What a broken heart reminded me about teaching, learning and inquiry

In early June this year, my healthy, vibrant, eldest daughter contracted a serious (and mysterious) infection that left her gravely ill and with a damaged heart.  I managed to get to London within 24 hours of her being admitted to hospital. Little did I know we would not be leaving for three months, 6 weeks of which would be in hospital.  We are back in Australia now for continued treatment and I am gradually back working in schools. While my sole focus at the time was on caring for my sick child, this rather personal post (a few months down the track) is a reflection on some of the ways this traumatic experience got me thinking about our work as teachers.  Writing is my main ‘meaning making’ strategy … I hope some of that meaning making resonates with you.

 So. What did I learn (or understand more deeply?)

Fear is the mind-killer. (Frank Herbert)

Never has this famous phrase (attributed to Frank Herbert) resonated with me as much as it has over the last three months.  The intense, all-encompassing fear that drenched my body on hearing bad news, on being told of possible consequences of infection, or the side effects of a procedure walked with me every day. And what I noticed, of course, was that when it was strongest, my mind would go blank. There was no room for anything else. No rational, considered thought – just a jangle of internal panic made worse by having to ‘put on a brave face’.  Doctors would be explaining something to me and I simply could not take it in.  Schools are not hospitals, but for too many children, schools can be a place in which fear dwells. Whether it be fear of not getting it right, fear of being ‘cold called’, fear of separation, fear of not belonging … And when fear enters our body, our minds shut down. Fear is indeed the mind killer, and classrooms must be safe places for our learners to flourish, to take risks, to think and to struggle productively.

Being comfortable with uncertainty is easier said than done

I have been banging on about living with uncertainty for decades. It’s one of the catch cries of those of us who champion more progressive ways of approaching teaching and learning.  Over the last three months I have lived with more uncertainty than I can remember ever having experienced before.  For weeks, we dwelt in a sea of unanswered questions and were adrift in the unknown.  There was nothing edifying about that state – it was completely enervating. When I reflect on it in terms of classroom cultures, I am reminded of the paradox of uncertainty.  That in order to live well and comfortably with uncertainty– we need some certainty. Dependable routines, predictable parts of the day and week and other known elements provide anchors that allow the unexpected to delight rather than derail. Our children are better equipped to manage the unknown when there is plenty of ‘known’ to lean on. 

Questions get better over time

Many of us see questions as the jewel in the crown of inquiry – and indeed, it is hard to imagine an inquiry classroom without them.  Questions were certainly an important part of this experience but, as is the case with so many journeys of inquiry in the classroom,  the more we learned, the more helpful and considered our questions became. Life brought us a terrifying and unexpected ‘provocation’ but in the absence of information and in a state of ignorance (and fear) the journey began with experience and listening rather than a surge of questions.  When the questions did start to bubble up, I found myself monitoring them, withholding some, choosing the ones that felt the most important at the time.  I also recognised the power of the pause: the space between the intense and constant discourse. As an inquirer, sometimes NOT asking questions but simply learning to accept what was, felt more helpful than endless probing.  I have seen it over and over again in classrooms – questions being asked for their own sake rather than questions being thoughtfully formulated for genuine purposes.  I still have lists of questions in my journal that I decided not to ask.  

Our whole body teaches and learns

There is nothing like a traumatic experience to remind us of the connection between the mind and the body. Typically, schools are places that have privileged the cerebral over the manual, thinking over doing and the rational over the emotional.  In the throes of a challenging, confronting, high-stakes experience one is quickly reminded that the body is responding and anticipating. It was my gut – not my head – that told me, at times what my daughter needed or that decisions being made felt wrong (and turned out to be).  It was helpful that I had read Guy Claxton’s book “Intelligence in the flesh” , reminding me that emotions and all the physical manifestations of them are part of our” intelligent equipment.”    I needed to listen to my body, to think of it as an ally to my mind, as did my daughter - even when infection had ravaged hers.  Classrooms are places where children are so often taught to ignore their bodies, to still and tame them. We talk so much about thinking - but less about feeling. We ask them to listen to us  - but we need also need to ask them to listen to their body. AND we need to be more attuned to what their bodies tell us.

Inquiry is indeed a cyclical process

The journey of inquiry begins with a purpose.  Whether it be pure curiosity, a desire to make or create something, a longing to understand something more deeply or, as in my case, a desperate need to find out and understand. On revisiting my journal, I can clearly see the spiralling, cyclical nature of a journey of inquiry. As we gather in new information (from experience, from experts, from reading, from viewing, from experimenting and exploring) along the way, we try to sort it all out and make meaning …and new seeds are planted for new lines of investigation.  New questions evolve and so we continue to explore. There is nothing linear about it, although each time we cycle through that process we do take our learning deeper. We change our minds, we broaden our perspectives and the unknown becomes known. As a journey of inquiry unfolds, it can be a challenge to remain open minded and even more of a challenge to change one’s mind.  And yet this is what we must be prepared to do in order to grow and understand something more deeply. Over the course of six weeks there were numerous times where we received either conflicting information or at least different perspectives and opinions in response to the same question.  This is the nature of most research journeys. The terrain is not smooth and the answers are not consistent across sources. And, as more evidence is gathered theories are refined, new possibilities and pathways present themselves.  From gastroenteritis, to a bad migraine, to meningitis to infective endocarditis … new evidence shifted thinking. Our doctors needed to stay open and curious – and so did we. Helping our children understand the gift of changing one’s mind and staying open to the perspectives new information brings is one of the fundamental elements of a true inquiry process.

Without meaning making, information is of little value.

