Sept 24, 2019—As an educator I have many rituals, practices, and traditions that inform my approach to teaching and learning. One in particular sticks out. When I’m slow to enact it my students are quick to ask me why and to call for its immediate implementation. The ritual and rhythm of snack time is at the center of their concern and interest. The classes I teach run from 4:00-6:20 and many of my students are practicing professionals in education, social work, and allied fields. They often come to class tired, hungry, and frequently distracted by the day’s work. The things they did right, and the things they did wrong. Their mistakes in particular seem to really impact their social-emotional state, even when the mistakes are less frequent or significant than their successes. In short they are often emotionally stressed, physically hungry, and in need of slowing down and centering.

Food is the base layer of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. It is both the foundation of all other needs while also holding them captive to fulfilling the need for food first. When hunger dominates, learning, a higher tier in the hierarchy, can rarely be achieved. In basic human psychology and good pedagogy it makes sense to care for the nutritional and emotional needs of students before introducing content and engaged thinking. It is the obvious pedagogical move that is too seldom stated as such. But for me, there is more going, more to this story, more beyond the wisdom of tending to stomach so brain can hear, process, and learn.

When I first started teaching I was often annoyed and bothered when students brought food to class. Even worse when they were eating during a lesson. I was unable to say why food in class felt wrong. I just knew it was. My early attempts to make sense of my concern included: disrespect for me and classmates, a seemingly individualistic act in a space that was communal, and a personal inability to wait to eat until later. All eventually seemed inadequate in capturing my dislike of the behavior. I tried all the usual strategies for managing the behavior such as making announcements, talking to students privately, and ignoring the behavior. None seemed to lessen my personal angst. I began to ask myself what I was missing. What was I not listening to or paying attention to that energized the deep core of the struggle. Why did the importance of food in Maslow’s Hierarchy explain the need to eat but failed to ease my concerns, which I fully named as my problem and in no way could it be construed as student ill intent.

I can no longer say when it happened, what the catalyst was, but I can tell you how I transformed my understanding of food and eating away from a distraction into a practice of community and caring. A ritual everyone looks forward to and willingly partakes in, a part of the instructional space as important as texts, teacher, and student to learning and human flourishing. At some point I made the connection between food and the patterns throughout human history of people coming together in community. Around a meal they would tell stories, mark important moments, share fellowship, and reimagine a life giving relationship between individual drive and communal responsibility. That was it, the reason I disliked eating in class. As currently practiced in my pedagogy it fell short of the importance of food as a builder of deep connection and community. I almost immediately initiated a “snack time” in my teaching during instructional breaks. On a voluntary basis, each week, a different group of students will provide the food.  It doesn’t matter what they bring. It doesn’t matter how much they bring. It doesn’t matter if a student forgets their week or another brings extra on a week. It only matters that food is present, it is understood as a ritual of community, and that at the end of break everyone is nourished in body and spirit.

At the start of every quarter I share the food story, my initial dislike of eating in class, and my conversion to fully embracing it. At the end of the narrative I pass out the snack list for students to signup, if they wish, to bring something to share during break. I now understand what I was unable to see earlier in my career. Food is a mechanism to foster fellowship and community. In the simplest of terms it is a deep form of hospitality, to self and others. It is an invitation and ritual to reach beyond the moment, beyond individual needs, past the tendency to treat others as something different than self, and to expand the range of human potential in a learning space.

Hospitality as noted by Christine Pohl in her book: “Making Room” (1999) is a remarkable “mystery” given the deep emotions and connections it fosters for the giver and receiver in what otherwise seems like a mundane and “ordinary activity”. Pohl studies faith communities and the wisdom they can offer regarding hospitality, especially in contexts where the importance of hospitality is lost or downplayed. I find the following touch points helpful in thinking about my practice of hospitality in the classroom. They also provide a compelling rationale for my act of snack time.

  • Depending on someone else to provide, even minimally, for your needs builds compassion and empathy for others in need. In a classroom setting this can help support the wider mission of building a caring community where sometimes you have to ask for help with an assignment or reading;
  • Through the sharing of a meal one experiences the joy of being welcomed into a group “even if only briefly, the stranger is included in a life-giving and life sustaining network of relations”;
  • Hospitality “transcends social and ethnic differences” by creating a space of equals around a shared table where interaction is “face to face, gracious, unassuming, nearly indiscriminate, and always enthusiastic”; and
  • To fully benefit from hospitality “requires an openness of heart, a willingness to make one’s life visible to others, and a generosity of time and resources”.

These are lofty goals and a bit of stretch to think that they are all possible in a classroom setting. However, even little shifts in human to human interactions along the lines of hospitality will enable the development of a more life giving and academically enriching classroom. If a little food can achieve this small goal I’m all in. How about you?

Sept 7, 2019—What are your core values as a teacher; the three qualities of self that you strive to maintain at all cost? How did you come to this understanding? Through experience or scholarly study? Have those values been consistent across time? Would an observer agree or disagree that your teaching corresponds to those core commitments? What makes you uniquely you in your classroom? I’ve been recently reflecting on my core values as an educator. The trigger was a leadership retreat. The facilitator, for pre-work, sent everyone a handout inviting us to identify our core values. The working theory was that once we had individually identified our values that we could synthesize them into a collective list and from that list identify three to five themes or values defining our work. We never quite achieved the final goal but the activity did help me identify my core values. My top three values are: flourishing, relationships, and Love. There are certainly a number of sub-themes radiating out from each primary value but I think they all fit under these three core values.

By flourishing I mean things like growth, joy, change, curiosity, organic, and dynamic. It can take varying forms in accordance with the needs and talents of a particular person. Flourishing for one student can have different manifestations than flourishing for another student. But the unifying element is movement toward wholeness and fuller notions of self. Assignments in my classes that favor student choice and differentiation are more consistent with my value of flourishing than assignments that are pre-set and deterministic in their outcome according to my opinions and views.

Relationships are all about connections and honoring the inherent worth of the other. It is an acknowledgement that the individual “I” is problematic. The true-self exists only in relation to others; change the partners that one interacts with and notions of “I” change as well. This is well known in classrooms where students are frequently code switching to accommodate the “I” to the specific context the teacher has established. Yet, at the same time there are certain inherent qualities to the true-self that are less transient. But those attributes are best identified in the company of others; a community that names the deep gifts of self and checks false perceptions. In my classroom I work to build community and relationships that include people as well as texts. I encourage students to enter their readings with a sense that they are in direct conversation with the ideas the author is putting forward. I invite them to “hear” the words in the text that connect with the heart of their learning-self because it is through that unique connection that a relationship can form and support learning.

Love is both a standalone core value and the matrix within which flourishing and relationships find meaning and purpose.  \Love is that aspect of learning and classroom spaces that draws the learner toward something greater than self.  It invites learners to experience emotions like curiosity, passion, heart-break, grace, and commitment. It helps to be committed—deeply in love—with content when the nature of learning bogs down or becomes confusing. Love binds things together in a mutual relationship of two “others” seeking ways to flourish while realizing that self-flourishing is contingent on the flourishing of the other.  Love in the classroom can find expression in ideas, knowing a colleague well enough to predict their stance on a subject, giving a colleague the grace to let them change their ideas, and a class-wide shared sense of mutual commitment to sticking with a tough text that challenges superficial notions of self.

During the retreat the facilitator presented a framework for organizing core values that is based on three questions; 1) why do you act a certain way, or the ultimate goal you hope to achieve?; 2) how will you go about working toward your why through discreet activities?; and 3) what do those values look like as a finished product, the wholeness of the work? When I organize my three core values to align with the three questions I find the following to be true. My why is Love. I’m at my best as an educator when my curriculum and instruction sets a climate of learning that transcends the ordinary. A classroom culture where ego, commodification, and competition is displaced by a sense of shared connection to something greater than self. Love inspires courage and fearlessness to explore, change, and hold firm with fidelity to truths. The how of my instruction, the ways I work toward Love, are relationships. They materialize in an array of activities involving students, text, classroom settings, and me. I encourage students to listen to the “voice” of the text. To hear how words and ideas in a reading are speaking to them, seeking a relationship of engagement. During instructional breaks we always have food, we gather around the table of fellowship and share stories of the day. We even pursue topics raised earlier in the class. Relationships are the micro-activities building toward the what. When combined into a collective whole the what, the evident object, of my core values is flourishing. The classroom is alive with positive energy, collectively and individually, inviting inner integrity to become external and vibrant. A student who spontaneously shares a deep moment of learning and understanding, connecting concepts and personal experiences in novel ways, is flourishing. They are becoming a new person, a truer version of self. Such expressions of transcendence elicit feelings of awe and anticipation of what might come next.

What are your core values? Can you winnow them down to three? How might those values map onto a framework of why, how, and what? If presented with your core values would your students concur or would they name a different set of core values? What the features of your instructional context that make it easy or hard to enact your core values?

