I did it! A triathlon reflection

                My goggles are strapped onto my head over my swim cap. My stomach is flip flopping and all I want to do is get in the water and swim. All I want to do is begin my first triathlon! I’m not nervous about competing against other people. It isn’t that kind of race. I am nervous about doing my best and about not failing myself or my family and friends who have supported me. The line in front of me shrinks and soon it is my turn to get in the water. It is freezing! The water has frozen the butterflies and suddenly there is a tap on my shoulder and a “good luck today!” Pushing off the wall, I quickly find the steady vitalistic rhythm of my swim and the pool has once again become a watery womb of comfort. But I am swimming fast! The adrenalin and the atmosphere have me moving far more quickly than usual. To take my mind off the faster pace and to stop my mind from questioning whether or not I can maintain it, I think about how I arrived at this moment…

                When I was an early teen, I had a near drowning experience while white water rafting. Since that time and up until last year, I had been afraid to put my head under water for long periods of time. When my husband competed in a triathlon two years ago, I decided then that I wanted to do a triathlon. Last year when he competed, I promised the both of us that next year it was going to be me. But I had two problems: my doctors had cautioned me against running due to lower back problems, and I was still afraid of swimming. I decided to deal with my fear first and the handicap later. I took adult swimming lessons to remind myself of what I had learned as a kid. I started swimming at least twice a week at the local pool. It was ugly for the first year and half. As my earlier blog posts detail, my mind and body were at complete odds with each other and most swim sessions would end with me heaving at the end of the pool cursing my inability to get over my mental block. Swimming 100 metres non-stop was an accomplishment. I seriously doubted my ability to ever compete in a triathlon.

                Then, one day last summer, there was a turning point. My husband and I rode our bikes to the longest outdoor pool in the city. Each length is 137 metres. It was a glorious day with the sky a perfect clear blue and the sun beating mercilessly onto the swimmers and bathers. I was mesmerized by the light dancing off the undulating water as I lowered myself in. And I swam. It was by no means a beautiful swim, but there was something in the freedom of the outdoor water and the warm sun hitting the bottom of the pool that let me know that I was going to be ok. From that day on I knew I could swim. And I knew I could compete in a triathlon. Swimming quickly became an obsession and instead of my husband begging me to go to the pool, it was I begging him. Writing my Bodygraphy in my last course taught me much about the power of positive self-talk. As I learned to swim again, and as I wrote about that experience, I also learned to coach myself internally and to believe in myself.

                I finish up the last 50 metres with relief. Dragging myself out of the pool, my lungs are heaving with the effort of the increased pace. I trot to the change tent and struggle out of my swim suit. I dry myself as quickly and as efficiently as I can then struggle to get my clothes on for the cycle and run. There is some inevitable twisting of sleeves and my tri suit resists being pulled over my soggy skin. But I win and soon I am off running to the transition area. The bike is next and I know I’ve got this. When I was younger I was a runner but compressed discs and a broken coccyx ended that fairy tale sport. The bike is now my strongest event. I once promised myself that I would never, ever, ever! be one of those cyclists wearing lycra and clippy-cloppy shoes. I giggle to myself as I snap on my clippy shoes, click on my helmet and clop over to the start of the cycle route. I’ve stopped making self-limiting promises like that to myself. The first lap of the cycle feels like a Sunday ride so I decide to step things up a bit for the second lap. The husband had told me not to overdo it on the bike because I still had the run. I don’t overdo it, but I also kick the Sunday ride to the curb. In no time the cycle is over and I am back clopping towards the transition area. It is now time for my most questionable event- the run.

                I am painfully slow on the run and no matter how much my body and mind want to pick up the pace, I can’t. Not once do I feel like stopping. Not once does my body or mind scream out for the run to end. But I just can’t run any faster. Perhaps it is a self-fulfilling prophecy. I had told everyone that the run was going to be ugly and I am delivering on that announcement! I make a promise to myself to not make such promises to myself and everyone next year. Next year, I am just going to do it- no guessing on performance!

                I am standing at the finish line, breath shuddering. My husband thinks I am about to have an asthmatic event, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. In reality, behind my sunglasses and with my face buried in his shoulder, I am on the verge of an ugly cry because I have just finished my first triathlon. Once again, I find myself at a present that I never thought would arrive.  Arriving at this finish line has been a long journey and I am incredibly proud of myself. The past hour and 47 minutes has zipped past like a blur.