For the first time in a long time, I experienced what it was like to have to take in what were huge amounts of complex information on an almost daily basis - much like our children are often expected to do.  Unlike some of our children, I was anxious to learn, I wanted to understand, I wanted to find out as much as I could.  I felt like my daughter’s life depended on it. But even with that – even with that intense purpose, the information itself was rarely sufficient. Here’s what I noticed: I noticed that when the doctors left the room after answering our questions and sharing information with us, we needed two things. We needed to talk and to check our understanding with each other. We needed to ‘co construct’ meaning together and to make sense of it all as best we could.  And sometimes all that talk needed to wait. We needed to pause. To walk slowly around the hospital foyer, to sit in quiet stillness and watch the clouds out the window before we could speak. We needed to give our addled minds a rest before the meaning making began.  Classrooms are often busy, fast moving and intense environments that provide insufficient time for processing and meaning making.  We all need time. Time to talk with others AND time to process things quietly, and the permission to stare vacantly out a window and allow our thoughts to meander as we gradually build meaning.

Explanation, and demonstration are necessary elements of inquiry.

Just as we can overstate the importance of questions, we can underplay the importance of direct explanation. Of course, I did some of my own independent research – in fact I was in constant inquiry mode not just about my daughter’s grave illness but about how to get around London, where to stay, etc. But when it came to the information I needed about Gretta’s illness, I needed to hear it from the expert. And I needed it explained carefully, slowly and simply. Often several times.  Yes, I read information, studied diagrams and even let myself google some things while deliberately staying away from others … but I needed direct explanation from those with the knowledge and experience. In our zest to engage children as inquirers, it can be easy to dismiss the power of a well-placed, well executed moment of direct instruction and explanation.  Explaining, demonstrating, modelling are vital ingredients in our pedagogy and need to be intentionally woven into the fabric of inquiry.

Teaching is strengthened by the team

When I wasn’t overly anxious, I became fascinated by the constant collaboration I observed between various medical staff we would encounter each day. Doctors rarely did a round on their own. Nurses, students and other colleagues would come into the room, clearly having had discussions with each other. Gretta was seen as the patient of the team - not of one single doctor. There were numerous times when her case was taken to a multidisciplinary team’ for discussion. This was a moment when the vocabulary of our two worlds - medicine and education were one and the same! These multidisciplinary meetings provided doctors with specific expertise to be informed by the expertise and insights of others. Decisions were never made by an individual but rather through dialogue within and across teams. This collaboration was incredibly reassuring. We all have blindspots and we can all benefit from the perspectives and specific skill sets of our colleagues. Great teachers see themselves as team players too - seeking out the insights of others, collaborating routinely as they plan. It’s we over me.

The physical environment matters.

We all know our surrounding environment impacts the way we feel and think and hospitals are a profound reminder of this. The lighting, the noise, the lack of fresh air, the lack of privacy, the comfort (or discomfort) of the beds, the space or lack of space to move … I could go on. There are reasons why some of the more clinical elements of hospitals need to be the way they are, but we have no such excuse in the classroom. When we were moved from a busy, chaotic, ward with no windows and an incredibly noisy atmosphere to the quiet of a single room with a view - the impact on our mood was immediate and dramatic. The simple joy of being able to look out a window, to watch birds circling or study the shape of clouds over the endless days made such a difference. I could see the anxiety in my daughter fall away - the calm around us helped create calm within us. Our wellbeing is bound to our environment in ways we are not always conscious of until that environment changes. The same is true for classrooms. As someone who visits many, many classrooms over a year I can attest to the direct relationship between the way the space is curated and the culture of the learners in the space. Consideration, in particular of the quality of light and sound should be on every teachers’ mind as they think about their learning space. And beauty. Please consider beauty. There was a wall of art works in the foyer of the hospital to which we gravitated over and over again. I can still see them in my minds eye now. An aesthetic balm to the struggle we were in.

Relationships are, indeed, everything.

Like classrooms, hospitals are places in which rank and power are dominant forces. I don’t think it is too far a stretch to say that being a patient in hospital can at times be like  being a child in a classroom. Like a school uniform, the hospital gown itself seems to represent a kind of vulnerability and powerlessness. Being in a hospital (even as a carer not a patient) for 6 weeks reminded me of the concept of institutionalisation and its impact on agency.  By far, the key ingredient in nurturing both my and my daughter’s sense of agency was the way individual staff communicated with us.  It was pretty simple really.  Staff who genuinely listened, used our names, were encouraging, showed empathy, took a little time to learn something about my daughter as a person – not just a patient, who smiled, enjoyed a laugh and, despite working in the most horrendous conditions at times, remained kind and professional … these people were gold. They made ALL the difference. They had every reason to be jaded and grumpy. The abuse they received from many patients made the average classroom pale by comparison. And yet, for the most part, they remained positive and professional. Feeling heard and valued has enormous benefits on wellbeing and on our sense of self. Agency flourishes when we trust ourselves, and the way others choose to treat us has a huge impact on that trust.  While tests, scans, medications and the incredible knowledge of doctors saved my daughter, it was the quality of daily human interaction that sustained both her and my resilience for the long haul. And so, it is in the classroom. In the end, systems, policies, programs, pedagogies and resources are significant but not sufficient. Like health professionals, educators are part of a service profession. I was reminded that, for me anyway, teaching is a vocation that requires a commitment to being of service to children and their families.  In an age of vapid teacher-tok reels and Instagram awash with egos and Edu-influencers, it can be easy to forget what we are fundamentally here to do. It is our relationship with the children that must sit at the heart of it all.

For almost three months I was completely disconnected from my life as an educator. But, with 40 years of teaching under my belt, it is impossible not to see even the most traumatic of experiences, at least in part, through the lens of my educator identity.  As Victor Frankl famously reminded us, we can’t choose what happens to us, but we can choose our responses. One of my responses has been to reflect on the lessons I learned - perhaps in an effort to salvage some meaning and growth from the trauma of it all.

 Our learning, as teachers, does not and should not exist within the vacuum of the classroom, school or ‘workshop’ room.  Indeed, I wonder whether experiences that take us outside of our education bubble can teach us more than those within it? At the very least, being removed from that context can give us new perspectives and remind us of old truths. For my daughter and our family, the journey continues – and with it, no doubt, the learning.

What can life (both the challenges and the joys) outside of schools teach us about our work?

