1946. Went to a Waldorf school 1953-1964. Struggled to find his bearings 1965-1990. Was pretty much ok thereafter." This would not be my favorite tombstone inscription, but it would be pretty apt. (My favorite tombstone inscription: found in a Texas graveyard: "Jake Smith. He done his damnedest.")

One advantage I may have had is that, when I left Waldorf, I was still a child (of 18, going on 8). This meant that in subsequent years I've had plenty of time to make friends beyond Waldorf, and I have made quite a few. But I do still live much by myself (with wife, dogs, cats...) because I live so far out in the boondocks. This is a conscious choice — I love nature. But I am aware that it may also be, in part, a consequence of my long, alienating struggle with my Waldorf upbringing.

I generally agree with your assessment of organized religion. I have found wisdom in many religious teachings — Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity. But I am not a churchgoer; as I've revealed before, I am agnostic. Many, many people seem to need religion, so I have to hope that they gain real benefits from it. But I think we would all be better off if we were all, in one way or another, agnostic — that is, trying to be open-minded, admitting the limits of our knowledge, and humanely looking upon one another as fellow seekers of the truth.

I'm not sure this applies, but it may. We cannot teach a dog algebra. No matter how hard we and the dog may try, it cannot be done. A dog's brain is simply not able to comprehend the concepts of algebra. Similarly, perhaps the ultimate design (if any) and purpose (if any) of the universe may be beyond the grasp of the human brain. Any ultimate design or purpose may lie beyond our capacities of comprehension. I am not willing to despair, I hope for comprehension, but I try to remind myself that there are both real limits to my own knowledge and, perhaps, ultimate limits to human knowledge. (Steiner tried to resolve this by relying on clairvoyance. But because science has found no evidence that clairvoyance exists or is possible, I think he was fooling himself — or perhaps consciously trying to fool us.)

Human betrayal is a very difficult subject. A longtime friend/opponent of mine died two days ago. Over the years, he betrayed me in various ways — but, then again, I imagine he thought I betrayed him. I wish we had done better by each other. We both meant well, and we remained friends, but our good intentions didn't completely protect us from occasional collisions, misunderstandings, failures, and oversights. Maybe this is just the human condition. A minister friend, on the verge of tears, once told me that he always knew what he should do in any given circumstance, but time and again he did something else. For the rest of us, who don't  always know what we should do, failing to do the right thing is even more common, I suspect.

I think that, in varying ways, most of my Waldorf teachers betrayed me — luring me toward Anthroposophy and/or teaching me Anthroposophy, at least indirectly, without my parents' consent. And I think that Steiner betrayed my teachers and, by extension, me — by propagating what seem to me to be falsehoods. In my essays, I have tried not to blame my teachers. I have tried to reserve my criticism for Steiner — or, more particularly, his doctrines. I find it hard to work up much sympathy for Steiner, but this may be my own failing. I wish I were more Christ- or Buddha-like, full of charity for one and all, but I'm just me, full of flaws.

I sometimes think of the wisdom of Rodney King (the Afro-American who, famously, was beaten severely by a group of white cops in Los Angeles years ago): "Can't we all just get along?" Human history suggests that the answer is no. Whenever I read history books, I'm overwhelmed by the chronicle of war after war, atrocity after atrocity... And yet, somehow, we humans do seem to have made some progress, small as it may be, toward less violent modes of self-expression. So I keep hoping that someday the answer to Rodney King's question will be yes. 

Another former Waldorf student also posted a reply:

I believe you shouldn't fear that people outside Waldorf/Anthroposophy will behave like those inside did. For one thing, in the world outside Waldorf/Anthroposophy, it isn't such a big deal if somebody disagrees. It is quite possible to be good friends anyway. An opinion is just an opinion, not something that shakes the foundations of a group of people's way of life. There isn't shunning and back-stabbing and other such things that appear when people stick together in belief-based communities. Or, rather, the risk of this happening is lower. And there aren't the same hierarchies. (For example, in Waldorf, you just know some teachers are more important than others, that some supposedly "know" more even though what they "know" is so ill-defined. It's quite a dysfunctional setup for creating equality and friendship.)

I was just a child when I left Waldorf, but I did see huge differences in how people behave to each other. And I think many former Waldorf parents say that leaving Waldorf isn't just choosing another type of education; it is saying goodbye to a social community, because suddenly you go from friend to traitor. In the "normal" world, changing schools or workplaces or disagreeing on something just isn't the end of the world.

Frankly, it's better to have friends who wildly disagree with you every now and then, because then you know they are friends because they like you, not because you share a worldview and the friendship is superficially stable but in reality more like a house of playing cards, easily falling apart.

Not exactly a recipe for success in friendship, or anything even close to that, but it is my philosophy.

This is one of my Waldorf headmaster's many publications 

[Anthroposophic Press, 1996]. 

The original edition was published in 1975, 

under a different title, by The Waldorf Press — 

an operation set up by our school.

The lovely cover painting is by John Gardner's daughter,

Elizabeth Lombardi,

who taught art at our school.

I was one of her less-promising pupils.

The painting is a good example of Anthroposophical art. 

Many of my own paintings posted at this website 

are meant to emulate Waldorf art.

And some, clearly, are inspired by the work of Ms. Lombardi.

[R.R., 2009.]

On Defending Myself

Because I have written about myself, I have made myself fair game. And, naturally, people who hate the conclusions I have drawn about Waldorf schools and Anthroposophy — that is, people who embrace what I denounce — now direct verbal fire at me. I’m told that they frequently tell each other, and the world at large, about my real or alleged faults. Fair enough. But there is a limit to the value of talking about me. I am not important. I’m just a guy who has tried to learn and tell the truth.

Soon after I began publishing my research into Waldorf education and Anthroposophy, I decided to put up no defenses. I do not answer the attacks made against me, and I do not pretend that I am anything but what I am. I press ahead on good days and bad, when the work comes easily and when it is a struggle, when I'm at the top of my form and when I drag along. (One small claim I’ll make on my own behalf: When I realize that I have made an error, I circle back ASAP and correct it. All the major sections of Waldorf Watch has been reviewed multiple times by multiple readers. I'm confident you can rely on what you find here.)

You can reach your own conclusions about me. I’d just ask this: Please realize that I am not the issue. My strengths and weaknesses are, at most, peripheral to the real issue that should concern us. That issue is the nature of Waldorf schools. That’s what I’ve tried to focus on, and it is what I suggest we all should focus on. 

We all seek the truth, after all — we are all on similar journeys. I have chronicled my own journey, and I have chosen not to contest the judgments others make about me. My work will stand or fall on its own merits, and that's how it should be. To the very best of my ability, I have told the truth about Waldorf schools, Anthroposophy, and Rudolf Steiner. I have even — not that it’s important — told the truth about myself. Whether you find value in anything I have written is, of course, up to you.

— R.R.