                I worked so hard to reach where I am today and while I didn’t finish very well in terms of ranking, I did well for myself. As I wipe the post-race peanut butter from my mouth, I experience a humbling stop moment as I think of some of my students who work incredibly hard yet who are never at the front of the pack. These kids are resilient and they work hard for themselves. These are the kids who, despite struggling to read or to understand basic math facts, show me daily the incredible depths of their minds. These are the kids that I am most proud of because of what they have accomplished and what they will accomplish. These are the kids who have had near drowning experiences and who may be just treading water right now or who may be beginning to learn how to swim on their own. These are the kids that I look forward to seeing each day so that I can learn with them and share in their triumphs.

                Reaching for a banana I think of my Masters program and my HEAL cohearties. I hadn’t expected to have a stop moment at the finish line of the triathlon but it because of them that I have. I am thankful for it. I am thankful for the vitality of this day.

Welcome to our ool

When I was about 6 years old, my family went on a camping trip to visit the town where my Grandma  grew up. What had promised to be a boring experience of hanging out with old people and talking about the old days was saved by the campground swimming pool. We swam every day that we stayed there. The best thing about the pool wasn’t the slide or the diving board. It was the big, prominent sign that read “Welcome to our ool. Notice there is no ‘p’ in it. Please keep it that way.” Even at 6 I thought this was hilarious.

Flash forward 27 years and I am in the local rec centre pool. (Notice there is a ‘p’ in it.) I am close to finishing my swim for the day and am taking a break at the edge of the pool. As I catch my breath, the man next to me starts clearing his nose and then spits it into the pool filter grate that runs the perimeter of the pool. I’m a little taken aback, and while I am trying to decide if I really heard and saw what I thought I did, he does it again. I dive into the situation:

“That goes back into the pool you know.”

“No it doesn’t”

“Ya. It does.”
“No. That’s not the pool.”
“Yes. That water there comes back into the pool. You spitting into that thing is the same as me spitting on you right now.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“You do that again, and I’ll call the lifeguard over.”

Now I am not under any delusions about what is floating around in the pool. Dead skin, hair, and bodily fluids marinate together to make human waste soup. But  I was apparently under delusions about how most of that sludge got there. I am ok with hair and skin cells that come off unbeknownst to their owners. I am ok with an overexcited kid urinating in the pool. That is why the pool is chlorinated and ozonated. I am not ok with people that have a blatant disrespect for the other pool patrons and snort their mucous and spit their phlegm into the water.  I was naively under the assumption that everyone shared a basic appreciation for public hygiene and that it was common knowledge that one does not snort and spit in the pool.

The lifeguard has noticed what is going on and comes over. Snorty McSpitterson is now doing a very pathetic job of lying his way out of the situation. He has all kinds of lame excuses like “I was choking for my life.” I resist the urge to inform him that he made a very quick recovery from “choking for his life” to “lying for his pride.” I know that I’ve already wounded his pride but I don’t care. I don’t think this man is used to being challenged by a woman and it has thrown his lying off balance. He is making a very poor case for himself but continues to lie about spitting in the pool. I decide that I’ve had enough of this man and his phlegm. As I get out of the human waste soup, I resist the urge to poke the hornets’ nest one last time and tell him, “I bet your mother is very proud of you.”

The guard tries to calm me down and reason with me: “I didn’t see him do it so there isn’t really anything that I can do about it. But I’ll keep an eye on him.” Now it’s my time to be thrown off balance. How many times have I said something similar to a student who has come to complain about another student’s behaviour? How many times have I told a child on the playground, “I didn’t see little Johnny throw rocks at you. I’ll talk to him about it but, unless I actually see him do it, there isn’t much I can do.” Now I know exactly how my students feel when I give them such a non-answer.

 

Perhaps instead of being angry at Snorty McSpitterson, I should be thankful to him for the pool-side stop moment. Next time someone spits or snorts in the pool, I will deal with it differently. And next time a student complains about another student’s behaviour that I didn’t see, I will also deal with that differently.

Welcome to our Pool.

Respecting Education

I come from a family of teachers. My sister and I are teachers and my father was a teacher. I have 1 cousin and 3 aunts who are teachers. My Grandfather was a teacher.

My Grampa started teaching in the late 1920s in a small farming community in Interior BC. He taught in the quintessential one room schoolhouse- it is now little more than a pile of bricks in the corner of a farmer’s field. When the Depression hit, he lost students to the farm- they were needed to help earn the few extra pennies for the family. My Grampa made house calls to check on these students and to tutor and teach them in the small windows of time that they had. The families, if they could, repaid him with the fruits of their labour. He was RESPECTED!