Just wondering

'Yet ...' bringing together the science AND art of inquiry

I am on my way home from a wonderful week working with the staff of the International School of Uganda. It is such a privilege to be invited to spend a full week on campus, planning, hosting rich conversations about pedagogy, facilitating workshops and of course, lots of classroom teaching. Classroom ‘labsites’ or ‘learning labs’ as they are often called have been a consistent element of my practice as a consultant for 20 years. I know of no better way to collectively examine, critique and investigate what it means to bring an inquiry stance to teaching and learning than to get in a classroom, teach, and invite colleagues to observe and listen. We ALL learn – the teachers, the kids, and me.  And as a trained and experienced early years and primary classroom teacher, working with and learning from children always feels like coming home. This is where my heart lies.

 This is where the hearts of most teachers lie.  The core of our work - the reason most of us do this, is about our day-to-day interaction with children as they learn. It’s about what we say, think and do when we walk into a learning space … and teach.  As we wound up the week yesterday, the primary principal, Dan, reflected on the ‘artistry’ of teaching and the power of seeing ourselves as artists – mindfully choreographing our next move, standing back to ponder and appraise our work, thriving in the creativity of a responsive approach and intentionally dipping into a palette of practices as we observe, listen to and respond to learners. It is thoughtful, complex, creative and stimulating work.  I was reminded of a quote from a blog I read a few years ago:

 “Thinking of teaching as an art elevates our work from the pedantic to the profound. When we think of ourselves as artists, we set both a very high standard for the evocative nature of our work and a deeper compassion for the difficult challenges we will face in pursuing that standard.  Thinking of our teaching this way challenges us to prioritize the interactions between teacher and student rather than the ‘grade’. In both art and teaching, attending to the work itself rather than the outcome of that work raises the authenticity of the outcome.” Catherine McTamaney, Ed.D.

 To acknowledge and approach the work of teaching through an artistic metaphor was a beautiful balance to the very different kinds of conversations I had been having at home prior to my trip, where the word ‘science’ seemed to be increasingly attached to our work, often bringing with it a kind of didactic rigidity that seemed at times to suck the life out of the beautiful work we do … all head and no heart.  We have much to learn from the work of cognitive scientists - but let us not ignore the artistry of teaching.

Perhaps the most potent teaching is in the centre of a venn diagram connecting teaching (and learning) as a science AND art.  This seems to be a recurring theme for me (I have written extensively about this,for example, here and here)  as I continue to resist unnecessary duality and acknowledge complexity, and to avoid dogmatism and orthodoxy and acknowledge nuance.  While the word ‘nuance’ can prompt the occasional eyeroll, it remains central to my efforts to find ways to meet in the field beyond.  Journalist Annabelle Crabb, in a recent article about a high profile court case here in Australia writes:

“Inability to see nuance in an issue about which one feels deeply is- when extrapolated to a group – the number one most frightening thing about tribalism. … people who are motivated by good and reasonable sentiments get so busy fighting the holders of other sentiments that they let go, sometimes without noticing, of the principles that got them into it in the first place. Why do we do this? Because we like to gather in groups of people with which we agree. It’s safe. It’s calming. It gives us a sense of purpose and connection. But it can also blind us to nuance …”

 I read Crabb’s article not long after reading another wonderful post by another insightful and articulate educator, Tracey Ezard. Her writings about the ‘Paradox of Yet’ resonated with me strongly.  Ezard writes about this in relation to leadership, but I could not help but think about the same idea when pondering the persistent problem of inquiry and explicit instruction being pitted against each other.  When I returned to the article to write this post, I realised that she too had drawn on the metaphor of artistry:

“If we’re driven by a strong set of principles that centre us, we can bring this duality together. Like an artist mixing two seeming opposing colours together, we end up with a third choice. It becomes a richer choice that incorporates strengths from both sides.”

I nodded furiously as I read:

 “Without the blending of the seemingly opposing strengths, we become a victim of extremities.”

Ezzard’s clever pairing of seemingly opposing approaches to leadership invited me to do the same for inquiry:

Flexible yet structured

Student-led yet teacher-guided

Student-led yet teacher-guided

Emergent yet planned

Responsive yet intentional

Collaborative yet personalised

Inductive yet explicit

Playful yet rigorous

Conceptual yet knowledge-rich

Integrated yet discipline-specific

Exploratory yet focussed

Messy yet organised

Open ended yet scaffolded

Action-oriented yet reflective

This proved to be an interesting provocation for the staff at ISU who helpfully added:

Hands on/authentic yet abstract

 Teachers who bring an inquiry stance to their work acknowledge the ‘yetness’ of their approach.  I have deliberately ‘bolded’ the elements that characterize inquiry. These are without question, the features I probably lean into more often.  BUT the seemingly ‘opposing’ elements are not only present in my practice, they enhance it!  I can make the most of the emergent nature of inquiry because I have a plan – a big picture view. I can engage kids in real experiences and hands on learning but this is made more powerful by the higher order, abstract thinking we do to build conceptual  understanding.  The word ‘yet’ gives permission to be nuanced and to dip into the vast palette of possibilities we have as educators. But it doesn’t mean ‘anything goes’, in the framing I offer here, the ‘yet’ is not necessarily about balance - it is about acknowledging the nuances so often overlooked in simplistic representations of inquiry. 

As the teachers at ISU gathered to debrief their observations of lessons this week, an appreciation of nuance was alive and well.  When we are slaves to ‘absolutism’ or programs that allow no room for artistry and adaptation, we lose the power of ‘yet’. And we lose the gift of learning from and with others who see it differently.  

I found this such a helpful way of thinking about the pedagogy of inquiry. How about you? What would you add?

Just wondering …

Curiosity as an antidote …clinging to wonder as the tide rolls in.