August 22, 2019—I’m captivated and intrigued by human behavior; mine especially, but others as well.  It is one of the reasons I became a teacher, nearly unfettered opportunities to watch and learn from the ways that students and educators navigate classroom choices.  I’ve learned so much about myself: likes/dislikes, fears/joys, and power/autonomy from observing and responding to my instructional moves. The first scholarly article I wrote was a reflection on a teaching conundrum I experienced, the sources of inner-wisdom I drew from in making sense of the moment, and the ways I acted on my core beliefs that day in the classroom. Internal observations of self as teacher has become a principle way I come into greater contact with my true-self; the inner wisdom that lends consistency and groundedness to my teaching.

But the classroom is only one place I access this wisdom and come into contact with the deep questions of human flourishing.  For instance, my latest musings on the human condition and its implications for teaching started with the very mundane activity of going to the hardware store. I was in search of lightbulbs for a lamp and numbers for the new mailbox I installed.  As I walked toward the cashier to pay for my items I overheard one of the clerks say to a customer: “All religions are totally corrupt.”  My body kept moving, as this wasn’t my conversation, but my mind and soul took a double take at the abruptness and pointedness of the statement.

In my head I was thinking: “yes and no.” To be human, I’ve learned from experience and my theological studies, is to be prone to both ego-driven self-interest and transcendent empathy in service to the other.  And since religion is mostly a human construct, even though focused on the ineffable, it can devolve toward “corruption”.  Most human endeavors by their nature, if not infused with Love, are prone to duplicity and drift from their original intent.  And at the same time people seem to have a universal capacity to make choices that benefit others.  Not all religions or religious activities are bankrupt in just the same way that not every school or teacher is acting with ill intent even though their actions may bring harm to a student.

As I was driving home with my lightbulbs and mailbox numbers my musings led to the topic of choice and the questions of inner authority.  When do I chose a path and when is the path chosen for me (directly or indirectly)?  What is the role of the individual and what is the role of social/institutional forces in choice?  Is it truly possible to claim individual authority in choice?  These questions were informed, in part, by an episode of the Amazon series, Man in the High Castle by Frank Spotnitz.  The show is set in an alternative version of history where Germany and Japan defeat the Allies in WWII.  They are now an occupying force in what was once America. In an episode I watched, two actors were engaged in a discussion about resistance, power, authority, and personal choice.  The conversation ends when one of the characters points to his head and states: “…as long as you have an inner fascist telling you what you can and can’t do they don’t need an external authority to rule over you.  You will police yourself.”

I can relate to this description of an inner authority; the voices I carry around that inform my actions and reactions in the world.  It can be confusing in my head, at times, with all the voices offering advice and guidance, especially when I’m struggling as a teacher. But in the simplest of terms my inner authority has two primary manifestations.  On one end of the continuum are my inner-teachers who use the power of conformity to encourage choices that serve my ego or wider institutional systems of oppression.  I know this aspect of my inner authority is influencing my activities when I’m acting out of fear, anger, righteousness, or ego inflation. May Sarton in her poem Angels and Furies describes this ever present human attribute as “black rage in the blood” that leaves everyone, initiator and receiver, feeling “wounded” and “battered”.  Yet Sarton knows that the furies are only one end of the continuum. Only one half of our humanness. We are also capable of responding to the call of our inner angels who “shower blessings” with “sudden motions or intimations of goodness”.  My inner authority resonates with the voice of an angel when I speak out against institutional norms on behalf of students; when I look beyond my narrow instructional disappointment with a student to see the wider context of their life and the miracle of their humanness; and when I make classroom choices that lean toward community building over individualism. When my angels are prominent I take a more gracious, empathetic, and wholehearted stance toward my teaching and the learning of students.

The real wisdom in Sarton’s poem is that choice is not about one inner authority over the other.  Rather it involves the dance of both my furies and my angels.  As an educator I can only approach “the light of understanding” regarding the best instructional choices by attending to both aspects of myself. It can be just as misleading to say that all acts of teaching are corrupt as it is to say that all acts of teaching are blessed.  For me the gift of teaching is the creation of a space where I can explore the fullness of my emotions and choices in service of learners.  Sometimes I hit the mark and students flourish and other times I cause harm.  But as long as I can keep the dance of my angels and furies moving to the music of Love and Relationships I’m pretty sure I’m doing the best I can as an educator.

July 15, 2019—The field of education is rife with paradoxes, two things that are distinct yet cohere into one unified frame of reference.  In a paradoxical relationship power is contingent on the equal strength of each side of the pair. If one side is more powerful than the other than the paradoxical relationship is weakened and the full potential of the pairing is not realized.  For instance, in the teacher/student paradox if the student holds all the power than the wisdom, voice, and understanding of the teacher is only weakly present to inform the learning trajectory of the student. And when the teacher voice is too loud, students are limited in their choice of content, product, or learning style.  The goal in paradoxical relationships is integration, not balance or resolution of the tension. John Dewey in Experience and Education cautions against either/or thinking and instead he advocates for both/and conceptualizations of teaching and learning.  The emphasis between the poles should shift back and force, dialectically, in dynamic tension, always in response to the particularities of the educational context.  Sometimes the student should have more power and other times of the power shifts to the teacher. The when and how is dependent of learning outcomes that allow for the greatest potential for growth and transcendence of the student and teacher.  Common paradoxes in education include: freedom/structure, formative/summative, content/experience, individual/community, and external/internal.  

One paradox that has grabbed my attention lately is knowledge/knowing.  It has materialized in my studies of theology, education, and critical theory.  If knowledge/knowing is truly a paradox then it offers some explanatory power to describe a core weakness of contemporary forms of education.  Although both terms are evident in education the power differential is skewed, mostly in favor of knowledge. This is evident, it seems, in the emphasis on content knowledge, standardized assessments, and performance indicators in the curriculum.  What is lost or weakened is the unexpected, transcendent, and unanticipated.   

Let me broaden out my definition of the knowledge/knowing paradox before I go much further.  Dwayne Huebner (1985) in his essay Spirituality and Knowing provides the following contrast between knowledge and knowing.

“Knowledge is form separated from life… It stands by itself, removed from the vitality and dynamics of life, from the spirit” (p. 351).   

“Every mode of knowing witnesses to the transcending possibilities of which human life is a part.  All knowing requires openness and vulnerability” (p. 350).  

I find this distinction helpful as I approach the process of preparing, delivering, and evaluating my teaching.  When I’m leaning too heavily toward knowledge in the paradox I engage in the following behaviors: I focus on product; I engage learning as if it were a commodity to be exchanged or transacted; and I form a relationship with knowledge is if it were a “thing”.  When acting more fully in my knowledge-teaching mode I’m teaching from a Western tradition which conceptualizes knowledge as a thing, capital, a noun; something not-me. As Huebner notes: “knowledge is form separated from life”.  To be clear, there are times when teaching from a knowledge orientation is important; standards and expectations can help to keep everyone pointed in the direction of flourishing and fulfillment. When I move my teaching too far in the direction of knowing my instructional behaviors include: I’m concerned with process; learning occurs as interaction between the self and the other; and my relationship with knowing is as if we are both elements of life engaged in a mutual dance of exploration.  My knowing-teaching leans heavily toward Eastern-Tribal ways of knowing which means treating knowing as a being, life, and a verb; something that is-me. As Huebner argues, knowing drives toward the “transcending possibilities of which human life is a part”.

The discipline of Theology offers a different, and helpful, way of understanding the knowledge/knowing paradox.  And by Theology I’m thinking of the diverse ways that humans connect with and are in relationship with something greater than self which is often but not exclusively defined by religious traditions and practices.  In various faith traditions a form of irrationality is understood as separation from the Divine source of knowing; to be outside of one’s wholeness and out of synch with the completeness of the living world. A sort of unrootedness and disconnection that is the result of too much reliance on the markers of success in this world. On the other side of the spiritual equation it can be equally problematic to invest too much on the ineffable and transcendent elements of the Divine in the world.  Under these circumstances a person is cut loose from the lived world and a sort of disconnection from the practical problems and concerns of life materializes. Although a person may appear saintly in their behavior and someone to aspire to they may also act removed and aloof, unconcerned with the wants and needs of this world.  

Both examples from Huebner and Theology are applicable to my teaching.  I can be so grounded in the practicalities of curriculum that I measure my educational success by the metric of student evaluations, the number of times students talk in class, or comparisons between the learning of my students and the students of other faculty.  Concrete forms of knowledge that can be characterized and charted dominate my understanding of teaching. In contrast, I can sometimes be so “up in my head” with my theories and conceptual models that I’m just talking to myself. I’m busy spinning complex ways of understanding that may make me feel smart but may leave my students wondering what I’m talking about.  Huebner’s observation that “all knowing requires openness and vulnerability” is for me a good marker of when I’m more or less successful at integrating and elevating the knowledge/knowing paradox. When I’m truly open to knowing instead of knowledge I avoid the trap of the theory/practice distinction. I embrace wisdom and knowing from both perspectives. When I approach teaching with vulnerability I resist the temptation of anchoring knowing exclusively in my sense of selfhood; instead I welcome the unexpected, the unpredictable, and the dynamic.  In short I try to live with the curriculum in the ways that it lives in and through me.

