Copernicus’ book De revolutionibus orbium coelestium asserted an understanding of the universe which more closely aligned with reality than did the established dictums of the sixteenth century. Among his paradigm-shattering assertions was, as you know, that the earth revolves around the sun. This explanation of the heavens did not jibe with popular understanding. It ushered an entire civilization into a clash between pre-existing beliefs and a new perspective. The people of Copernicus’ era needed to choose whether to subject their presuppositions to refinement, or preserve the old, cherished beliefs at all cost. Those in authority chose the latter option in a desperate effort to ward off change.

We all have pre-existing beliefs. Many of these assumptions are tacit, hidden in the recesses of our mind. Relationships, conflict, and myriad life experiences can flush these beliefs from hiding. Released into the open, they then provide us with the opportunity to refine them, change them—even kill them if they prove insufficient. Beliefs are like pieces of pottery placed in a kiln. The heat destroys those pieces containing air pockets and cracks. Pieces that are structurally sound survive.

I was in a group conversation not long ago in which we were discussing some weighty issues. I held fast to one perspective on the topic. Many in the group held a different opinion. I dug in and defended my ground. Fortunately, the others were patient with me. They asked good, difficult questions, tried to understand me, and elucidated their viewpoint. A dim light within me grew brighter, and I began to see how they understood the issue. I began to see fissures in my own ideas. I had to choose whether to cling to my existing fractured idea, or seriously consider killing it in favor of an idea that cohered. Our natural tendency is to do the former. In this instance I chose the latter. I wish I could say this is always the case.

Our ideas and beliefs help us make sense of the world. They possess tremendous governing authority, informing our choices. If their veracity is threatened, even for a moment, we can feel as though the ground upon which we stand has become unstable. So we’re prone to protect them, at times with breathtaking ferocity—even if they lack integrity. But this stance fosters a climate resistant to learning and growth. If we are to help others learn, we must first cultivate within ourselves a commitment to honest inquiry and intellectual integrity, and be willing to follow where this commitment leads.

Tags: education, effective learning, honest inquiry

A few weeks ago our family toured the DeGrazia Gallery in the Sun in Tucson, Arizona, a small campus of adobe structures and the home of famed artist Ettore “Ted” DeGrazia until his death in 1982. With his own ingenuity and effort, DeGrazia designed and built numerous structures on-site, including a gallery, his house, and an open-air chapel. Behind his house is a shack, now in disuse and clad in boards—presumably one of his original studios. We peeked through a knothole and could see old furniture. One of my daughters spotted a well-baked snake upon one of the tables. On the way back to the car my wife stopped and looked into a ground squirrel hole. She suggested I take a look. I peered in and saw a large snake. Our kids gathered around. They, too, could see the dark mottled skin of a bull snake. For a few moments we studied the snake and then loaded in the car.

Wouldn’t you think that our children, when asked to recount our visit, would at least mention the artwork, the unique structures, or the craftsmanship? How could they not? It was all around us. Yet when telling others about our visit to the gallery, their account begins and ends with the snakes. 

Does this mean my children did not learn anything? Was the outing lost on them? We can mistakenly believe that, because others may not highlight details we deem essential to a subject, they have not learned anything. Many of the groups I work with confront this phenomenon on a routine basis. They are bringing a message of health and wellbeing they dearly want youth to embrace. In the process they include potent facts and data—and may be disheartened when students do not with absolute clarity reflect back this valuable information. On surveys and in focus groups it is common for students to highlight aspects most of us would consider footnotes. We take seriously what students report, and use their feedback to strengthen future efforts. But we ought not be distraught and assume students have learned little when they don’t say what we hoped they would say.

Every one of us is able to articulate only a fraction of what exists in our subconscious. Learning experiences, be they field trips or classroom activities, help create a larger context within the unseen, ineffable crannies of our minds. This context serves a critical purpose, like the background of a painting. A painter typically paints a background first, moving in subsequent layers toward the details contained in the foreground. Diverse and stimulating learning experiences construct a background upon which we can add details through ensuing life encounters. That we cannot articulate in detail the existence and the nature of this background does not mean it isn’t there, or relevant. 

Particulars are important to learning, but they will be most powerful in a context wherein they gain meaning. Imagine how the image of American Gothic would change if skyscrapers replaced a southern Iowa cottage as the background of Grant Wood’s masterpiece. The background gives the two figures in the foreground a particular significance. Our tendency is to invert this relationship, emphasizing the so-called facts that compose the foreground. Though kids may be able to recount such facts with remarkable accuracy, they remain suspended—segregated from a context necessary to provide meaning. 

As a parent and educator I have to be patient as my children and students build their background layers and prepare to add details. Had my wife and I gone into our DeGrazia tour with the strong conviction that “Our children will learn about Ettore DeGrazia and gain an appreciation for his art!” we would have been frustrated and disappointed. Yet, because of the critical role I believe background plays, I’m confident they did learn something valuable upon which they can add detail. Appreciating this larger perspective can help us focus on bringing life and richness to the larger context within which effective learning takes place. 

Tags: contextual learning, educational reform

My wife recently sat in on a field trip to the desert with our middle daughter. Volunteers led the small groups of kindergarten students. Classroom teachers were present as well. At one point the field guides showed students a number of desert animal skins and skeletons. One boy, unable to see well from where he sat, rose to his knees to get a better view. The teacher reprimanded the boy, telling him he needed to remain seated. A few moments later the field guide passed around a small animal skull for students to examine. The same boy made an animal noise while holding the skull. The teacher again scolded the boy, telling him he had spent two of his three strikes. He sat subdued for the remainder of the tour. My wife was dumbfounded. In her estimation the boy’s behavior did not warrant such a constricting response.

The teacher seemed to perceive the boy’s behavior as an impediment to the learning process. This is a perspective most of us absorbed growing up: a model of education in which the teacher is like a computer server and students are computers in need of software updates. What the teacher wants most is for the student to be passive while he or she updates the student’s software. Anything else is like disconnecting your computer from the Internet mid-download.

No model could be further from how we actually learn. In the real world we learn a snippet about something. Upon hearing we want to know more. We’re confused. We’re unsatisfied. We’re eager to understand. We learn when we feed this appetite. Ever year tens of thousands of high school graduates move from their hometowns, presumably to learn. Can we blame a kindergarten kid who, in his desire to learn more, rises six inches off of his seat?

But we don’t often see things this way. We can easily see a person’s attempts to better understand as an affront to the learning process. What the teacher saw as an obstacle was, I believe, critical to that young boy’s learning process. In order for him to interact with the material the boy needed to sit up, and he needed to convert the skull into a puppet.

This boils down to a simple question: Are we in fact trying to help people learn? If we are then we ought to encourage others to express their natural learning abilities. We ought to see their attempts to exercise these natural abilities not as obstacles, but as a two-fold opportunity:

1. For students to learn more by learning more naturally

2. For those we teach to in turn teach us

Let’s replay the desert scene with an educator who welcomes such opportunities. The boy sits up in his seat to see better. The teacher works to make sure he and every student can see. The boy, with animal skull in hand, makes a bodacious animal sound. Out of her own curiosity the teacher asks the field guide, “What kind of sound would this animal make?” There is certainly a need to set boundaries for a learning process. But we mustn’t relegate to the outside of those boundaries people’s natural tendencies to ask questions, voice concerns, and even challenge what we say. Such impulses are jet fuel for learning.

Tags: cultivating imagination, divergent learning, educational reform