After the Depression he moved back to the city and began teaching in the high school from which he graduated. He was a Botany, Biology and Latin teacher and quickly became much-loved amongst the staff and students. His classes were legendary. He was RESPECTED!

This year, while chatting with the Grandma of one of my students, we discovered that my Grandpa had been her favourite teacher. It has been an honour for me to teach the grandson of someone who had been taught by my Grandpa. We both burst into tears as our worlds collided and we talked about what a wonderful educator, mentor and friend he had been. He was RESPECTED!

My father began teaching in the 1960s at a time when men were just beginning to enter the education system en masse. Over the years, he was branded as the teacher who could reach “the tough kids.” His classrooms were packed with the behaviour problems, the depressed children, the children that needed extra love and support. His mantra was “You can’t save them all, but you can try!” He had former students coming to visit him all the time. He was RESPECTED!

At my aunt’s memorial service last year, there were several students present. One spoke about all of the personal sacrifices my aunt made so that tat student and her peers felt respected, loved and valued. She had perfected her job yet was always looking for ways to be a better teacher and mentor. My aunt sacrificed herself for these students. She was RESPECTED!

 My sister and I began teaching about 12 years ago. We have met many parents over the years, some of whom don’t really understand the terminally ill condition of our education system. But we have felt RESPECTED by the parents. My sister and I have always taught under a Liberal government. We have always taught in crowded classrooms and have been short on resource staff and supplies. We have always subsidized the system.  We have always had classes over-packed with students who require extra time and attention and we have worked ourselves to exhaustion trying to meet their diverse needs. Our government has made a deliberate effort to undermine our public education system to push their agenda for a two-tiered, class-based system. WE AREN’T RESPECTED!

It is time that we all stood up for fairly funded public education!

It is time that students, education and teachers are RESPECTED by our government!

 

Pigging out at the Curriculum Theory Candy Shop- on libraries and books

Libraries are dangerous places because they contain books.  Books are dangerous because they beg you to take them home.

When my husband was a teenager, he stole an encyclopedia from a stall at a street market. When he told me this story, I gave him the stink eye and said “I can’t believe you STOLE something!” “I didn’t steal anything,” he countered. “You can’t steal knowledge. It just doesn’t qualify as something you can steal.” I couldn’t really argue with that logic, even if it was that of a teenage boy.

When my husband and I go travelling we write a travel contract. There is an item about books. It states the number of books that each travel participant is allowed to bring on the trip and how many each participant is allowed to purchase while travelling. More than anything, this is a safety measure to ensure that we don’t purchase more books than we can carry or so that our baggage weight allowance is not over the limit. We have to limit books because if we didn’t, the overwhelming desire to buy books would blow the trip budget. We are also running out of places to put the books at home.

Going to the library is very much like going to the grocery store. Whenever I feel a bout of impulse buying coming on, I quickly “get thee to a library. To the library go, and quickly too.” I browse the stacks like a shopper browsing the aisles. I put unnecessary purchases in the cart, except with books, there is no such thing as an unnecessary purchase. I always leave the library with a stack of unplanned reads. Yes, I have tried the old shopping trick of “don’t go to the store without a shopping list.” I go to the library with a list but I can never stick to it. There are too many tempting reads calling out to me from the shelves. I can’t stop myself from shelf reading and pulling at least half a dozen interesting titles off the shelf. I have also tried the other trick of not shopping while hungry- because if you do you will always buy more than you planned. Well, it is near impossible to go to a library when I am not hungry for books because I have a voracious literary appetite. Books are part of the culture of our house. Friday nights often find my husband and I nerding-out on the couch- each of us with a book, or several. That, or playing Bananagrams.

Sigh. Yesterday’s trip to the library was no different. I needed to go to the local Library of Higher Learning to get some books for the curriculum theory class that I am taking. The public library didn’t have what I needed. I prepared a list before leaving the house. “This time I’ll stick to the list” I told myself. “No impulse titles.” There were 5 titles on the list. Two I had actually placed holds on “JUST IN CASE ANYONE TRIES TO GET THEM BEFORE ME!!!” I have visions of library lurkers lurking in the stacks, pulling books that they psychically know someone really wants/needs. (Want and need are synonyms when it comes to books) I took one of my largest reusable shopping bags with me because I knew that a backpack wouldn’t suffice.