June 11, 2019—Two questions I’ve been sitting with lately: What does it mean to be fully committed to the inner life of teaching?  How does commitment become evident to others? By “sitting” I mean, in relationship with. The inner life invites me to be attentive and present to my emotions, my feelings, and my inclinations.  A good sign of attentiveness is entering into dialogue. To engage in a conversation geared toward hearing the wisdom of the other. To be attentive is an invitation to wonder and be open to the unexpected.  I don’t mean to suggest that going inward is some sort of ego-inflation technique. Going in is never for the purpose of self-congratulatory affirmation of what I already know to be true about myself. This certainly can happen and it is a social-emotional mud hole that I can easily slide into.  The discipline of mindfulness and the objective lens of community help keep my inward eye from becoming too ego-centric. For me, the purpose of going in and rummaging around the inner spaces of my teacher heart is to go out and be an activist for justice, peace, and love in the world. Through the inner journey, conducted with disciplined fidelity, I can act with commitment to truths that allow for greater amounts of human flourishing for all.  This is as much a spiritual journey of knowing as it is a political or intellectual commitment. As such the examination of the inner life is rich with various formulations of spiritual paradoxes: you have to go in to go out; you have to lose self to find self; and you have to be alone to be together in community.  

 

One strategy I use to invite conversation between my intellectual head-talk and my teacher heart of action is to invite the questions to interpret me even as I’m working to discern their meaning.  In her book Figuring, Maria Popova notes that Sylvia Plath made this observation about poetry: “Once a poem is made available to the public, the right of interpretation belongs to the reader.”  In other words, once a poem is read, interpretation begins, and interpretation is highly contingent on the life journey and experiences of the reader.  Thus the poem tends to ultimately say more about the reader/interpreter than about the intent of the poet. In curriculum theory Bruce Uhrmacher and Christy Moroye teach us that the arc of curriculum consists of three elements: intended, delivered, and received.  Educators, like poets, have the greatest influence on their intentions and the least impact on what students and readers receive or hear. For poets and for teachers this can be a good thing in that learning and understanding, what is received, is best regarded as an interactive process of meaning making.  Ownership, deep learning, is more a product of what is received as knowing in the heart of the learner than it is an external indicator of performance. 

 

This form of ownership and commitment to heart-wisdom as received knowing fits my personal and professional experience with poetry and professional development.  Once a month I host a conversation for faculty and staff on my campus. A week before meeting I send out a poem to anchor the conversation. Our ritual is for one voice to read the poem out loud and then invite sharing around a word, image, or phrase that grabbed someone’s attention.  In the conversation we have a rule against fixing, saving, or advising members of the group. This is a norm I borrowed from the Courage to Teach community and their Circle of Trust retreats centered on teacher renewal and courage. When applied with integrity the norm dampens the impulse to heal a colleague and instead the energy shifts to whole-hearted story sharing and story receiving.  What are participants hearing in the poet’s words and metaphors that speak to some aspect of their inner-life? In the back and forth between telling and listening participants begin hearing their own deeper inner wisdom and commitment to values, passions, and professional callings. One participant recently described our communal time together as a form of “sanctuary” where they could recommit to their true passions and resist institutional norms toward compliance.  Questions, it seems to me, can become a curriculum of self-awareness. They are like poetry inviting self-interpretation, but only more personal and more particular than a poem. As I write or state a question I both make my musing public, even if it is just to myself, and I begin the process of interpretation. I started this essay with two questions: What does it mean to be fully committed to the inner life of teaching? How does commitment become evident to others?  

 

Let me answer both questions with a reference to a recent experience in the natural world, which is my go to place for wisdom beyond the rational and beyond the intellect.  I was recently visiting Pawnee Buttes in northern Colorado, a remarkable remnant of short grass prairie. The ancestral lands of indigenous communities for over ten thousand years.  Like a good question the spirit runs deep in these ancient lands which are mostly undisturbed by the forces of commodification and profit making. The wind, typical of these open lands, was howling at a constant rate.  I found it disturbing and affirming at the same time. The treeless prairie, with only the periodic ravine to dip into, provided no place to escape from the wind. Again, like a good question there is no hiding from a commitment to explore.  The only relief, which is temporary, is to go below the surface, into the deeper spaces of knowing. To fully commit to the inner-life of teaching means a willingness to stand exposed to the winds of the social world which often blow toward conformity.  Instead of yielding to normality, holding true to yourself, taking sanctuary in your inner knowing.  

 

When it comes to demonstrating commitment, a standing firm in unapologetic alliance with the source of knowing that is spiritual and non-rational, the grasses have wisdom to share.  The wind pushed the grasses this way and that way. At times a gust could be seen working its way, in waves of chaotic uniformity, across the shimmering green blades. Additionally, the swishing grasses sang a song distinct to short grass prairies.  In an interesting paradox, only the wind can invite and perhaps at times compel the grasses into song. Only a good question in the face of the winds of tradition can invite me into singing the song of my inner-wisdom. And at times I’m compelled into action by particularly egregious forms of social and educational inequity.  Like the twirling grass blades it is only when others also commit to the inner-life and embrace the wind that we can collectively sing. It is the adversity of the wind that makes the short grass prairies of our teaching come to life as waves of reform dancing across the landscape. So my invitation to you is to commit to your inner-life and by boldly singing that unique song that defines your inner-wisdom.  Once you begin dancing and singing I’m sure you will encounter other blades of grass singing along in collective songs of change.  

May 20, 2019—In Part One of this two part blog-post I painted in broad brush strokes the features of teaching as a mystical experience.  A connection to a calling to teach.  As in the first post I will draw from the work of Dorothee Soelle and her book, The Silent Cry.  She is a theologian and therefore for her the Divine means all the diverse ways humans describe the source of all knowing and all being.  I think that for secularly inclined educators Divine could mean relationship to the source of knowing that is greater than self, which can be internal or external.  For example, curriculum, students, deep self-awareness, or subject matter. In Part Two I will focus in on the three core elements of the mystical experience (purification, illumination, and union) with a particular goal of showing how they might materialize in the life of the classroom.

Although perhaps not equivalent to the life-long journey of a mystic there is a strong similarity in the ways that teachers become more fully aware of their inner-calling and its pull toward instructional wholeness.  By calling I mean the deep inner drive of educators to teach.  An identity that once felt by the teacher is nearly impossible to not hear or abandon for other professional pursuits.  In the language of mysticism a calling is the Divine spark to teach within the heart of the educator.  Sometimes a calling is experienced while still a child and for others it emerges much later in life.  Regardless of when the initial call appears, the first step toward fully accessing that spark and allowing it to flame fully into pedagogical life is purification.  Soelle describes purification as “being emptied of cares, ideas, and purposes”.  Through this process teachers can rediscover a childlike sense of “wonderment” and “amazement” associated with the power of teaching.  For educators this entails letting go of preconceived ideas about teaching, learning to set aside fears, and developing techniques to calm inner turmoil and doubt.  One of the biggest challenges, according to Dan Lortie, to learning to teach is the “apprenticeship of observation” that accrues over time as the future-teacher moves from Kindergarten through high school graduation.  Each educator encountered along the K-12 journey infuses, for better or worse, images and inclinations of what a teacher is and does.  Unfortunately this overburden of layered identity can often smother the true-self of the teacher to be, the birth-right gift to heal through teaching.  The uncovering of identity requires the tools of amazement and wonderment to facilitate a state of “self-forgetfulness” of the old false-self of layered impressions and the embracing of “being here, being today, being now”.  Purification for educators wipes the slate clean of preconceived notions of teacher imposed from outside as well as the unrealistic inner expectations and assumptions of what a good teacher does.

Once some level of inner calmness and clarity of purpose is achieved and sustained the next step is illumination.  Key to illumination is “transformation” where “the light of the new reality may stream in and completely enlighten and change the soul”.  In my personal experience of learning to teach and through years of coaching teachers I equate the mystical illumination with the acceptance of one’s gifts as an educator.  This is far from an easy process.  It takes time, practice, and discipline so that the “light of the new reality may stream in” and change the teacher’s heart and craft. Teachers are, it seems by nature, hesitant to accept their skills as a gift. I for one, would rather not draw attention to my accomplishments.  I’m quick to dismiss educational successes as something common place with the phrase, “I’m not that special. That is just what teachers do”.   For the teachers who do experience some element of illumination at the heart of their craft, they begin to view their teaching skills as something coming from beyond themselves; a gift moving from deep inside which becomes visible in the form of their pedagogical choices.  In the language of mysticism the “Divine spark” or calling begins to glow and shine.  An illuminated educator becomes transformed as their pedagogy moves from ego-centric and external technical expertise to inner-wisdom that flows in a natural state of being.  They experience an “un-forming” or a sense of “letting go of our false desires”.  The taken for granted world view of educator as all powerful and all-knowing is turned on its head and instead openness, vulnerability, and wholeheartedness become the source of authority in the classroom.  As Parker Palmer notes: “technique is what a teacher uses until the real teacher arrives”.  An illuminated teacher is real and fully present to their gifts and the learning interests of their students.

