Category Archives: reasons for writing

Seeing the Stars from a Submarine

In a section of his most recent book, Through the Year with Jimmy Carter, President Carter writes about the symbol of light.  He begins by explaining the importance of the stars to him and his navy crew aboard a submarine.  I was struck by the paradox of navigating by stars while deep under water, before my brain realized the solution:  the submarine must surface to see the stars.

This paradox reminds me of how I sometimes feel as a classroom teacher, looking for dependable guidance while submerged in daily activities. (Not to mention coming up for air.)  At regular intervals, I must surface to use the sextant, if I want to remain safely on course.  President Carter describes the navigational details for people, like me, who need reminding.  He finds three stars, and measures their altitude.  From these measurements, he ascertains his ship’s position on the map.

This description makes me wonder by what three stars I measure my course, and the course of the various groups of students with whom I work each year. Enter Robert Evans, whose recent article in Independent School magazine—shown to me by a generous colleague—describes concrete ways in which teachers can move their professional exchanges from congenial to collegial.  Among his suggested vehicles for such exchanges is the time-tested Critical Friends Groups (CFG).  In other schools, I have participated in such professional in-school groups and found them productive.

President Carter’s chapter about light helps me imagine a particular kind of CFG—one centered on the participants’ three guiding stars.  How does each group member find his or her three stars?  What are those stars?  And how, in terms of students’ daily experiences and accumulated learning, do the adults ascertain their position on the map?  I think of this professional proposal as a Constellation of Colleagues.  We often encounter published frameworks, grids and tables of principles, outcomes and designs.  As helpful as these have been for me and for students over the years, I think it could be fun and productive to explore a natural version, which grows from the participants’ finding, describing and using their own three stars.  When you look to the sky for guidance, what do you use?  Ideally, individuals’ three stars align with the school’s official stars.  Where they do not, people have an opportunity for meaningful discussion.  One advantage to this Constellation of Colleagues idea is that it can cut across traditional disciplines.  People of various backgrounds, interests and training can gather to share basic values.  They can even, as a final creative project, draw and name their group’s constellation.

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walking thoughts

Someone, it may have been my brother who lives in Colorado, introduced me “walking rain.”  When you look at a stretch of the plains in eastern Colorado, for example, you sometimes–at a distance–see sheets of slanted gray-blue rain sweeping across the grass.  From sky to ground, this rain walks across the open space.

Often when I walk our dog, here in greater Atlanta, thoughts occur to me.  I  call these walking thoughts.  They sweep across my mind, somewhat like the sheets of rain.

These thoughts also bubble up, perhaps like gas through a hole in Alaskan ice (see today’s NYTimes article about methane’s escaping from decayed plant matter at the bottom of ancient lakes).  One bubble gives rise to others through association.  For example, on this morning’s walk, our dog spotted a squirrel.  Sensing the dog’s attention, the squirrel climbed the nearest telephone pole, then ran across on a wire just wider than a #2 pencil.  Thirty feet above us, he made his way across with remarkable balance.

associative leap

The idea of balance brought to mind a particular book about the golden mean.  My step-son gave me the book, after he had finished reading it.  Ever since that gift, I have wanted to sit down and read it, too.  The book still sits unread on the shelf.

leap

Sabbatical idea: take a year, or just part of a year, to read this and other unread books from our shelves.  Although technically I am now eligible for five sabbaticals, I would happily read my way through just one.  I won’t list the sabbatical reading here, but will say it covers a number of volumes and a range of genres.  For the time being, I simply enjoy imagining the prospect during my walking thoughts.

p.s. For more on associative thinking, if you like,  see an earlier post, called “Wired for Poetry.”    Happy walking.

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literature: super-collider

In the first of my #twittertuesdays @bllbrwn423–a weekly series on tweeking writing–I quote from a novel called The Book Thief.  Liesel, the young female protagonist, finds the first of many gifts in a discarded, deflated soccer ball.

leap

Today’s New York Times reports that teams of scientists have observed a “striking bump” in the data from their colliding particles.  The “suspicious bumps” have become “striking bumps.”  This sub-atomic categorical movement, this small gift, has produced a “tantalizing hint” of the existence of the Higgs Boson, which some call the God particle.

This recent scientific news story intrigues me for all kinds of reasons.  For example, what is the elusive sub-atomic particle at the base of effective, enduring teaching and learning?  Today, however, it intrigues me because I see students in literature study as teams of interpreters.  When particular matter collides in a novel like Frankenstein, for example, how do these students make sense of the resulting material, or the material results?  When Mary Shelley designs her experiment to collide creator and creature, how do these teams of young minds interpret the results?

