Valuing children’s voices as we map the journey ahead ...

There are many reasons why this is my favourite time of the year. They are both personal (I get to pack away my suitcase and be at home for an extended period … and there are Jacaranda’s flowering everywhere!) and professional. This is the time of year when some of the schools I partner with here in Australia take the time to deeply reflect on the school year behind them and begin to make plans for the year ahead. The thinking involved in this process is rich and complex. We need to be critical, reflective and creative and there is something about the time of year that seems give us permission to take it slowly, to sink in to the conversations we need to have and to give ourselves time to consider the work we do more deeply. 

 One of the processes we use to support our reflection is to gather data from every single child in the school and to use that data not only to help us understand the strengths and challenges of the year behind us but to inform the ‘map’ we develop for the year ahead.  In a few of my partner schools, teachers have chosen to nothave a fixed scope and sequence or program of inquiry.  The “units” developed with and for this year’s children are just that – for this year. We recognise that contexts, interests and needs change and we want to be responsive to that.  We already have a ‘scope and sequence’ within the mandated curriculum – but we can be responsive and creative about the contexts we harness to uncover that curriculum.

 I have used this process for several years now and with several schools. We ask children (in various ways) to respond to a range of questions including what they would love to learn more about in the year to come, what they think is important to learn about (often linked to current events or issues in the local and global community), what they have found meaningful and engaging this year, what they hope to explore in more depth or what they hope they will continue doing/learning in the year to come. We gather data about their concerns and their joys and the skills and dispositions (learning assets) they feel are their strengths and challenges.  Every, single child contributes information (through 1-1 interviews, surveys, drawings, written responses) and each collaborative team of educators is given time to analyse, identify patterns and themes, reflect on what the data reveals and consider the implications on the journeys of inquiry that we tentatively project into the next school year.  The seeds for the process were planted in me many years ago when I read the work of Professor James Beane, Michael Apple and of course the late Garth Boomer here in Australia.  Negotiating curriculum with learners is certainly not a new idea but one that deserves revisiting.

 I love what this process reveals. Although we gather reflections and feedback from kids throughout the year, there is something powerful about this big moment of pause. I see teams of teachers delighted, surprised, challenged and affirmed but, best of all, I see teachers really listening and noticing - intent on honouring the voices of children. 

 In many ways, the current climate is rife with confronting contradictions for educators. On the one hand, policies champion the value of learner agency, student voice, diversity and differentiation. On the other hand, the current breathless zeal for direct instruction (in literacy and numeracy at least) has prompted a return to one-size-fits-all programs and scripts that favour whole-class teaching, with little or no attention given to the context and needs of particular group of learners. Not only is student voice stifled but teacher voice is too.   This is a time that is challenging us to re-examine our beliefs and understandings about children, pedagogy, curriculum and the purpose of school itself.  And to know what we stand for and why.

 One of the fundamental principles of inquiry as a stance is the right of the learner to participate in the decisions made about and for their learning and a belief in the expertise and insight of the educator to design for learning in response to observation and documentation. Does this mean children make all the decisions? Of course not!  But it does mean that educators must choose to listen - and to consider ways they can design learning experiences that both honour interests and take children’s thinking further.  This process supports the idea of ‘relational pedagogy’ which emphasises reciprocity, joint involvement, respect for children’s ideas and theories, and emphasises meaning making. (Hedges, 2022:125)

 There is so much that is revealed in the process we work through. There are definitely some key differences across contexts that mean the maps we create are bespoke for each school. But in each school, staff noticed some recurring themes that naturally lent themselves to journeys of inquiry.  And as I stood back to think about the data across schools, I found myself jotting down some of the overarching questions that framed the most prevalent interests we noticed. Children tend to ask more specific, focussed questions but the bigger conceptual ideas to which they connect can be summarised below:

• What does it mean to be a friend? How can I build and sustain healthy relationships with others?  How can I manage the challenges of relationships?

• How can we care for other living things?  How can I learn more about the natural world and the diversity of animals with which we share the earth?

• What can we do about climate change? How will it affect us? Why don’t leaders do more to look after the planet?

• What’s it like in other parts of the world? How do other people live? How are we the same and different?

• How do things work?  What makes things function? How are the different parts of things connected?

• What does it mean to belong? How can I belong?  How can I be brave and true to myself and be part

  What dof a group?

• How can I use my creativity to express my ideas? How can I become a more accomplished artist (visual/performing)

• Why do wars happen?  How can we keep ourselves safe? What can we do about conflict in our lives?

• How can cope with the challenge of failure? 

 And, time and time again, children tell us that their learning is enhanced when:

• Teachers are kind and make them feel seen

• They get to go out of the school and have real, direct experiences in the world around them

• They get to ‘do art’. – when they can design, make, create

• They have time to play

• They don’t feel rushed

• They feel successful and proud of their learning and can share it with others

 In a beautiful article (link below) Educator Jane Style challenges educators to tap into the ‘scholarship in the selves’ in contrast to the ‘scholarship on the shelves’. She invites us to consider that the curriculum walks in the door with the children, reminding us that they come to school with their ‘life texts’.  Listening to the voices of hundreds of children over the last 2 weeks has been such an affirmation of this idea. And when we do listen, we are so often blown away by the depth and passion in children’s voices and are compelled to take them seriously.  And it is not too great a challenge to weave those interests, passions and concerns into our plans and to find connections with the curriculum.  This process helps bring the curriculum to life. As we acknowledge, for example, the sheer volume of children interested in and worried about their friendships and the navigation of their social world, we see connections to the health curriculum and the possibilities of linking to broader, transdisciplinary concepts such as connection, cause and effect, change and interdependence.

Inviting learner voice into the process of mapping for inquiry is energising, creative and connecting work. Each time we go through this process, I see teachers leave the room excited and uplifted about the prospect of the learning that lies ahead.  I feel both their sense of agency together with  a strong sense of connection to the children for whom we are designing the learning. And who have the right to be part of that process.

https://www.nationalseedproject.org/images/documents/Curriculum_as_Encounter.pdf

What role to children play in your designs for inquiry?

Just Wondering

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.)