The third step in the mystical journey according to Soelle is “union of the soul with God”.  The Flemish mystic Jan van Ruysbroeck, according to Soelle, defines union as the stage of “oneness of being itself”.  Educators approach this state of “oneness” when they are one with their gift, their calling to teach.  This is not a way of teaching that can be taught or mastered through technical expertise.  And it is not typically a constant state of being, it fluctuates in accordance with a range of contextual variables.  But at its best it feels like a union of one’s teaching with the spark of the calling to be an educator.  Some call this a state of “flow” where time seems to slow down, the space between teaching and learning collapses, and a feeling of unity between inner energy and outer practice becomes the norm.  In union there is no student, no teacher, no curriculum, just a unifying sense of integration and completeness which is often described as oneness with the subject matter.  This state of instructional bliss is experienced as a “healing” or “wholeness” where the small intellectual and ego deaths of traditional forms of teaching are transcended into life giving human flourishing.  The gifts of the teacher flow freely from their Divine calling into the classroom and are available to the hearts and minds of students.  Love for self, others, and text infuse the learning experience; the stifling elements of structure, accountability, and rigor vanish or are subsumed under something bigger for brief moments in time.

In my professional role as educator and sometimes mystic I see potential in using the stages of mysticism in the preparation and professional development of teachers.  My commitment to pursuing this framing is premised on two assumptions and one challenge, all three grounded in my personal and professional experience.  The first assumption is that all true teachers have within a Divine spark labeled “educator”.  I recognize that not everyone would agree with this point and that some educators would resist or hesitate at my use of theological language to describe this aspect of teaching. Two, given the right circumstances, rituals, and disciplined practice the Divine gift of teaching can be liberated and breathed fully into instructional brilliance.  The biggest challenge to the initiation and development of purification, illumination, and union are the norms of education which lean heavily away from the spiritual and toward structure, regimentation, and standardization.  My goal is to awaken, in a non-religious sense, teachers to the potential fullness of their calling to teach.  Mysticism for myself and others seems like a good walking companion in this task.

May 5, 2019—Educators love to create categories and frameworks for learning, as if learning is solely contingent on structure and form.  The modern field of education is so focused on standards that it is almost as if human learning never occurred before the formalization of curriculum. The wider history of education, however, shows that the traditionalist approach to teaching and learning is a recent focus of education.  Karen Armstrong argues in her book The Case for God that as early as 50,000 years ago people used cave paintings and sophisticated ritual to usher young people into adulthood and full participation in the life of the tribe.  In antiquity, Greek, Roman, and Jewish communities organized learning around preparation for entry into religious communities, participation in civic life, or general intellectual enrichment.   And throughout the history of curriculum in America there were educators who argued for and actively sought to elevate holistic notions of knowing and organization of curriculum.  More recently, Parker Palmer in his well-known text Courage to Teach brings attention to the fact that: “We teach who we are”. By this he means that the inner life of the teacher has to be taken into account for any serious conversation about teaching to occur.  To not address, for instance, feelings of fear or abundance, as aspects of the inner life of educators is to risk pedagogical disaster.  Students know when a teacher is inauthentic and not showing the fullness of their humanity and if the teacher is holding back why should the learner fully invest in the learning process?

The challenge for holistic educators is less about knowing the inner-life exists but rather more about developing a language to describe this orientation to teaching.  Unlike the traditionalist model which attends to concrete phenomena like lesson plans, instructional strategies, and performance indicators anchored in observable behaviors, the inner-life of educators is less tangible and difficult to observe directly.  But as Abraham Heschel argues just because something is ineffable doesn’t mean it can’t be understood: “The ineffable, then, is a synonym for hidden meaning rather than for the absence of mean­ing”.  A case in point is Dorothee Soelle’s text, The Silent Cry (2001) in which she provides a detailed analysis of mystical experiences where the inner-life of the person finds unity with Divine Love. In quoting Jan Van Ruysbroeck, Soelle makes a good case for the connection between the inner life of teachers and their outer performance: “Self-knowledge teaches us whence we come, where we are and whither we go”.  In other words, as Palmer states: “We teach who we are” and the stronger the sense of self-knowledge the more effective and authentic teaching becomes.

Beyond this broad argument connecting the outer performance of teachers to the condition of their inner-life, Soelle provides specific language and markers that are useful for anyone interested in deepening their spiritual formation as an educator.  She begins by first arguing that all people are capable of mystical experiences, connections to and with something greater than self.  As she notes, her goal is to “democratize the mystical experience” so that all people, not just the pious few, can access the wisdom of Divine Love.  Soelle is a theologian and therefore for her the Divine means all the diverse ways humans describe God.  I think that for secularly inclined educators Divine could mean something greater than self.  I’m thinking here particularly of subject matter, the great historical narrative of an academic discipline, or a deep dedication to a student, anything that goes beyond the expected which results in personal or academic transcendence.  Furthermore, she claims that “the trivialization of life is perhaps the strongest antimystical force among us”.  For educators “trivialization” comes in the form of teacher-proof curriculum that overly structures and constrains the instructional life of educators.  For Soelle, a good way to resist the “trivialization of life” is to embrace the mystical experience which all people are capable of achieving.  For me this raises the question, what might viewing education through mysticism add to our understanding of effective forms of teaching?

According to Soelle there are two types of mystics, individuals who advocate the virtues of pure mystical experience and mystics who are more interested in teaching about the process of preparing for the mystical encounter with Divine Love.  This later group she calls the “mystagogues” who by their nature teach about the mysteries of the mystical experience.  The work of the mystagogue is tricky because mysticism by definition involves developing a relationship with something, Love, that can’t be defined, described, or delineated.  Yet the Divine can be experienced and the mystagogues have developed rituals and practices that prepare a person for the mystical experience.  The same categorization of knowing seems true for educators who experience the inner-life of teaching.  There are teacher educators who argue that the inner-life of educators can only be experienced, not taught. And there are educators who believe that it is possible to formalize the process of connecting teachers to Divine educational energies.

I belong to the latter group.  I can’t and would never want to craft a mystical experience for educators, but I can facilitate the conditions for the likelihood of a mystical experience to occur.  By mystical I mean the ability of educators to move beyond purely technical approaches to teaching; to embrace those aspects of teaching that are ineffable, transcendent, and bound to something greater than self.  I long ago claimed, or better yet have been claimed by, the identity of educator.  Teaching is the unique spark of the Divine that glows most fervently in my heart.  It is my gift, my calling, and my passion.  I have also come to realize that my deepest experiences with Love while teaching fall into the category of mysticism.  Given my mystical tendencies and mystagogical orientation to curriculum I’m frequently looking for and inclined toward models or descriptions of teaching that are organized around the acquisition of knowledge that anchor the teaching process in some notion of mystery.  Dorothee Soelle describes several key elements of the mystical experience that I think can be repurposed to the mystagogical task of structuring a learning curriculum for teachers that attends to the mystical aspects of their teaching; their inner-life.  The three stages of mysticism, “purification, illumination, and union”, presented by Soelle provide guideposts for speaking about the mystical preparation of teachers.

In my next blog-post I will define these three stages and provide personal and professional examples of what they might look like in the daily practice of educators.  In the meantime I invite you think about the ways that you experience teaching as a form of mystery, perhaps most clearly in those moments of awe and wonder in the classroom.

Feb 26, 2019—I was recently thinking about embodied teaching.  The source of my reflection is the theology course I’m taking.  The class readings describe the diverse ways that Spirit, ritual practices, and professional calling are best understood as embodied, not rational, experiences and orientations to truth.  As I thought about the application of embodiness to teaching it became clear to me that an element of good teaching is an embodied, not rational, practice.  In support of this claim I generated the following list of expressions and concepts that resonate with a bodily form of knowing in teaching: wholehearted, embracing change, feel for the work, heart-felt, wounded, heartbroken, gut feeling, and presence.  This short list, I’m sure, only scratches the surface.  I suspect you will have additional terms for teaching that are equally embodied.

Embodiedness as a distinguishing characteristic of teaching provides unique answers to the philosophical questions about knowing (epistemology) and being (ontology) in education.  Embodied teaching, in contrast to Western ways of knowing and being, involves feeling, emotions, and intuition.  The embodied educator trusts the full range of their inner sense making tools while also recognizing the limitations and pitfalls of blindly following subjective perceptions and understandings.  Embodied educators have no choice but to teach through the wisdom of their bodies.  They have no choice because that is who they are at the level of their instructional core; embodiedness is their being.  To act otherwise is to teach out of a sense of falsehood and inauthenticity that students will sense and respond to in kind.  Students will learn from their teacher how to hide their true self.  To understand teaching as a calling is to acknowledge gifts and talents embodied in unique ways for each teacher.

Laura Rendon in her book Sentipensante summarizes the contrast between embodiness and rationalism in this way.  Instead of embracing the Cartesian world view of “I think therefore I am” she argues for a more holistic framing of teaching as “I belong therefore I am”.  Belonging in both the sense of being part of a group of others (external embodiment) and attentiveness to one’s inner life (internal embodiment).  To truly belong to a group is to be recognized as a distinct person inhabiting a particular body. To belong internally is to know your moods, emotions, gifts, shadows, and the places in your body where you hold pain or experience joy.  I can tell, for instance, when I’m more or less in my body as a teacher.  The more I feel grounded and centered, rooted into the classroom space, the more I am energized and connected to the content and to my students.  I’m alive and flourishing in the instructional space.

bell hooks, another educator concerned about embodied teaching, speaks of educators who are weary.  They carry around a sense of disconnection from themselves, their students, and their content knowledge.  Her antidote to this deep sense of professional weariness is attentiveness to spiritual energy and wellness.  It is from these deep sources of passion that good teaching flows through the hands of the teacher and into the hearts of students.  For both Rendon and hooks the move toward teaching as an embodied practice means dropping the metaphor of student as object and embracing the understanding of student as subject; a body of unique qualities and characteristics.  Additionally, teacher as subject can meet student as subject in an embodied emancipatory-relationship of mutual respect, appreciation, and empathy.