“Wonder is the thread that stops us from giving up or surrendering to cynicism. Wonder is the thread that allows us to make and remake education landscapes free from orthodoxy and certainty. Wonder is an ache and belief that provokes us towards imagined worlds in which we make education good and right.”  (O’conner and Gomez, 2022:50)

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I’ll meet you there.” Rumi

‘Stay curious, ask questions, stay open minded, slow your thinking down, keep wondering …’ This is some of the ‘self-talk’ that has preoccupied my mind for several weeks now.  Central to my work, indeed, central to my identity as a teacher and a learner, is an inquiry stance. So it follows that when faced with ideas and beliefs contrary to my own, I have to work even harder to cultivate that stance. But cultivate it I must - especially in when it comes to current discussions about ‘The Science of Learning’ and the accompanying pedagogical implications championed by some systems/schools. One of the most influential educators in my early career was the late Donald Graves.  His book ‘Writing: teachers and children and work’ instilled in me a passion for the kind of learning that happened with and forchildren rather than to them. Looking back, I can see how Graves’ work helped develop values that remain central to my teaching practice: agency, curiosity, collaboration, authenticity and depth. As I learned to confer with individual children about their writing, often inspired by their interests, I came see each child as unique, both as person and learner. It instilled within me some much needed humility as I realised just how much expertise and experience even my youngest learners brought to the classroom. Conferring with children taught me learn to listen and to resist automatically defaulting to telling and explaining before I listened. What a gift that was to me as a young teacher! Without even realising it, I was developing my ‘image of the child’ as agentic, capable, connected and curious. I devoured so much of Graves’ work, but there was one thing he wrote that returns to be over and over:

“The enemy is orthodoxy.”

 I have found myself thinking a lot about that phrase over the last couple of years – and even more so over the past weeks as a somewhat imposing wave of  ‘The Science of Learning’ continues to roll into the educational discourse here in Australia. While I am working in classrooms around the world, constantly impressed by the capacity of young people to own their learning and, with guidance, develop deep and powerful understanding about their world,  I am also reading through documents explaining ways to introduce the ‘science of learning’ to schools.  These directives purport to provide clear guidance on ‘best practice’ and together with the seductive phrase ‘evidence-based’, identify ‘preferred’ instructional strategies that generally involve a lot of teacher explanation and demonstration as a means to ensure proficiency.  I am receiving messages from perplexed young teachers who have been directed (yes) to re-organise their flexible seating in the classroom and place children are in permanent rows, facing the front. The language in some of the documents I am reading seems to suggest there is one path to learning for all children. An orthodoxy of sorts.  But as I am reading, and as I am receiving these messages I’m trying hard to walk the talk – to read and listen with an open, questioning, critical mind. I know I need to be able to make connections, find points of common thinking, extend my thinking, notice what is challenging and what I am called to challenge.

Forgive me for getting all ‘meta’ with this, but it has been intriguing to notice my own responses to documents in which I feel the subtle (and not so subtle) subjugation of inquiry.  My initial, natural reaction is one of defensiveness – especially when tired old tropes appear that suggest explicit instruction is absent from an inquiry approach or when inquiry is characterized as involving ‘minimal teacher guidance’ (such as in the oft quoted research paper by Sweller et.al. from the early 2000s.)  As Seth Godin recently pointed out: “they’re apt to set up inquiry learning for failure by using a caricatured version of it, a kind of pure discovery rarely found in real-world classrooms, with teachers providing no guidance at all so that students are left to their own devices.” To be honest, anyone who thinks they are ‘doing inquiry’ by simply sending kids off to figure it all out on their own does not understand the approach at all.  So, when inquiry is dismissed as ineffective, one always needs to ask ‘what do you mean by inquiry?’.  My hunch is that this phenomenon of over-simplification is also true of direct instruction. There are silly, ineffective and extreme versions of both.

Anyway. I read on. I breathe. I listen.  I notice my reaction is not so much to the ideas and advice but to the whole concept of “best practice”, of  THE science of learning. It’s the sense of orthodoxy to which I react even more so than the content.

I remind myself… ‘Stay curious. Ask questions. Notice. Wonder …’

I find myself wondering: How can I use this material to help me and the teachers I work with reflect, re-think and clarify?  How can we bring intellectual humility to all this AND stand by the values we hold of curiosity, creativity, agency, differentiation, depth and authenticity?  It’s not easy, but with an open mind, we can find elements that connect with and add to our knowledge, as well as ideas we might question and challenge. Accepting such directives without question and without consideration of our local contexts, values, beliefs and needs of our community would be intellectually lazy - as would failing to read views of those equally steeped in learning sciences but who draw quite different conclusions (see some suggested reading below).  We teach our students to be critical inquirers – so should we be.

No educator should ever feel they have ‘arrived’ at a place of complete understanding about teaching and learning. We are NEVER done learning and always need to grow and adapt to new information. When system level policies seem to fly in the face of some of our deepest held beliefs, we need to stay open to growth and to the benefits of changing our minds. This has been true for me in the literacy area where, in reading the excellent work of Burkins and Yates (2021) I have had cause to rethink some of my understandings about the teaching of reading. Their work is amongst the best examples of resisting orthodoxy – of bravely entering the conversation about the science of reading, embracing new thinking, letting go of some dearly held ideas about reading instruction AND remaining committed to balanced, meaningful learning for children.  Similarly, I continue to yearn for a ‘both/and” approach, eloquently stated by Dr. Linda Darling-Hammond and Dr. Pamela Cantor principal researchers, and also experts in learning sciences, in the Design Principles Project (2021):

“a teacher can skillfully blend inquiry-based learning with strategic elements of direct instruction using multiple modalities of learning that help students draw connections between what they know and what they are trying to learn.”  (https://k12.designprinciples.org/)

When I sat down to write this blog post, I thought I was going to pick apart the numerous dogmatic arguments made by some who champion what they call ‘the’ science of learning, but that’s not where I needed to go. Others far more qualified than me have done that eloquently and I encourage you to read their pieces (links below). In the end, this post was really just about me trying to BE an inquirer – to stay in the space that Rumi calls ‘the field beyond’ and hold on to the power of wonder to fight my own cynicism and, at times, despair.  This has been my attempt to avoid ‘doubling down’ and instead to amp up my curiosity so that I can keep learning and growing. So, in the spirit of wonder, the best I can do with all this is to leave you with some of the questions that have been rolling around in my head as this strange battle of ‘best’ practice rages on. I hope these questions might be helpful to you as you engage in continued dialogue about the complex, demanding, vital and ever-evolving work we do:

·      How can we argue for what is best without asking, ‘best for what purpose’?  And if the answer is, ‘for learning’, then what kind of learning do we mean? What do we think school is for in 2024 and beyond? How might we bring this question to the staffroom?

