Teaching "Diversity"

 I am currently teaching a small class on James and the Giant Peach to Grade 2 students on the weekends. One of the many interesting things which happens in this book is how James encounters human-sized insects inside the peach, all of whom can speak the same language as James. James is initially frightened by these creatures, simply because they seem repulsive to look at when he first finds them. However, over time, he starts to befriend them and respect their abilities and special ways of being, much as one sometimes sees in someone talking about her or his 'eccentric' family members. If anyone wants a good example of this humorous sort of writing, they need only go as far as reading Gerald Durrell's My Family and Other Animals, for a witty take on the peculiarities of family exchanges.
   When I designed the lesson plan, I thought of having the kids compare two of the creatures in terms of their appearance and actions, as well as creating a creature of their own, using the language that they already know. But now I begin to question my choices. Although comparison seems a worthy skill for children to learn, I wonder what I might be teaching children in asking them to compare two sentient beings. What does it mean when we compare at all, and does it not often lead to an attitude of discriminating one over the other? Does comparison also inspire thoughts of competition and preference, rather than inclusion and appreciation? Even my lesson in having the children create and describe their own character can be sometimes problematic, depending on how it is framed. If it's purely an exercise in the imagination and learning how to describe the way things function, it's fine and well. But when I start to say, "describe your creation's special powers", I begin to wonder whether I am uncritically promoting cultural notions of ability and disability, or 'adaptation' and 'maladaptation'. Somehow, my lesson plan draws in a lot of sometimes questionable "evolutionary" notions, and I wonder if these are always healthy for people to learn.
     There is another way of framing these assignments, and that it to look at it from the perspective that living beings are equal but different--they are all sacred creations with a value in their own right, and there is simply no need to compare their differences unless to celebrate what each can do. But again, I have to caution about 'can do' because this again privileges a notion of merit and ability which is often heavily influenced by a culture's preferences or biases. To put it in an ecological perspective--we normally say that weeds are useless and have 'no value', because we are thinking about weeds only from the perspective of a very particular human use or exploitation. As soon as a weed starts to be seen as pretty or valuable to an edible (by human terms) agricultural product, it is no longer 'just a weed', but it starts to seem valuable. But until then, people will try to eliminate the weed from their garden.
  I don't think there is a straightforward answer to what I am driving at, but my point is that even a seemingly innocent lesson plan can smuggle in the subtle ideology that imagines some people to have more merit than others. Can I take this same lesson plan and take it in a different direction? So far, the only answer I have is to encourage the learner to consider an alternate world, where what they might consider unmentionable becomes very special, and vice versa, or something 'valuable' when taken to extremes can lead to problems. The story "Midas and the Magic Touch" is one example that illustrates the latter, and there are several alternative versions of familiar stories that might furnish discussion on the former.

Quantum Teaching

 I have often heard the expression "teachable moments", which I particularly learned in reading Parker Palmer's writing. It's only been in my own recent experiences teaching young students that I can understand what it means. In the past, this expression has invariably brought to mind the character in Dead Poet's Society, who tries to inspire young men to tackle the issues of life through poetry. But in reality, it seems that the teachable moment is not so dramatic. Contrary to what it may seem, teachable moments might even be moments where 'teaching' in its traditional, instruction-based sense might not even be available or applicable.
   To use an example, there are times when a student appears not to have followed the assignment instructions or is presenting something straight from a book rather than trying to put it into their own words. In moments like this, I might want to jump right in and start instructing students before the lesson gets derailed. I might even get impatient with the idea of student reading aloud for long periods of time through a book, thinking, "now I need to get the class back on track and start actually teaching." But the problem with this view is that it overlooks the delicate process of learning, where the ability to learn doesn't sit with the teacher alone or the student alone. Martin Buber once referred to two analogies when describing these two approaches: one is a teaching 'filter' where the teacher controls the outcome and content, and the other is a kind of 'pump', where the student is the sole arbitrator of the educational experience. Neither of these seems correct, because the learning experience is always a relationship in some ways which takes place by way of many factors. And if we take teaching too literally to be the act of processing experiences for the student, we can overlook the other ways in which students find themselves learning in the process of doing. Reading aloud from a chosen book is one example of an activity that seems disempowering to the active process of learning, but it can actually build unexpected ways of approaching a text, by 'sounding' out the text as though it were one's own thoughts.
    Teachable moments may not even be intended to that way. However, I have to caution that the teacher had better not leave the classroom up to chance or fate because of this. I have found, rather, that the serendipity of teaching moments sheds light on the way I can plan classes without becoming overly fixated on the plan itself--thus allowing the classroom the space for unexpected learning moments. In other words--yes, by all means, have your plans, but treat your plans more as clouds of possible paths rather than exact trajectories. Think of plans as cloud chambers, not as single straight lines.