In concrete terms, embodied teaching can take a variety of forms and styles. Here are a few examples that come to mind.  I once observed an apprentice teacher who was a master at greeting students at the door of the classroom.  The ritual practice of greeting was more than a handshake, fist bump, or loving pat on the back.  The bodily presence of the teacher met the bodily presence, in all its forms, of the students entering the classroom.  The chemistry of teacher true-self welcoming student true-self set the stage for engaged learning.  One of my consistent embodied practices is having students complete name cards during the first class session.  At the end of class I collect the cards and pass them out at the start of the next class period.  This practice provides me an opportunity to walk around the class and greet each student.  I often follow up on an email or check to see how a project is going.  My embodied presence invites the embodied presence of my students to show up.  In another example, materials in some classrooms are passed out by the teacher with care and concern.  Thus the students see the importance of respect for the learning process.  In other classrooms materials are passed out haphazardly or even worse tossed onto the desks of students.  In the second example the embodied practice of disrespect for curriculum conveys an implicit message of disrespect to students about the value of knowing and becoming educated.

Rapport with students is a common indicator in most teacher observation tools.  In many cases this is measured and met through the frequency and quality of greetings, expressions of interest in students and their home life, or demonstrating belief in a student’s capacity to learn. These are important and necessary steps but only the early stages of rapport.  An embodied teacher understands rapport as an opportunity to meet each student as a fully complete human being, with all the strengths and struggles that being human entails.  The challenge lies in measuring this quality of teaching since it is often individual to each teacher.  But that should not stop educators from developing language, metaphors, and descriptors for embodied teaching.  How do you know—feel—when you are more or less in your body while teaching.  What does it feel like when you shift from your rational teaching mind to a sense of intuition?

 

February 7, 2019—Is empathy fatigue just another word for burnout or is there something particular about empathy fatigue that is worth leaning into?  In the past week I led a professional development session on empathy fatigue and I had two separate and unrelated conversations with professionals around this theme.  I have learned over the years that when something appears frequently in my life it is worth paying attention to.

According to the Oxford Dictionary of English, empathy or compassion fatigue is defined as the “indifference to charitable appeals on behalf of those who are suffering, experienced as a result of the frequency or number of such appeals.” In other words, empathy fatigue is a response by caregivers to repeated requests for help by someone else in need.  Empathy fatigue is more typically experienced by physicians, nurses, and other health care providers as their capacity to express empathy for patients is eroded by stress, external performance indicators, and the press to increase efficiency.  It is also sometimes called empathy fatigue. However, I think empathy fatigue, or some variant, is experienced by teachers when their calling to serve learners collides with the frequent appeals by learners (expressed and unexpressed) for social, emotional, intellectual, and spiritual support.

Empathy fatigue for educators, much like for health care workers, is more of a systems problem than the work of individual teachers or students. Most teachers I know care deeply about their students.  They want to help; that is why they are educators.  Teachers don’t set out to experience it and equally so I don’t think most students intend to inflict their teachers with it.  Yet empathy fatigue is part of the teaching landscape and is a contributing factor to teacher attrition rates.  One underlying social factor that contributes to empathy fatigue is chronic stress.  The American Psychological Association reports that a third of workers experience regular and sustained stress.  Suicide and rates of depression are rising, in part from stress, according to the Center for Disease Control and surveys from Blue Cross Blue Shield.  Within the field of education half of the teaching force has contemplated leaving because of personal and professional stress.  Two-thirds of educators in a survey of 5,000 teachers stated that they found their work environment stressful.  These statistics may help explain why empathy fatigue can materialize despite the deep sense of calling a teacher holds for her craft.  It can happen to the best of teachers who deeply care about the learning and emotional state of their students.  In fact, the more a teacher cares the more likely they are to experience empathy fatigue as they dig deep into their empathy tank in response to frequent appeals for assistance from students.

There are several actions a teacher can take to either reduce the likelihood of empathy fatigue or to work their way toward better health and wellness.  On an individual basis, mindfulness, meditation, deep breathing and contemplative activities can help.  Another workable response to empathy fatigue is keeping a gratitude journal or log.  A simple list of things to be grateful for in the teaching day.  Maybe it was an instructional breakthrough that opened up a new way to teach a concept.  Maybe it was a joke a student told during class.  Maybe it is the feeling of gratitude for a colleague who took the time to check in.  A variant on the gratitude log is keeping the hand written notes, drawings, and emails from students, parents, or colleagues complimenting some aspect of your teaching.  When the days are rough, and those days do occur, looking through the file can be a reminder of your ability to do great things to enhance learning.  And most importantly, there is always self-empathy, recognizing that empathy fatigue is a part of what it means to be a teacher, because you care enough to invest your heart in service of another person.  You can’t be perfect all the time; imperfection and imperfect care are human qualities.

Beyond individual actions in combating empathy fatigue it is helpful to have a good social network of like-minded colleagues, especially colleagues who know you well enough to recognize if you are not quite yourself as you interact with students.  Fellow educators who ask how you are doing, invite you out for a cup of coffee/tea to talk, or shine a light in your darkness reminding you about your calling.  A trusted colleague, friend, or partner can recognize the symptoms of empathy fatigue and make you rest and renew your empathy gas tank.  As anyone who travels by plane knows you have to put your oxygen mask on first before you can help others in need.

Students can help as well.  They are highly tuned to the moods of their teachers and therefore make good empathy fatigue detectors.  One of the signs of empathy fatigue is a loss of focus or interest in the other.  Students spend large parts of their day in direct contact with teachers, watching their emotional states and anticipating their teaching moves.  As such, if they have a strong relationship with their teacher, they can call the teacher out when they are inattentive and wandering, seeming to lose focus and interest in the educational needs of the student.  If the teacher is resilient they will recognize the truth of the critique, and if true, admit they were not fully present to the student and take steps to refocus.  It is also the case that empathy fatigue for teachers can be the result of trying too hard to reach into the learning heart of the student.  Teachers are typically hardwired to help students learn and this is generally an admirable quality.  But the shadow side of this gift is that a teacher’s identity and sense of accomplishment can become affixed to the learning performance of students.  Yet if for any number of reasons a student resists taking ownership of their learning by constantly asking the teacher for help, the end result can be empathy fatigue.  The teacher’s sense of self becomes depleted by the cycle of emotionally and intellectually extending oneself to meet the student’s need combined with minimal or slow student learning outcomes.

Students can also be a source of energy, giving back to the teacher, restocking their empathy tank.  Care dynamics are reversed and the student is now helping the teacher. An observant teacher knows which students in their classes are likely to give caring-energy.  With that knowledge a empathy fatigued teacher can look ahead into the daily class schedule with a sense of anticipation, not to burden the student with unreasonable and unprofessional expectations, but simply to be present to the mutual joy of teaching and learning.  This is a form of positive, rather than negative, projection into the instructional day. Who are the students just as ready to greet you as you are to greet them?  After all isn’t this one way to describe good teaching: a shared sense of care for the other?  Empathy fatigue is real for teachers but it doesn’t have to blunt the teacher’s call to serve others.

January 22, 2019—The winter solstice is a month past.  The earth is no longer at its maximum tilt away from the sun in the northern hemisphere.  As my backyard incrementally tilts toward the sun it slowly absorbs more heat as the season of winter leans toward spring and then on to the summer solstice.  Two periods of equal light and dark (equinox) and two periods of unequal light and dark (solstice) are key markers as the earth orbits the sun.  The natural world crosses four thresholds and passes through four doorways during the year in the process of integrating varying amounts of light and dark.  Parker Palmer encourages educators to look to the natural world for clues and metaphors for understanding the tilted-axis of the teacher’s identity as we journey around the gravitational pull, periods of light/dark, and the warming presence of our students.  The seasonal metaphor of thresholds and doorways offer, I think, an interesting way to understand the ebb and flow of teaching.

What are the doorways of my teaching?  What are the thresholds of your teaching?  Where are they inviting you and me to enter and experience the newness of our craft?  The first doorway that speaks to me is the threshold of my classroom.  I teach in different buildings and different rooms with different doors but the threshold experience is the same for my teacher heart.  It marks the boundary between the ordinary spaces of the university and sacred space of the classroom.  In the classroom we have, as a collected community of teacher and students, the opportunity to structure time and space in ways that preserve aspects of power and hierarchy or we can disrupt those elements.  Doors and thresholds are magical and powerful.  They are at their best symbols reminding everyone to enter the classroom with openness, vulnerability, and attentiveness to the other.  The more explicit I am with naming this threshold the easier it is to enter ready to consider new approaches to learning and to embrace opportunities to change perceptions of self and others.  Rituals are important when passing through doorways and crossing thresholds intended to facilitate transformation.  I mark this transition by reading a poem at the start of class.  A good poem allows time for everyone to settle into our shared space and to begin the task of education, change, and challenge.