·      Where are our points of agreement? How might we find common ground? We all want to do the right thing by children and their families. What are our shared values?

·      What can I learn from the particular view of the ‘science of learning’ being promoted in schools? How might the advice on ‘explicit instruction’ help refine the moments when, during an inquiry, we do indeed engage in direct teaching? Can I do a better job of that part of my repertoire? How might a better grasp of high quality explicit instruction assist us to work with some students for whom ‘release of responsibility’ might take more time?

·      Is there one, universal ‘Science of Learning?’ I note that MANY critics suggest otherwise. What do other respected researchers in the field of learning have to say?  Whose voices are we not hearing/reading?

·      What is really meant by the term ‘knowledge rich?’  Whose knowledge? Why privilege this? What about, for example, indigenous ways of knowing that might have a very different context, purpose and approach?

·      What does ‘evidence-based’ really mean? In schools in which I work – such as those who use Kaser and Halbert’s ‘spirals of inquiry’ model, evidence of  impact is drawn by careful analysis of a range of data about the children within their communities. What counts as evidence?

·      In his excellent forward to Claxton’s ‘The Future of Teaching and the Myths that Hold it Back (2021) Dylan Wiliam states that while those advocating a more traditional approach to teaching have ‘empirical’ evidence on their side, this is, according to Wiliam, largely due to the fact that researchers have focussed on the “… easily answered questions. It is much easier to decide whether one teaching approach is better than another if the goal is to get students to balance chemical equations than if the goal is to debate effectively the science and ethics of genetically modified foods:” (2021: xix).   I find this an enormously helpful reminder when reading claims about evidence from research. What kind of learning has the research focussed on? How do we avoid sweeping generalisations and interrogate the evidence more productively?

·      To what extent has ‘warm data’ informed this work?  (I am only just learning a little about this concept but it seems very relevant) “Using only analysis of statistical data will offer conclusions that can point to actions that are out of sync with the complexity of the situation. Information without interrelationality is likely to lead us toward actions that are misinformed, thereby creating further destructive patterns. “ (Batesoninstitute.org)

·      How can we tackle the question of ‘what works’ in a more nuanced way? Should we not also be asking, ‘what works, and for whom and where and under what conditions’? (Wrigley 2018)  How do we ensure that we keep the focus on the needs and characteristics of the local communities of learners in which we work?

·      If explicit teaching is deemed more ‘efficient’, is that amongst the criteria for effectiveness? To what extent do we value efficiency? Are there things that we could and should teach efficiently? What requires time and depth? What can stay on the surface? When we talk about effective learning – what do we mean?  How might we share that with each other in more open and honest ways? 

·      Systems all over the world talk about the importance of learner agency – indeed it is one of the key principles in the most recent OECD education report. What impact might a strong diet of direct and explicit instruction have on learner agency? How can we help teachers navigate their way through a sea of mixed messages?  

·      As an educator with a strong commitment to, and deep understanding of, a more constructivist approach to teaching and learning, how can I do a better job of challenging the persistent myths about inquiry?  Why DO these myths persist and how might I take some responsibility for that? What new stories can I tell about inquiry as a stance that might better reflect the nuanced and sophisticated work so many teachers are doing?

·      What might I need to change and rethink about the way I talk about teaching and learning that invites professional dialogue and productive collaboration rather than division and conflict?

·      How do I best support colleagues who do extraordinary, deep and loving work with children and who so very deftly and effectively scaffold and support exploration before or with explanation. How do I help people resist a culture of orthodoxy and continue to value their expansive and flexible repertoire? How can I support teachers to be informed AND to feel they can intelligently defend the range of approaches they might use according to the needs and context in which they are working?  How might we meet in the field beyond?

Already, some of these wonderings have been the seed for some powerful dialogue with fellow educators. There is nothing like being challenged to help one clarify and refine thinking and this is best done in the spirit of inquiry where curiosity does indeed remain a powerful antidote to cynicism and despair and, if nurtured, create fertile ground for continued professional growth.  I have found the following posts and articles helpful. If you have been engaged in conversations about ‘THE’ science of learning, what question s have you found yourself pondering?

Just Wondering …

Wrigley, T. (2018). The power of evidence: Reliable science or a blunt set of tools? British Educational Research Journal, 44(3), 359-376. 

O’Conner, P. and Gomez,C. Slow Wonder: letters in imagination and education, 2022:50

Claxton, G. (2021) The Future of Teaching and the Myths that Hold it Back. Routledge.

Hannon, V. (2021) Thrive: The Purpose of schools in a Changing World, Cambridge

https://www.alfiekohn.org/blogs/clt/

https://ckarchive.com/b/4zuvheh5nv9dki6ovveola3v24l77

https://learningpolicyinstitute.org/topic/deeper-learning

https://www.humanrestorationproject.org/writing/there-is-no-such-thing-as-the-science-of-learning

https://www.guyclaxton.net/post/the-sciences-of-learning-and-the-practice-of-teaching

www.Batesoninstitute.org

https://www.oecd.org/education/2030-project/

https://www.shyambarr.com.au/blog/beyond-cognition-embracing-the-multifaceted-nature-of-the-science-of-learning

https://smata.substack.com/p/there-is-more-than-one-science-of?utm_source=profile&utm_medium=reader2

https://bevanholloway.com/2024/04/16/424/

https://blog.aare.edu.au/explicit-teaching-mandate-a-pushback-now-is-critical/

https://bevanholloway.com/2024/10/10/some-readings/ (numerous readings exploring some of the challenges of a hard-line approach to the ‘science of reading’)