Drive for Status at Work

 What would life be like if we didn't go to work with the idea of gaining personally in any way? I am thinking about our study group tonight, and how we discussed, among other things, Master Sheng Yen's line in the book Chan and Enlightenment: "The ancients pointed out that what people pursue most is none other than merit, fame, gain, and status." (p.146) During the discussion, I shared my own personal difficulties with trying to live without attachment to these things. For one, most organizations are using monetary profit as the key force in evaluating and driving their workers. Given this 'reality', it may seem difficult to transcend a profit/gain mentality in favor of one which places all sentient beings first and foremost. The second challenge that I have is wrapping my head around the notion of benefitting all sentient beings. Is it even possible, I wonder, for an ordinary sentient being to even begin to imagine all sentient beings, much less benefit all?
   The only way I can really understand it is to treat everything and everyone around me non-dualistically, in the sense that "I" and "they" are not truly separate, but are more so mirror images of each other. In this regard, maybe it's not so necessary to try to imagine "all" sentient beings as though they were in the same room together. Rather, it's more in keeping with Chan practice to see the present situation from an open and non-discriminating stance. In other words, trying to encompass an imaginary all is not as important as being able to see the moment arising as a totality, without giving into the tendency to fragment the experience into 'me' and 'you', 'like' and 'dislike', and so on. To let go of status, in this context, is to let go of the tendency to grasp what I like or what I think I need to get ahead, in favor of a way of seeing that includes me and the other. Operating in this way, I am relieved of many of the pressures that come with the sense of an I including the drive to look more successful or competent than others.
   Once I am no longer so pressured to achieve or be a certain way at work, then I can start to really treat the situation as a form of mind, rather than using the self as a starting point. This one is tricky because it might even require suspending the belief that my value depends on what I do in relation to others.

On Fame

 While I was on the bus this morning, I was reading Master Sheng Yen's Chan and Enlightenment where he talks about the emptiness of fame. He remarks, "while it is good to be remembered fr our true achievement and good work, it is best to do good work without seeking fame at all" (p.147). As with the case of many of Master Sheng Yen's statements, this one is quite deep and fascinating. I am most impressed by how it suggests that not attaching to fame is important. I wonder, however, how often do people really understand the implications of fame? It makes me realize that there is a difference between wanting fame and wanting the feeling of love and recognition that appears to go with fame.
   Fame actually comes with responsibility. If I look at famous leaders in the world, their fame comes mainly from their speeches and decisions, and people by necessity hang on those words. I am noticing recently that those in power are almost always taking to social media to air their views or dispute the views of others, only to realize later that their words will be used against them eventually, so far as there is a message trail. The more a person puts their words into a public arena or social space, the more accountable they tend to need to be for those words. More than anything, this solidifies my understanding of words not as isolated belief systems, but as social actions that take place in the context of responsibility and power.
   Fame is sought at a high price, and that ends up taking the form of enmeshment in the power that one's audience and supporters have over them as people. Once I make a great piece of music that everyone loves and build a following of fans, I will have many high expectations imposed on me of what I can do next. Were I not to receive such recognition, would it be such a pressure for me to exceed what I created before? The same thing goes with anything I produce that receives some modicum of recognition of reward. The more I am rewarded, the more I am compelled to engage in the same behavior, only to realize that the behavior does not always consistently reward at all times. But I continue to pursue that same desired result because I am attached to it.
    When I am not so popular, I might from time to time crave recognition, but in a sense I have the fortune of being able to grow in ways that are unpredictable and are not governed by followers or admirers. I think this is why artists worry so much about selling out or objectifying themselves on a marketplace of art. Artists intuit that fame has a way of crushing their growth, by compelling them to repeat the same formula of success, even when they have in their hearts moved beyond that particular phase of their creative life. Recognizing the suffering inherent in the trap of fame, such people recognize that fame has its own price and position, and it's not as liberating to be famous as some might think. While it has its perks, there is also an element of responsibility in fame.