A second teaching doorway is my office door.  Although not directly associated with traditional images of a classroom my office is an important feature of teaching and learning.  Sometimes the office-lessons are planned: mentoring sessions around doctoral research or office appointments with a student requesting modifications to a course assignment.  Other times my door stands wide open and the teaching moment is more organic and spontaneous.  Only when the conversation is sensitive is my door closed.  I try to pay attention to the fact that my office door is more than an institutional barrier between faculty professional life and student interests, wants, and needs. My office door is just a different kind of threshold that once crossed is an invitation to change and learn in the same way as the threshold into my classroom.  My plants, my books, and a small round table are meant to signal this transition for students, colleagues, and myself.  At the end of every week I take a moment, a regular ritual of practice, to honor this threshold as I close my door.

The real quality of doors and their metaphorical equivalent can make a difference in the crossing of thresholds along the journey of knowing.  Some doors are glass and others steel; some teaching is transparent and some is not.  What would it mean to teach as if you were separated from the rest of the world by a screen door?  Some classroom doors are unlocked and easy to pass through.  Others are locked and require a key or access code to enter as if only people with the official code are privy to the learning within.  Some educators find themselves teaching from behind the locked doors of fear, anxiety, and a sense of instructional inadequacy.  In these classrooms students may find it harder to step over the threshold of deep learning and into a space of intellectual transcendence.  What type of door are you when you are at your best as a teacher?  How about when nothing seems to be working and you feel ill-suited for the work of teaching?  When I’m at my least effective my door is bolted shut with only a small sliding panel for communication across the threshold.

Anne Hillman in her poem “We Look With Uncertainty” reminds me to remain humble in the face of successful moments of learning as my students cross the threshold into knowledge and knowing.  She writes: “We look with uncertainty… to a softer, more permeable aliveness which is every moment at the brink of death”.  The possibility for pedagogical uncertainty is always just over the threshold of my classroom instruction.  But as Hillman notes the possibility of a failed lesson is an invitation to aliveness and the movement through new and unexpected doorways; places where transformation exists on the other side.  Her response to this uncertainty contains good advice for me and other teachers: “We stand at a new doorway, awaiting that which comes…”  What are the new doorways in your teaching inviting you to cross the threshold to change?  Who or what is preventing or encouraging you to open a door and move into a new instructional room?

December 28, 2018—This time of year lots of emotional energy, thought, and treasure goes into thinking about, acquiring, wrapping, and presenting gifts to others.  At its worst gift-giving for me feels like a commodification of a deeply personal act of caring for others.  At its best gift-giving is a genuine and heartfelt expression of caring for others.  I can be a bit Grinchy this time of year because more often than not it feels like the worst aspects of gift-giving dominate over the more generative personal connections that gift giving can embody.  Buying and snagging the best deal seems to rule over the more holistic message of community, love, peace, and joy.  I have a pair of Grinch socks and a matching T-shirt to express my underlying distrust of programmed and planned gift-giving.  They are gifts from my family.  I think they were trying to be funny, but I’m not sure.  Below the humor there is a grain of truth.  I can be a bit Grinchy this time of year.

Luckily there are deeper meanings to gift-giving that I can latch onto beyond the commercial definition that I dislike.  No need for Grinch thinking or paraphernalia with these approaches to gift-giving. I am quite happy and joyously elfish when I think about and act on these more expansive meanings of gift-giving.  All seems right in my world when I give or receive gifts as heartfelt expressions of care and concern for someone else.  For these gifts, no purchase is necessary, just an open and genuine heart and sense of caring.

It is simply a precious and lovely gift to be in the presence of someone who is fully present to you.  A person who has taken the time to slow down and reflect on what makes you uniquely you and why those characteristics inspire love and appreciation for the other.  This level of attentive presence creates a sense of caring wrapped in the company of an open-hearted person who is taking the time to fully listen to you in a way that invites you into the abundance of your being.  And what a gift it is when that invitation to consider the fullness of your humanity yields a quality of selfhood that was overlooked or perhaps temporarily forgotten.  This is exactly what, I believe, the best teachers do. They gift their students with an active sense of presence that manifests itself as stillness and is enacted through the skill of deep listening.  Students can give a similar gift to teachers when they treat teachers less as an external authority figure and more like a fellow human being.  A person working hard every day, just like students, to be a better learner, educator, and person.  This is a form of gift giving that can be exchanged daily.  No special season or occasion is required for the gift exchange of attentive-presence.

I think Denise Levertov in her poem A Gift captures the ways that students gift teachers through the questions they ask.  She writes: “You are given the questions of others/as if they were answers/to all you ask. Yes, perhaps/this gift is your answer”.  The questions of students are much like the proverbial apple they leave on the corner of the teacher’s desk.  A lovingly selected gift, nestled between papers to grade, soup cans full of pencils, and handouts for the next lesson.  A well framed student-question, like an apple, stands out and invites the attention of the teacher.  Ideally, the teacher will recognize the gift and treat it with the respect and attentiveness it calls for.  Levertov employs the metaphor of a butterfly to capture the relationship between a teacher receiving the student’s question and the teacher’s response: “butterflies opening and closing themselves/in your cupped palms, trusting you not to injure/their scintillant fur, their dust”.  What a lovely image.  A student’s question as a part of the student, given with perhaps a tinge of vulnerability, trusting and hoping that the teacher will not injure the student through a careless act of inattentiveness or blatant bias.  A gift so precious that it needs to be treated like dust that can be easily blown away and lost in the dark corners of the classroom.  Gift giving of the self between teachers and students is risky business and it seems that more attention should be paid to the exchange.

There is another understanding of gift that I’d like to explore and consider.  Teaching is a calling, a deep sense of purpose that finds its genesis outside the teacher.  You cannot manufacture a calling.  You can’t stroll into a store and purchase a calling with a credit card, no matter the credit limit.  Students know the authentic teachers from the educators who are inauthentic in their pursuit of the identity of teacher.  A calling is a gift from somewhere outside the teacher; a divine spark of self-knowing.  It is a gift not a purchase.  The expression that it is better to give than to receive applies in a paradoxical way to this understanding of gift-giving.  A calling is a gift, something received, but its real worth is in the giving away of that gift to students.  In fact, it is my experience that the more I give away my gift the stronger it gets.  Without students I wouldn’t be able to refine my sense of calling and move closer to perfection.  An authentic gift is never completely depleted in the act of teaching, unless some aspect of the teaching context limits the teacher’s capacity to integrate their gift into the classroom or lesson.

On the social calendar this is the time of year to consider gift-giving.  It is well and good to slow down and think about the people in your life who have contributed to your growth.  This is especially true, I think, for the educators who are both called to teach and who gift that calling to their students.  For learners the question becomes, what kinds of gifts to give a teacher?  Among the presents and apples I’m hoping that some really good questions will be asked by students.  Inquiries to be held gently by the teacher because they have the capacity to invite the teacher more fully into their own identity.  What a gift a student gives a teacher.  And what a gift a teacher gives by listening with attentive presence to the student and their question.

 

December 7th 2018—For many years I have experienced what I increasingly see as a moral dilemma.  It leads me to ask the question should I keep teaching and preparing new teachers or should I leave the profession.  This question has recently engaged my heart with increased vigor. Perhaps I’m on the edge of “moral-injury” as I’ve defined in previous posts.  I wonder if the tension between my ideal notions of preparing teachers and what I experience during the actual practice of teaching new teachers is leading me to make decisions that bend and distort my moral compass.  This may be the case, but as I reflect on my situation I don’t think my dilemma rises to that level of concern.  I continue to find ways to act with integrity and fidelity to my call to teach.  It doesn’t feel like my moral compass is non-functional and unreliable.  I still have a strong sense of my personal and pedagogical True North.  This assertion and confidence in my inner-teacher may perhaps seem odd given that I started this essay with the statement that I wonder if I should continue to teach or not.

I believe that what has been and is currently going on in my heart is a conflict between my love of teaching and the reality of what new teachers face as they enter the profession.  In particular I wonder if it is morally justifiable to feed my passion to teach—my inner calling—while at the same time knowing the high rate of early career burnout.  I know all too well the harsh meaning behind the statistic that 50% of new teachers leave in 5 years. In under-resourced and underserved schools the attrition rate rises to 50% in 3 years.  In real terms this means that half of my students will leave the profession and their calling to influence the life trajectory of their students.  Hovering above this shocking statistic are the real faces and caring hearts that I know all too well; the students in my classes.