https://bevanholloway.com/2024/10/08/there-is-more-than-one-science-of-learning/

Listening to small moments of wonder

On my final walk of the summer holidays, I decided to take a different path towards the beach. A little way along I almost stepped on this guy …a beautiful echidna, snuffling for ants and seemingly oblivious to my presence. It let me stay so close I could see the strange curve of its claws, the  colour of its spines and the tiny hairs on its beak.  This glorious, strange monotreme, unique to this country. Right in front of me and endlessly fascinating. This was a small but beautiful moment of ‘awe and wonder’. It slowed me down and drew me in. What a generous parting gift from nature as my holiday came to an end.  For me, such encounters, never fail to be exhilarating.  I can literally feel my heart respond, beating loudly in my chest, my breath quickening and the smile growing on my face.  I am alone, deeply connected  and fully present.

I am fortunate to be able to spend a lot of time in the natural environment. It is the source of my well-being and the sustenance of my curiosity. As has been noted by many, being in nature also helps keep our ego in check. It literally puts us in our place.  We are reminded that we are indeed, a tiny speck in what is a much bigger universe. We don’t matter as much as we think we think we do.  The natural environment is also the place I can rely on to nurture my curiosity – a disposition so vital to inquiry.

My echidna encounter was, of course, a simple, natural provocation. As I kept walking, I was aware of the questions ‘bubbling up’ in my mind.  ‘Why didn’t it walk away? Does it have a burrow/nest somewhere? Why do I only ever see them on their own? Are they solitary? What are its predators here?  I have written elsewhere  about what I feel to be at times, and a necessary emphasis on artificially constructed provocations for children. Or the sense that at times children are required to ask questions about things that they actually have no genuine curiosity about.

As we move into a new year, and after several weeks of being immersed in the natural environment, I am convinced yet again, that the best way to provoke, curiosity or and wonder in our learners is to remain open to the natural provocations that are around us each day.  Whilst there are copious resources and advice about cultivating curiosity these days (my own work included!), perhaps the best advice is the most simple. Get outside and, as the wonderful astrophysicist Neil de Grasse Dyson implores, get out of their way. Use the natural world, the surrounding community, the school grounds, a walk around the block. The world will provide.  And be curious. Share your moments of curiosity and wonder with your learners. Susan Engel and others who have done the deep research work in this field conclude that the role of the adult in nurturing children’s curiosity is critical.  I know that my little Echidna story and video will find its way into my teaching in the coming weeks. I will show children the photos and clips I took and share how I felt, what I noticed, and the questions that I walked away with.  It will be real and it will be from the heart. I may show them how I did some further investigation or they may start sharing their own moments of wonder from their holidays. Or both! Either way, I plan to intentionally and authentically be the curious learner I want to see in them. (And, no, they won’t need to be studying ‘animals’ to warrant that moment.)

Cultivating curiosity in children begins with cultivating it in ourselves. It means giving ourselves permission to take an unexpected pathway, slow down, notice and wonder. My time away was filled with small moments of wonder and awe gifted to me by nature. The politics of the birds in my garden (why are some species so much more aggressive than others?), the changing landscape of the beach I have walked since childhood (where have all the shells gone?), the sudden arrival of hundreds of dragonflies (why now?), the fog hanging so low over the ocean on a warm morning (why fog? is this basically a low cloud? What causes this?).  These musings not only help me continue to walk the world with a curious mind but provide me with something simple, real and rich to share with learners.  

… and when I do, I want them to reciprocate. I want to create a culture in which THEY excitedly bring their small moments of wonder into the classroom like precious jewels cupped in their hands.  Not only do we stimulate creativity and imagination through such sharing , we light the spark for true dialogue and discovery.  Each moment of genuine wonder has the potential to connect with powerful and transferable concepts. My Echidna encounter connects to concepts such as diversity, adaptation, environment and behaviour: ‘from little things,’ as singer Paul Kelly writes, ‘big things grow’

 In almost all cases, the authentic moments of wonder experienced by learners be easily traced back to the curriculum. Knowing your curriculum deeply helps you let it go and give yourself permission to lean in close to your learners and say, “I’m listening, that sounds WONDERful, tell us more …

How will you nurture your own and your learners’ curiosity as you begin the year?

How will you stay awake to the simple provocations the world will bring to you?

Just wondering…

 Kath

An (unexpected) wonder of Winsome

“ Names have power” Rick Riordan (The Lightening Thief)

She was always going to be ‘Winsome’ ,  the curious girl who inhabited my head for a long time before I wrote her into existence.  Maybe it was the alliteration, or the fact that the name itself represents a kind of innocence and lightness - wherever she came from, she was simply there.  She was Winsome, she was so clear in my imagination, and she was born wondering. 

From “The Wonder of Winsome’ by Kath Murdoch. illustrated by Sharyn Madder (2021)

Since publishing the book last year I have had so many delightful conversations with children about it. One of the first questions I hear is “Where did her name come from?” or ‘Why did you call her that?”  It seems that the name itself provokes wondering – it’s a welcome, albeit unexpected, outcome of publishing the story almost a year ago.  These questions have led to some beautiful conversations about names and how writers create their characters and how the name helps bring the person alive in your mind and, hopefully, in your readers’ minds too. 

 Ultimately, a writer hopes to connect with their readers in some way.  I am fortunate to work regularly in schools and have children and teachers talk to me about the way they feel about the story - but there has been one, quite different response I will never forget -one outcome of writing this book I could never have predicted and one gift that Winsome quietly gave, simply because she was called Winsome. 

……………….