For example, does Victor Frankenstein’s world of pains transform him from “an Intelligence” into “a Soul”?  Students wrote answers to this question, based on a letter from John Keats to his brother George, as practice for their recent semester examination.  On the exam itself, they agreed or disagreed with the proposition that, unlike Beowulf, Mary Shelley’s novel blurs the lines between protagonist and the “monster.”     Having stated their position, they  explained their claim’s effect on an understanding of the term “monster.”

As a last thought, I cannot help but observe that much of Mary Shelley’s fanciful story orbits around Geneva, home to the noteworthy super-collider that is producing “striking bumps” and “tantalizing hints”–small gifts all, the first of many.

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commonplace books and bees

“We should imitate bees”

Seneca

quoted in “Search, Memory”–a chapter in Nicholas Carr’s The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to Our Brains.

The last several posts contain quotations I want to remember.  These have been slim models for an upcoming student project.  In his chapter, “Search, Memory,” Carr briefly explains “commonplace books.”  Such books have been much less common today, says Carr, than they were during the Renaissance.  I do think, however, that students can use such books to develop their personal, long-term memories.  Many seniors are collecting their final thoughts from high school. Commonplace books can help them see which writings from other authors mean something to them. Today’s digital world places a high value on information per se.  I see these commonplace books as a place to store nectar for future nourishment.

Soon, I will start my own commonplace book, tentatively titled “purplemarble.”  Once I do that, this blog will return to its previous pattern of personal reflection on education, writing instruction and poetry.

Thank you for your indulgence.  Incidentally, I think that today’s digital tools allow students to push an old idea in new directions.  Time will tell.

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When you can

When you can, try to experience exercises you give your students.  Below is my draft/sketch of a poem, in response to a question I recently gave students.  Using Rilke’s poem, “I live my life in growing orbits,” I asked them if they were “a falcon, a storm or a great song.”  I asked them to answer in a poem of at least ten lines.  Since they are relatively new to composing their own poems, they only received these instructions.

Later I will tell them that remembering a particular experience can start, or open up a poem.  In this case, instead of choosing one of Rilke’s three images, I combined them–in a poem about an experience I had as a nine year old boy.  This is a draft, remember. Typically, I do not share drafts so soon after they appear, but I did this time.  As with many of my poetic sketches these days, I have the students partly in mind because I want to show them something about a specific assignment, or about poetry in general.  It is hard to disconnect myself from this role, even when I try to write “for myself,” whatever that means.

With the wind and sun at my back,

I spread the bones and feathers

of my dark brown wings, as I pierce

the blue sky like an urgent arrow.

Like lightning, I pedal my young

frame to find my father.

I am a messenger in a storm of fear

that my mother’s mother is dying.

Keening and careening that Saturday morning,

I throw my bike to the ground

and sing my legs faster

than they think they can run.

My mother has sent me to the land

in between, where my grandmother also goes.

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reflection reminder

I want to remind myself and readers of my earlier blog’s subtitle:  planting thoughts about poetry, education and writing instruction (I have re-ordered the three subjects, as of today).  The “About” section of this new site has a link to those earlier posts.

Since moving from San Francisco to Atlanta, I have written next to nothing here.  It’s time to move off the dime, and the reminder above helps me do that.  I started this blog as a way of “returning the gift” to professional colleagues, especially those just starting their teaching career.  By nature I am relatively reflective, and by experience I am positioned to look back and consider what has worked, what has not and what I am trying anew.

The planting metaphor helps move me toward sustainable blogiculture, insofar as I can plant seeds or seedlings–for future harvest.  For now, I tell myself, I can turn the soil in my “scanty plot of ground” (Wordsworth sonnet), then plant a radish seed, swiss chard leaf or a baby head of red leaf lettuce.  It’s OK to just plant for now–without revving up the combine to pour produce into the trailing truck.  Simply plant the dried seeds, returning occasionally to water and weed.  My earlier blog’s title, which refers to an essay I wrote for an in-house professional conference while working in Tulsa, reflects the need for time in learning, as well as learning in (over) time.

Let’s see how this reminder works.  Time will tell.

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Oh, brave new blog

Maroon balloon gratefully acknowledges a children’s book and a Yeats poem.  More details on the horizon.

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