It is equally clear to me that not all preservice teachers should become teachers.  I consider it a good and virtuous responsibility to determine if the profession of teaching is a good fit for every student I teach.  Low ratings on observations and poor academic performance suggest a lack of fit. It is good for the profession and good for the K-12 students experiencing a lack of teaching passion or ineffective pedagogy when I encourage my low performing students to seek other professions more consistent with their gifts. Yet the lack of fit as a rational for leaving the profession is not the reason for the early departure of many of my students.  They leave the profession for other reasons which are often more traumatic.  The origin of their challenge is remaining true to their calling within a system and social context that is more concerned with performance indicators than the love of teaching.  The social-emotional stress associated with testing, accountability, teacher-proof curriculum, and standards-based assessment can sometimes reach such an extreme that the only reasonable choice is to leave.  Teachers in this circumstance are broken-hearted and disillusioned.  How can a profession they love and care for treat them so poorly?

At the core of my moral dilemma is the question should I really continue to prepare young teachers for a profession that I know is often antithetical to all they hold dear?  Should I continue to encourage teachers to enter the profession when I know that for many of them they will experience an instructional and relational environment that crushes their spirit and leaves them broken hearted?  How long can I remain complicit with a system that tends to chew up new educators, even ones that show promise and are effective at igniting young minds?  As I’ve leaned into these questions I find myself encountering a number of sticking points. The first is rather practical and straightforward; how will I earn a living and pay my bills?  Although an important consideration, the transactional factors of my work are not compelling reasons to remain in the profession.  There are many other ways to earn a living.  A more deeply rooted reason for remaining in the role of teacher is that education is my professional calling.  It is the best way to interact with my gifts with integrity and fidelity.  Edna St. Vincent Millay captures the deeply spiritual feeling I encounter while teaching when she writes: “World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!” When I’m at my best as a teacher I get close enough to the richness of the learning moment and the sweet enticing engagement of my students, a moment of instructional bliss.  If I quit as a way to resolve the dilemma, I risk dishonoring my calling and cutting myself off from opportunities to become enlivened by the great mystery of education.  To be placed in relationship to something greater than self, as a fulcrum for personal and professional growth, is a gift of great value.

Perhaps my next observation is informed too much by ego and an inflated sense of my self-worth as a teacher.  If I quit who will teach my students the lessons and learnings they need to know about and experience while on the path toward effective instruction and professional self-worth?  My argument is that my ability to wrestle with moral questions and to express an openness to the broken-hearted world of what is compared to what should be provides me with unique insights.  It is within the wisdom of how to navigate the in-between spaces, what Parker Palmer calls the “tragic gap”, that students can find ways to thrive in their early years of teaching.  Instead of trying to collapse the poles of what is and what should be, Palmer argues for finding a place of productive tension between the two elements in a way that honors both perspectives.  By its definition good teaching exists at the dynamic interface between what is and what ought to be.  Who is better placed to teach about ways to respond to broken-heartedness and disillusionment in life-giving ways than someone who regularly experiences these emotions, integrates the two poles, and continues to love teaching?

There are two things I know, (1) I’m far from resolving my dilemma and (2) the tension around quitting or continuing to teach is increasing with intensity in apparent correlation with the lack of professional respect my students face as they enter the field of teaching.  So far I continue to see personal value and receive affirmation from my students in my role as coach and mentor to a greater extent than the less positive view I hold of myself as someone unconcerned about the fate of my students and who is willing to continue receiving a paycheck instead of resigning in protest.  In some sense I’m glad this moral dilemma is a regular meditation for me.  It helps, I believe, to keep me fairly honest about my motivations and intentions as an educator. My True North actually becomes stronger and more trustworthy the more I question its calibration.  It is this sense of personal honesty that contributes to my authenticity as an educator, a sense of inner trustworthiness that manifests itself in my outer forms of teaching.

November 2nd, 2018—I have learned much about teaching by seeking out information and ideas from outside the field of education.  The teaching literature is certainly rich with new ways to approach teaching.  It is pushing forward, as it should, important themes of inclusiveness, equity, social emotional learning, empowering the voices of teachers/students, and best practices associated with learning that serves all students.  This internal dialogue, what is working and what is not is important and necessary work.  But any community that listens only to its own practitioners and researchers is a community that risks the danger of talking only to itself.  The mirror of education speak can become too sharply focused on the educators, researchers, policy makers, and parents who are looking intently into the polished glass of educational reform.

To be clear, self-reflection around theory and practice is an important skill for the profession of education and its educators.  Without the ability to gaze self-critically into the heart of educational practice the risk of self-delusion is high.  And if educators are careless, unexamined practices can precipitate unintended forms of teaching that can disempower and disenfranchise students in already under resourced and under-served schools.  For instance, teachers who teach in ways consistent with the ways they were taught should wonder if they are fully and genuinely responsive to the learning needs of their students.  Are they truly being effective for all learners if they don’t stop and periodically test their teaching assumptions with a few key questions?  For example, is my lived-experience really the same as the lived-experience of my students and therefore is it fair and reasonable to expect my students to think and behave like I do?  When I measure success in ways that matches the ways I was successful as a student, which of my learners is likely to struggle with my assessments?  When the social and cultural mismatch between teachers and students is amplified by the lack of self-critical analysis the damage to student learning can be amplified.  We know this in the field of education because the critical lens was turned inward to catch missteps that ran counter to the goal of educating all learners.  Internal reflection around best practices is a good thing.

Yet as I noted at the start of this essay there is much I have learned about teaching by straying from the field of education.  I’m currently pursuing a MA degree in Theological Studies from the Iliff School of Theology because I want to develop new ideas, new theories, and new language to speak about my philosophy of education which contains elements of transcendence and calling.  These themes are more fully developed in the field of theology than the discipline of education.  My anthropology of humanness needed more expansive language then typically found in education, which feels inadequate to my goal of creating classroom spaces that reach toward becoming fully awake to the wholeness of what it means to be human.  By entering the field of theology my descriptive vocabulary has increased.  I can now talk about education with words and concepts like mystagogue, sacred space, mysticism, inner eyes and ears, indwelling, spiritual awakening, and ritual.

Another field I turn to when broadening my understanding of effective forms of teaching is ecology/biology.  The natural world has always been a robust touch point for me when I search for new ways to see teaching with fresh eyes. The poet John Moffitt writes: “To look at any thing,/ If you would know that thing,/ You must look at it long:/ To look at this green and say,/ “I have seen spring in these/ Woods,” will not do – you must/ Be the thing you see:” The message for me is plain.  To really know my students, which is the gateway to effective teaching, I must take the time to get to know my students.  I must learn their moods, their vocabulary of learning, their hidden pain which they guard, and their passion to learn.  I find that this type of decentered-teaching works best when I step away from my ego, my institutional role, and move outside my narrow pedagogical interests to adopt new ways of seeing and talking about learning.

Ornithology, the study of birds, is also a non-teaching favorite of mine.  I find it is rich with metaphors and images of good practice as long as I can look beyond the language and technical descriptions to the deeper meaning.  I was recently watching a PBS show Autumnwatch New England.  One of the guests was David Allen Sibley, arguably one of the premier birders and illustrators in the world.  He made this remarkable statement when describing the process of writing and painting a field guide on birds: “A drawing is a picture of our understanding. If you don’t understand something you can’t draw it.”  And in a YouTube video on his drawing process, David states: “Every sketch that I do I discover something new.  I get to know the bird better.  It forces me to look at all the different aspects, the proportions, the shapes, the curves, the tones, and really understand all that.  There is no better way to get to know a bird than to draw it”.  Sibley’s insight on sketching and illustrating birds is a form of wisdom I can apply immediately to my teaching.  He reminds me that it is important, if not essential, to combine the precision of science with the illumination of art. There is a science or structure to my teaching anchored in proven teaching techniques.  But of equal importance is the art of teaching, which comes, as Sibley suggests from the process of intentionally watching and sketching the intricacies of my students, their ineffable qualities.  The more I turn outward and away from the taken for granted language of education and my own views of education, the more I’m likely to discover new ways to pursue my goal of student-transcendence of self and content.

If a drawing is a form of understanding as Sibley argues, how well can you sketch your students?  Without seeing them in front of you how precise is your drawing? Do you truly understand in the depth of your teacher heart and psyche what their form is?  What are the qualities and characteristics that separate and unify your students, one from the other?  Maybe it is time to sharpen your pencils and head out into the field, sketch book in hand, to do some close observation.  I know I haven’t done enough of that kind of teaching, the act of deep-observation, lately. It is time, I feel, to do some field work.  To get out and do some sketching.

October 19th, 2018—Frederick Buechner famously described a professional calling as “the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet”.  Most teachers when asked why they teach will provide an answer similar to Buechner’s definition of calling.  They feel most alive and in synch with their “deep gladness” when they help learners fulfill their “deep hunger” to understand the world.  Teachers who are called to the profession find it difficult to quit and if they do they often find themselves either back in the classroom or working in an allied profession.  It is common in teacher education programs to hear students talk about leaving successful careers in non-teaching professions because they were bored or knew deep within their heart that they were not following their passion.  They resisted the call to teach for many years until they just couldn’t resist anymore.  It was time to start over, embrace the call, take up their “deep gladness” and follow the passion to teach.  In short, a teacher with a calling to serve the learning needs of students is responding to some deep inner gift or spiritual pull to teach.  Linda Alston in her book Why We Teach explains her experience with trying to resist the call to be a teacher: “we must return because the call resonates in a place within us, and we must answer, Yes!