One warm summer’s day earlier this year, when the streets of inner Melbourne remained empty and the doors of the magnificent state library were closed to the public, the staff continued to work with their ever-growing collection – receiving, cataloguing and shelving new books.  On this particular day, a staff member was assigned to the children’s book section and busily began the process.  Working her way through the new stack of titles, she picked up ‘The Wonder of Winsome’ and found herself, for the first time, seeing her name on the cover of a book.  Her response to that moment held such significance, she wrote to me: 

“ Holding the book for the first time a rather emotional moment for me...I have never seen another book with my name in it- I would buy books for my children with their names in them but I have never had one of my own. I was teased a lot at school because of my name (Win some, lose some, Winnie the Pooh) and even now as a 54 year old, I have at least one conversation a week about it with lots of people questioning it or making comments about my 'strange name'. I love your book for many reasons...I looked very similar to 'Winsome' at that age (same haircut, same face) and I am also very curious by nature (a self-confessed 'bookaholic', and I love study...I already have two degrees and other various certificates and course completions and am just about to embark on yet another course...). Thank you for writing your beautiful book.”

A couple of weeks later, I headed to the state library (now tentatively open to the public) with a copy of the book tucked under my arm, eager to meet Winsome herself.  It was a strangely emotional moment.  

Sitting in the glorious ‘dome’ room in which I’d spent so many hours reading and writing as a university student, the ‘real life’ Winsome told me a little more about her own story. As she spoke, I was reminded of the hidden power of names – of the ways we see ourselves in relation to the ways others see us and of the identities we attach to our names. I myself, spent my primary school years as Kathleen. The name my family called me and the name my friends called me were one and the same.  Perhaps as a reflection of our need to forge a separate identity in our teens, I became ‘Kathy’ for several years in high school until a teacher I absolutely adored (and who helped me see myself as a writer) called me Kath. From then on, I was Kath.  Our names can signify so much about the relationship we have with others and even with ourselves. Certain friends and family still call me Kathleen (and it would be odd if they didn’t) but when someone calls me ‘Kathy’ it jars … it’s more than simply not my name, it’s not ME. It’s not who I am.  For my new ‘real life’ Winsome, seeing her name used in such a celebratory and positive way seemed to signify a shift in how she could see herself – how she could choose to see, and feel, her beautiful name. 

Winsome and Winsome …

When I work in classrooms, I insist the children have name tags. I know the power of using their names. It is an instant bridge builder, a show of respect, a force for inclusivity and an opportunity to connect to culture. Our names do indeed, have power – the power to help us feel seen and loved and the power to be used as weapons of indifference (when they are forgotten or not used) or even worse, humiliation.  Talking to Winsome that day reminded me of the inextricable link between our names and our identity and how important it is for us to be reminded of that as educators. When we talked, Winsome said she felt a kind of ‘reclaiming’ of the name with which he had had such a conflicted relationship.  And in reclaiming our names, we can also begin reclaim the self that may have once felt unseen or misunderstood. 

 Among my favourite inquiries has long been to offer learners an opportunity to investigate their own names – the origin, meaning, cultural significance, and to share their learning with others which, in turn, can help contribute to the development of a strong, connected community. 

 I remain so grateful to whatever it was that brought the name Winsome to me. This little girl I manifested onto the page whose name held more power than I could have imagined.  

How have the power of names found their way into your teaching and learning experiences?

Just wondering …

(With thanks to ‘the real life Winsome’ who so generously gave me permission to share this story.)

the sweet spot between safety and adventure - and how picture books can help you find it.

‘But Rogers knew that without familiarity – and, by extension, the trust that familiarity fosters, children’s curiosity can wither. It sounds counterintuitive, but children’s sense of adventurousness is paradoxically tied to their sense of safety. Kids need both to feel confident enough to explore the world around them.’ (Behr and Rydzewski, 2021:29)

One of the persistent myths about inquiry-based classrooms is that they are chaotic, and unstable environments where anything goes. A commitment to listening to children and planning in responsive ways suggests to some a lack of routine, order, or predictability. I am currently reading Behr and Rydzewski’s delightful book: “When you Wonder, you’re Learning” which draws on the beautiful work of Fred Rogers (a mainstay of children’s television in America from 1968 – 2001) and offers important lessons and reminders for today’s parents and educators. (I highly recommend it and have Linda Kaser and Judy Halbert to thank for recommending it to me!)  Not only did the television show itself become a reliable, routine aspect of so many children’s lives – something to look forward to each day/week – the format of the show was similarly predictable. But within the show, were countless moments designed to spark wonder, to invite the young learner to venture into the unknown, to ask questions, to make connections, and to explore.   For me, this mirrors the ‘sweet spot’ in the inquiry classroom. In order to effectively move with the unexpected moment, to be open to the question you do not know is coming, to be responsive and agile and take risks – we need a secure home base. We need rhythm and routine – boundaries that allow us to experiment in safety. Inquiry classrooms can and should be calmly energetic, a safe space in which learners are relaxed AND alert and where predictability and routine help support the spontaneity and adventure. 

Here in Australia, we are beginning the school year. More than ever before, as children in many states return to the learning on site after months of lockdown last year, we are acutely aware of the need to nurture relationships, establish routines and create a space that helps kids feel confident enough to explore. These first few weeks are vital in creating a learning culture – a culture which can either enhance or diminish children’s willingness to explore, take risks, make mistakes, reflect, collaborate and so on. 

Of all the routines I value as a primary school teacher, there is none more precious than gathering as a class to share in a really good book. When I taught full time, this was a sacred time – usually straight after lunch EVERY day and one of my great joys was in choosing what to read. Oh the anticipation of the book!  The conversations we had! As readers of this blog and my newsletter will know, I am a devotee of high-quality children’s literature - real books written by real authors and of the simple, powerful joy of reading to and with children. So if you are going to create any kind of routine in your classroom this year – make sure reading to your children is one of them. Do it every day.  The routine has the added bonus of connecting the group through the invisible thread of the shared experience of listening to and connecting with a powerful story. Serial reading is so important but reading a full picture book, start to finish, is a unique experience. 

 Last year, I shared a post about the way Oliver Jeffers’ book “What we’ll Build” could be used to create a class learning agreement.  This year, I am casting my net a little wider and sharing a few more of my favourite books (so hard to choose! So many!)  to use early in the year together with a few questions or prompts that might be helpful in shaping dialogue about shared expectations, goals and roles, ways of relating, agreements, etc. 