The Paintbrush Mind

 The mind is capable of many things, if only we recognize that the phenomena are not fixed in one place. I think about how this statement relates to the ages of 7 to 10 years old, when children first start to understand and play with their capacity to draw pictures and images with words. I wonder if you ever recall the first time you ever wrote a paragraph or a single coherent story, and how empowering that felt. I would have to say that in terms of writing, my peak 'experiences' may very well have occurred at a) age 10, when I was introduced to the elements of a story (and was asked to write a few in class) and b) age 17, when I acquired my first electronic typewriter. In both these stages, I experienced what it was like to put something together that was coherent and 'moderately' professional enough to be seen by others as a real product. I even recall the time when I was 10, and I bought a black book with my allowance, and started writing stories in it. I still have this volume to this day, and these stories represent my growing interests (at the time) in mythology, crime stories, science fiction and just plain weird stuff.
    Although I am not one to try to create stories in the way that I have just described, I would have to say that those years are valuable for people of all ages. They teach people what a wonderful mind they have to be able to imagine pictures and bring them to life through the power of words and shared writing. Can we not take this same ability and apply it to the way we use thoughts in daily life? For example, if the boss in my mind is angry all the time, perhaps I can tell the story in my mind of how she or he got to be this way, and what causes him to feel so much suffering.
   But I think the problem is that after about 5th Grade, story telling and imagination are downplayed in favor of other skills which are useful but which don't stress the active elements that imaginative re-framing can provide. As many scholars have mentioned in the past, there is a tendency in modern society to relegate imagination to something 'pre-rational' or 'only make-believe', and there is even the sense that people must somehow outgrow the imagination in order to deal with 'real world' problems. But this argument misses the point that all 'real world' is a construction of mind, and there are always ways to reframe it, even using narratives as a 'palette' or a form of practice.
    Even if the words don't always come naturally, sometimes one only needs to give their hands a chance to start moving and they will find that there is a lot inside of them that is worth expressing. I am suggesting that people should not be held back from expressing what is infinitely possible and available to mind, in favor of something presumably 'real' but is only an accretion of habitual ways of experiencing the world and life. Writing is one way to access the many possibilities of framing experiences.

Overcoming the Stigma of Failure

  The sense of failure often hangs over me as I am planning lessons for my upcoming classes. I have to admit that there is a sense of excitement there as well--the sense of something new that is about to happen each time I encounter a student or a group of students. However, there is also a sense of trepidation, something close to the experience of a centipede whose steps fall out of line when it starts to consider which foot to put first. In planning the lessons for my first couple of classes, I have learned what a balance indeed it is between having a necessary structure and organization, and being able to experiment within that structure to achieve positive connection with the students.
   I begin to wonder: how do teachers in general cope with the occasional feelings that they disappointed themselves or their students? Such a question as this could potentially be a research topic for a thesis, but it is also pause for personal reflection as well. For me, I think that I can only cope with failure by seeing it as a stepping stone among many, as well as to keep failure in mind as I try out different tools and strategies depending on the child's style of learning. Failure is never an absolute, but sometimes what seems to fail is only a timing issue: I might tweak the assignment a bit and it might start to evolve into something that genuinely fosters and attracts learning.
    Full time teachers (unlike myself) not only bear the brunt of a personal sense of failure from time to time. In fact, they also bear the demands of politically contested learning spaces. There are so many stakeholders that surround the teacher's role and function--too much to keep track of, at times. Can teacher failures be attributed not to the teaching itself but to the opinions of surrounding others regarding how education is framed? The point of all this is that a teacher may have to cultivate that rare and heroic inner ability to bear tensions of the diverse stakeholders, while carving a place for her or himself to teach what is heartfelt and nurturing to them and their students.

Always Something to Learn

  The title of my entry refers to an idea or a reflection I have had over how one encounters adversity in others, and what orientation to use. I have always been quite interested in this topic, because I have wondered what principle one can use to approach it. It sort of reminds me of how I once talked to a naturopathic doctor about whether it's advantageous to wear some kind of night guard or brace to deal with sore or tight forehead and jaw muscles, to which he replied that the body is meant to move and not stay in once place. In other words, my even asking what's 'the correct approach' is perhaps demanding the very impossible: trying to find one technique that is going to be a cure-all for every situation one encounters is bound to get a person into a logical quandary.
     There are three ways of looking at it from my understanding. One is that there is no real opposition between people, since self and other exist or arise in the same mind. The other approach is to accept others but also to accept oneself and feelings at the same time. This approach is much trickier, because it involves allowing oneself to have the feelings that they have while simultaneously accepting the feelings of others. If I am respecting all emotional states equally, then this is possible. The third approach is more like a yielding orientation, seeing that there is always something that we can learn in yielding to others to harmonize with them. At the very least, learning to harmonize oneself with the movements of others is a way of learning gracefulness. Rather than jumping to the queue, I wait to see if anyone was ahead of me whom I had missed. Or, if there is only one box or Oreos left and five Dad's raisin cookie boxes, I might just let the other person have the last Oreos box and take the less popular raisin ones. Why? It's because in doing so, I am allowing others to have their happiness, rather than taking all happiness for myself.
   Harmonizing is a different orientation from the other two because it encourages people to see the totality of their socializing with others, rather than focusing only on one's emotional states. It is also action oriented: it doesn't take place only in the realms of feelings, but it's embodied in a social plane and connects with that plane rather than trying to avoid it. But cultivating patience is also something that happens emotionally within. As it is stated in the Lankavatara Sutra, "Patience will call for something more than forbearance with external circumstances and the temperaments of other people: it will now call for patience with oneself." (from Goddard, 1994, p.330).

Goddard, Dwight, ed. (1994). A Buddhist Bible. Boston: Beacon Press