I am sorry I have not been writing here of late. I know that’s not professional or cool. I am breaking a promise to myself and to you. Usually, I know what to write about, and usually writing helps bring some order to the chaos of life. Of late, though, I have been working sixteen-hour days at a school I love but which has lost its way.
I would go back too. I think "smart kids" etc is just a misnomer. I mean that one goes to schools where everyone sees themselves as capable (end everyone is fed and safe, etc) and still we end up trudging rather than skipping.
I love the Andreotti story. All too true. All of this reminds me of this thing I sometimes say that the job of the new boss is to say "I am not doing anything, how can I help." That is, if the head of school was sitting in the quad reading a book rather than obsessing over assessments and matriculation, more people would see the miracle of a hummingbird.
It is not obligation that makes me want to write or apologize for not doing so--though I appreciative the reprieve--it is belief in practice. At most things I am fairly forgiving of myself, and fairly suspicious of consistency. But in this case I would like to more routine.
The larger issues of what school should and could be, why they were created and what parents, students and others expect are all subjects for another time.
Thanks, as always, for reading and for such a thoughtful, eloquent, comment.
Oh man, you're right about all that except feeling bad or under the obligation to write. I notice the quiet spells from people and if they're worth it, I guess, I think about what may be going on. If it happens enough times, I check in. I think that's all good.
I suspect many of us will recognise parts of what you are describing. How does a campus come to be a place "where people trudge rather than skip"? Reading this, my mind leapt to Vanessa Andreotti's description of an encounter with an apparently dead hummingbird that she found on the UBC campus, that turned out to be in a state of torpor. As the creature begins to revive, she decides that she needs to take it back to the tree where she found it:
"I started walking on campus; to get to the tree, I had to go counter-current through a lane full of people. It was a busy time when students had just finished their afternoon classes. I was carrying a scarf with a hummingbird flexing his wings, as if he was hovering on top of it. I had a miracle in my hands, going through that crowd. What really broke my heart is that nobody looked at the hummingbird. Nobody saw it."
The state of torpor is the trudging state, I think, and there's some deep reflection on that in the rest of Vanessa's piece.
My way into the puzzle of all this is to start by questioning the story that educational institutions are places where "smart people" are gathered "with nothing to do but be curious and learn from one another". At best, on occasion, certain people create pockets within our educational institutions that have this character, but this is not why these institutions were created, why governments fund them, why parents support their children through them or, in many countries, young people take on debt to gain the qualifications they promise. So when I'm asked to join in conversations about education, my starting point tends to be to invite us into a colder analysis of what these institutions represent, so that we can appreciate the miracle of the times when we manage nonetheless to create pockets of warmth and care and curiosity within these larger structures.
And then, in the spirit of finding our way back to skipping rather than trudging, I'd like to invite you to lay down the sense of obligation that makes you begin this post with an apology. In the right season, discipline and commitment can be a virtue, a practice of showing up whatever the weather that lets the "genius" or the "daemon" (in the old sense of these words, the Other entity from which the good stuff comes in our creative work) know that we are serious. But in my own experience, these patterns need to be broken and remade, periodically, even if that feels like breaking a promise. If you find yourself dropping the regular rhythm of posting, I wouldn't see that as something to be sorry for, as though the world is suffering from a scarcity of words and your failure to deliver will make things worse. I reckon most of us who are reading are here for the quality rather than the quantity. We're here for the power that comes with an admission of being lost and a suspicion of not being the only one who feels that way. There's courage in your writing, Ted, and that's what I'm here for.
Dougald,
I would go back too. I think "smart kids" etc is just a misnomer. I mean that one goes to schools where everyone sees themselves as capable (end everyone is fed and safe, etc) and still we end up trudging rather than skipping.
I love the Andreotti story. All too true. All of this reminds me of this thing I sometimes say that the job of the new boss is to say "I am not doing anything, how can I help." That is, if the head of school was sitting in the quad reading a book rather than obsessing over assessments and matriculation, more people would see the miracle of a hummingbird.
It is not obligation that makes me want to write or apologize for not doing so--though I appreciative the reprieve--it is belief in practice. At most things I am fairly forgiving of myself, and fairly suspicious of consistency. But in this case I would like to more routine.
The larger issues of what school should and could be, why they were created and what parents, students and others expect are all subjects for another time.
Thanks, as always, for reading and for such a thoughtful, eloquent, comment.
Oh man, you're right about all that except feeling bad or under the obligation to write. I notice the quiet spells from people and if they're worth it, I guess, I think about what may be going on. If it happens enough times, I check in. I think that's all good.
Hey Ted!
I suspect many of us will recognise parts of what you are describing. How does a campus come to be a place "where people trudge rather than skip"? Reading this, my mind leapt to Vanessa Andreotti's description of an encounter with an apparently dead hummingbird that she found on the UBC campus, that turned out to be in a state of torpor. As the creature begins to revive, she decides that she needs to take it back to the tree where she found it:
"I started walking on campus; to get to the tree, I had to go counter-current through a lane full of people. It was a busy time when students had just finished their afternoon classes. I was carrying a scarf with a hummingbird flexing his wings, as if he was hovering on top of it. I had a miracle in my hands, going through that crowd. What really broke my heart is that nobody looked at the hummingbird. Nobody saw it."
https://www.thenatureofcities.com/2016/09/01/torpor-and-awakening/
The state of torpor is the trudging state, I think, and there's some deep reflection on that in the rest of Vanessa's piece.
My way into the puzzle of all this is to start by questioning the story that educational institutions are places where "smart people" are gathered "with nothing to do but be curious and learn from one another". At best, on occasion, certain people create pockets within our educational institutions that have this character, but this is not why these institutions were created, why governments fund them, why parents support their children through them or, in many countries, young people take on debt to gain the qualifications they promise. So when I'm asked to join in conversations about education, my starting point tends to be to invite us into a colder analysis of what these institutions represent, so that we can appreciate the miracle of the times when we manage nonetheless to create pockets of warmth and care and curiosity within these larger structures.
And then, in the spirit of finding our way back to skipping rather than trudging, I'd like to invite you to lay down the sense of obligation that makes you begin this post with an apology. In the right season, discipline and commitment can be a virtue, a practice of showing up whatever the weather that lets the "genius" or the "daemon" (in the old sense of these words, the Other entity from which the good stuff comes in our creative work) know that we are serious. But in my own experience, these patterns need to be broken and remade, periodically, even if that feels like breaking a promise. If you find yourself dropping the regular rhythm of posting, I wouldn't see that as something to be sorry for, as though the world is suffering from a scarcity of words and your failure to deliver will make things worse. I reckon most of us who are reading are here for the quality rather than the quantity. We're here for the power that comes with an admission of being lost and a suspicion of not being the only one who feels that way. There's courage in your writing, Ted, and that's what I'm here for.