Because calling is rooted in a deep inner feeling that is more spiritual than practical it often contains an element of idealism.  A longing to serve that is hard to quantify and validate through objective measures more commonly found in teacher accountability rubrics.  Educators teach with the hope of bringing a better world into existence through the kind of teaching that connects their “deep gladness with the world’s deep hunger”.  But these connections can be fleeting and unpredictable. As Alston notes, “the day that we don’t go back might well be the day that we miss the miracle of a child making a connection, saying something funny or profound, creating a work of art, and giving our lives meaning and purpose”. Joy in the miraculous and humorous is a significant component to the identity and idealism that is associated with teaching. Teachers know a lot about the joy of directing their teaching gifts toward learning, the drawing out of knowledge from a student. And in times of stress or uncertainty, joy can provide the needed energy to thrive during the challenges of teacher preparation and the high stakes environment of early career teaching.

As much as idealism and joy are powerful forces for educators they also have their down side.  What happens when the passion of idealism meets the cold hard facts of industrial models of schooling? What happens when the flames of idealism flicker out and instead a teacher succumbs to the reality of bench mark assessments, data sets, instructional rubrics, disinterested learners, and standardized assessments?  What happens when disenchantment overshadows joy?  Is the miraculous transformation of a learner still worth noticing and celebrating if the teacher is cynical, embittered, or burnt-in? In times like this the centering and reassuring power of calling can seem far away and elusive.  Joy and role-certainty is replaced with a sense of vocational amnesia.  “I’m a teacher” is replaced with “who am I?” and “why am I here?”  These are dangerous questions for a teacher to ask.  The Mayo Clinic defines medical amnesia as “the loss of memories, such as facts, information and experiences” that can follow severe illness, head trauma, or psychological distress.  Teaching amnesia is a loss of identity and classroom presence, a realization that you no longer know who you are and why you are teaching.  You find it a challenge to answer “Yes” to the call to teach and without that sense of “deep gladness” you are less effective at meeting the “deep hunger” of your students.

Like medical amnesia, teaching amnesia is the result of instructional/institutional trauma or distress.  For instance, the long and protracted sense that no one in your school cares about whether or not you show up in the morning.  Your colleagues or school leadership cannot accurately describe your educational gifts.  Or perhaps the sudden realization that what matters most to society is not your passion for content knowledge but rather your ability to produce high test scores and move “bubble students” to the next level of proficiency.  Vocational amnesia is a consequence of the industrialization and commodification of the craft of teaching, art and ambiguity is replaced with the siren’s call of certainty through a technocratic model of efficiency.

How can teachers heal from vocational amnesia and return to a life-giving state of instructional wellness?  As Alston notes the call never goes away but what does change is the teacher’s ability to hear the call and answer “yes!’. If at its core amnesia is characterized by a state of forgetfulness and memory loss it can be helpful to remember the reasons for entering the profession of teaching in the first place.  A good and trusted colleague or instructional team can provide the necessary reminders about a teacher’s calling.  They can remind a teacher with vocational amnesia of students they helped, differences they made in school culture, or name the teaching gifts that confirm their respected status as a team member.  Mindfulness practices that calm the inner dialogue about inadequacy and encourage a more open stance to the teaching landscape can also help.  Three deep breaths or a gratitude journal can widen the technocratic instructional blinders to encourage a more wholehearted orientation to teaching.  Poetry and wisdom stories of loss can remind a teacher’s languishing heart that remaining in a constant state of instructional joy is a myth and that out of suffering and battered idealism can emerge a renewed spirit.  Taking time to remember the feelings and emotions of that initial call to teach is another remedy for vocational amnesia. The next time you are feeling disconnected from the call, answer this question and share it with a colleague; what three words immediately come to mind when you think back to when you first considered the profession of teaching?

October 5th, 2018—In my previous post I drew comparisons between the moral injury that physicians and teachers experience because of the choices they face when treating patients or educating learners.  Both professions, it seems, experience moral injury as a result of limited professional freedom in response to institutional imperatives that generate goals focused on efficiency, numerics, prescribed treatment/teaching protocols, and economic bottom lines.  The repeated exposure to decision making that threatens moral or professional values can, as Diane Silver (2011) writes, leave “a deep soul wound that pierces a person’s identity, sense of morality and relationship to society.”  Moral injury was first used to describe soldiers returning from war where life and death decisions are made that often cut across a soldier’s morals, values, or beliefs.  Although the experiences of teachers are not analogous to that of soldiers on the battlefield there are still many comparable elements that resonate with the descriptions and costs of moral injury.

The counseling literature addresses the question of how to begin repairing moral injury through a process called “moral repair” or “soul repair.”  Soul repair is an apt descriptor for the healing that many teachers are seeking in response to the professional pain they experience.  Soul repair fits because teaching is a profession anchored in “calling”; a tight relationship between the inner commitments of a teacher and external conventions of the profession. Most teachers dedicate time, talent, and treasure to the education of learners because of a sense of moral drive or longing to serve others.  And it is broken heartedness—a separation from calling—that underscores the moral injury when in order to retain their job they are asked to reduce students to data on a spreadsheet.  Although this shift in seeing students as objects is momentary and can reveal negative-instructional trends that should be addressed, the repeated diminishment of students over an extended period of time can result in a moral rupture.  A teacher can, as Parker Palmer notes, find themselves in a state of “divided-self” where the inner calling to teach becomes separate from the external role.  This is remarkably similar to the consequences of moral injury described in the newsletter Good Therapy: “A moral injury can also be described as a sort of disconnect between one’s self and second self, where the second self is the part of the person that develops in the face of combat or a situation requiring a difficult decision.  Moral injury confuses the two selves…” (2016).

Depending on the depth or nature of a teacher’s moral injury the elements of soul repair can include individually-focused practices like mindfulness, meditation, or the modulation of emotions through training in social-emotional learning (SEL).  These are everyday approaches to stress reduction that any teacher can initiate during breaks in the day, practice as part of a curriculum aimed at teaching students mindfulness, or during an instructional breather when students are engaged in self-directed learning.  Taking three deep breaths is a simple way to restore some healing to a bruised or wounded heart.  Another easy practice is the keeping of a gratitude journal.  The goal is to write two or three things that made you laugh, smile, or feel connected to someone else during the day.  By their very nature these strategies are designed to bring teachers back into relationship with their inner-wisdom; the deep center of quietness out of which their moral integrity emerges.

Sometimes the moral violation cuts deeply into the soul of the teacher and the healing process—the return to moral integrity—entails more extensive work and repair.  Let me provide an example that will suggest a process by which a community of educators can work toward a shared sense of wellbeing.  Throughout this description I will draw on strategies pioneered and practiced in the therapeutic care of soldiers recovering from moral injury.

I regularly host conversations with educators with the explicit purpose of helping them reconnect their inner call to teach with the external imperatives of their institutional life.  These teachers, in varying ways and times, are experiencing some aspect of moral injury.  They are thirsting for reconnection and the integration of their two-selves. In soul repair the first step toward wholeness is responding to the internal cry of the heart as it reaches out for support and reintegration.  These teachers, knowingly or not, are following the guidance of The Moral Injury Project at Syracuse University to never approach the process of soul repair alone but rather to seek out “community for a shared process of healing.”  In the field of education the ubiquitous Professional Learning Community (PLC) could be a readymade community for healing the heart of educators.  Of course, not all PLCs have the requisite level of relational trust, listening skills, and communication to successfully follow the conventions of soul repair.  If this is the case then alternative sites for gathering in community should be explored.

In keeping with the soul repair literature we always begin our time together with ritual.  This typically means welcoming participants and establishing norms which create a container where participants are: invited—not required—to share their story; encouraged to avoid fixing or saving each other; expected to show up completely with all their challenges and gifts; focused on deep-listening to the teaching heart of their colleagues; and bounded by a commitment to confidentiality (what is shared in the meeting stays in the meeting).  Prior to our gathering I email a poem and reflection questions to participants.  The purpose is to invite the soul to “engage” the material in a way consistent with the slow and deliberate approach the heart uses to construct knowledge. I recently sent Galway Kinnell’s Saint Francis and Sow to a group because the images in his poem invite me to remember that effective teaching stems as much from “self-blessing” as it does from technique.  The power of poetry, as Emily Dickinson, notes comes from its ability to “tell the truth but tell it slant.”  The Moral Injury Project advocates the use of “artistic and literary formats for public engagement” because they invite “listening and witnessing” to the divided heart.  Healing language for the teacher heart is metaphor, imagery, and analogy.  In high school I learned to take poems apart, to analyze for meaning and the poet’s word choice.  In soul repair the goal is to let the poem speak to your wholeness, to let the poem interpret you.

My goal with a community of brokenhearted educators is not to achieve the measurable metrics of industrial teaching.  Instead I’m offering a brief respite from the divided life.  The longer term goal of soul repair is self-forgiveness, spiritual healing, restoring notions of self-worth, and the restoration of wholeness.  Kinnell seeks a similar outcome when he writes: “for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;/ though sometimes it is necessary/ to reteach a thing its loveliness…” Imagine if you will an educational setting where the measure of success is the depth to which the “reteaching of loveliness” is achieved.


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