All the Ways to be Smart by Davina Bell and Allison Colpoys

What is smart? What does it mean to be smart? What kind of smart do you think you are? What makes you say that? Can you get smarter? Are we born smart, or do we become that way? This book is such a lovely way to open up the idea that being ‘smart’ can take all sorts of forms. The examples are numerous, and the rhythm and rhyme of the text is beautiful. I would begin by asking children to share their ideas about ‘smart’ before reading and then reflect on new thinking at the end possibly inviting them to write a letter sharing their view of their own strengths as learners.  Great one for parents too! 

The Name Jar by Yangsook Choi 

This is an old favourite and one of many books I own about names and identity.  This is a really lovely way to introduce an inquiry into the story of our names. It is often surprising what kids don’t know about their names and fantastic way to build intercultural understanding as well as honouring identity. After reading invite children to share what they DO know about their names and brainstorm some questions together that they can go home and ask to find out more. Have them teach tell the story of their names through the week.

My Heart by Corinna Luyken

This really is a most beautiful book. Simply reading it to your kids and inviting their reflections and connections may be enough.  A gentle way into conversations about the degree to which we can manage or control our emotions and responses to experiences. The last line: ‘Closed, or open – I get to decide’ is the kicker! What a wonderfully provocative statement. Do we get to decide? How much control DO we have over ourselves?  This book is also a lovely way to introduce the idea of a heart map – where children write or draw, in the shape of a heart, their interests and passions so you can get to know them better. 

The Most Magnificent Thing by Ashley Spires

Another perennial favourite, I come back to this book again and again as a way into conversations about managing expectations, making mistakes and coping with disappointments.  This is the perfect book to include early in the year when we should be having open conversations about the nature of learning and the value of mistake making. 

The Tree in Me by Corinna Luyken

Another Luyken book - I am a big fan!  This is a book about connection, and I just adore it. Even the title ‘The Tree in Me’ is enough to spark wonderful speculation: What might this mean? Can you really have a tree inside you? Why this title?  On reading the book, I encourage children to think not only about their connection with nature but also about what feels so special, so connected to them that it almost feels ‘inside’ them.  I would love to share this book while seated beneath a tree – have children spend time really feeling and exploring that connection with nature and ask: how might we keep connected to the earth as we learn together this year? How might we stay connected to each other? 

 My teacher is a Monster by Peter Brown 

We talk a lot about the “image of the child” in inquiry circles – and equally important is the image of the teacher held by children (and parents) and indeed by ourselves! This story is about perspective – the way we see each other and the judgements we make and how shared experiences and a willingness to see each other in new ways can redefine our relationships. Early in the year, we should be explicit and transparent about roles and invite children to share their thinking about what they think a good teacher says/does/feels/thinks? Always fascinating and a great way into inquiring into learning. 

 How to Heal a Broken Wing by Bob Graham

 It is almost impossible to choose which Bob Graham book to feature – I want to share them ALL. I am not even sure why this one comes to mind as a good early-in-the-year book. All I know is that when I read this book to a group of children a reverent hush always descends on the group. It is a story about noticing, empathy, kindness and being a good citizen in the most unassuming of ways. I think it can lead to gentle conversations about looking out for one another, about taking time to support and help others about how kindness can find a home in your classroom. 

 Wonder Walkers by Micha Archer 

My collection of books about wonder grows every year. This one is a great way to invite children to share the things that THEY are curious about. After reading it, ask them to share their own wonderings. – “what would you like to explore this year?”  The best way to use this book is as an invitation to conduct your OWN wonder walk. Even if the kids are really familiar with school – try a wonder walk where they deliberately approach the buildings and grounds with curiosity. Can we notice things we have not noticed before? 

Nine things to Remember (and one to forget) by Alison Binks

 A beautiful book to read aloud. I like the idea of innovating on this text and asking children what they think THEY should remember about being a learner? If you…remember to …. Another way to use the text is as a stimulus for them to imagine themselves at the end of the year. What memories would they like to have? 

What do you do with a problem? By Kobi Yamada 

All Yamada’s books are fabulous for the beginning of the year but this one is especially good for igniting a conversation around behaviour and generating ideas to form a class agreement. Most children are well aware of some of the typical issues/problems that come up in a classroom. Discussing what they are, why they occur and what the response might be can help build collective ownership of the norms and expectations in your learning community 

 Going Places by Peter Reynolds

 Like Bob Graham, Oliver Jeffers and Kobi Yamada, I could choose ANY one of Peter Reynolds books to use in the process of building a community early in the year. Going Places is an ideal text to introduce the idea of being imaginative, creative, and unafraid to ‘do it your way’. This is a book to prompt innovative, agentic thinking. It is also a beautiful way to explore the power of collaboration and what can happen when we put our heads together.  You might follow this book with a rich, open-ended task and encourage your children to do it THEIR way, to celebrate thinking outside the box and be less concerned about what others are doing. 

The Wonder of Winsome by Kath Murdoch

I just can’t leave her out!!   I wrote this book with the beginning of the year in mind (especially the prep/kinder year).  I would encourage you to share it at a parent night – a reminder to parents that adults have such incredible power when it comes to curiosity and agency. How would I use it in the classroom? I’d set up some wonder boxes or wonder journals (one for me too) and invite children to add to these whenever they have a wonder. Another routine can be the weekly sharing of wonders and selecting one to explore together. 

Oh my goodness! This has been such a LONG post and yet I finish it feeling dissatisfied. Why? Because there are SO many more! (You should see the pile I began with… )I would love to hear about your favourite books to use early in the year as you collaboratively create your learning community with your children.  Please do share!  And I also encourage you to consider the kinds of routines and rituals that you will introduce into your classroom this year to help create the calm, secure space we need for adventurous learning.

What routines do you like to establish? 

What are your favourite books to use early in the year?

Do you read to your children every day? Do you have a ritual associated with it? 

 Just wondering …