 I have heard that some global hotel chains build all of their hotels with the same floor plan so that travelling business people aren’t disoriented when they arrive. It makes for a “more pleasant stay and they feel at home.” When I entered the Library of Higher Learning, I immediately felt at home and knew that I was in for a pleasant stay. “It smells like undergrad!” I thought. “Same smell, different institution. Le siiiiigh. Eau de vieille biblioteque.” It made my mind race and my stomach do excited flip flops.

“Stick to the list!” echoed in my mind as a tromped up the stairs. “Stick to the list!”

“Stick to the list!” my steps reminded me as I wandered the stacks looking for the right call numbers. “Stick to the list!”

“Stick to the list!” nagged at me as my fingers stroked the spines. “Stick to the list!”

“Oooook. I am looking for call number LB 880 S662 C87. ‘Curriculum, pedagogy and educational research…… Aaaah. Here it is…WHAT’STHIS? THE PAOLO FREIRE ENCYCLOPEDIA?!?!?! Get in the bag. GETINTHEBAG!” The “stick to the list” mantra quickly dissolved as I found title after title that I HAD TO HAVE! “Indoctrination in Education.” In the bag. “Jacques Rancière: Education, Truth, Emancipation.” In the bag. “Rediscovering the Spirit of Education After Scientific Management.” In the bag. “Teaching Against the Grain.” In the bag.

“Is this a book which I see before me, the spine toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee!”

I had entered the Curriculum Theory Candy Shop and there was no going back. I was pigging out. My giant reusable shopping bag was soon overflowing with books not on the list. “Oh well,” I sighed. “You can never have too many.”

As I dragged myself out of the library with great reluctance, I heard Macbeth say with approval,
“My more-having would be as a sauce, to make me hunger more.”

Life in the fast lane

For the past few months I have been swimming more regularly and working on my technique. A plantar fasciitis diagnosis has kicked me out of the gym and banished me to the pool. I am not overly happy about this. Swimming is still not an activity that I love and I would much rather be in the gym, sweat dripping in my eyes and drenching my clothes. But, I had promised myself that I would become a stronger swimmer and the opportunity arose.

 

Kick kick kick inHALE kick kick kick inHALE Kick kick kick inHALE kick kick kick inHALE Kick kick kick inHALE

 

When I started swimming months ago I began in the slow lane. Always one to be a bit overly confident (or arrogant depending on what end of the situation you are on), I thought that I would be conservative with the swimming attitude. (Varsity water polo swim cap aside.) I quickly realized, however, that the slow lane is not for swimming. It is for gluing oneself to the wall and catching up on the daily goss’ with the other barnacles. It is where the World Competition of Strangest Pool Exercises is held on a daily basis. It is where flotation belts are donned, goggles are snapped into place, bodies are secured to the ground in 3 feet deep water, and arms are extended over the head while fingers dig the air. Why you need a pool to do this and what is it exercising I’m not sure.

 

Leaving the madness behind, I quickly graduated to the medium lane. Swimming happens in the medium lane. Mostly. For several weeks I swam in the medium lane until I discovered that I was swimming the same way that I drive. I am a path of least resistance driver. I get frustrated with the slow people in front of me and change lanes so I can pass them. (Reason #4 for why I no longer own a car). One day, after passing the same dawdling ladies several times, I slithered out of the pool and padded over to talk to the lifeguard.

 

“Ummmm, Do you think you could ask those two ladies who are doggy paddling abreast in the medium lane to move to the slow lane? I’ve passed them a lot.”

“Well I think you should move to the fast lane.”

“Pardon?”

“You should move to the fast lane and those two doggy paddlers can stay in the medium lane.”

“Ummm, I don’t want to move to the fast lane and then be one of those people. You know, one of those slow people. I don’t want to be someone else’s doggy paddler.”

“You won’t. I’ve been watching you swim. Move to the fast lane.”

 

Confidence boosted, chest out, varsity water polo swim cap held high, I padded back to the pool singing in my head, “Movin on up! Moving on out- ofthemediumlane! Time to break free, nothing can stop me!” and slipped into the fast lane.

 

“Hmmmph.” I thought. “Life in the Fast Lane! Duh nah nah nah duh nah nah nahts!”

 

It turns out that I am not someone else’s doggy paddler. (But each time I get too excited, I have to remind myself that it is a public pool during public swim hours.) Sure, I am nowhere near as skilled as the guy I like to call “The Fish” and the 12 year old kid who is being coached by his dad out-swims me every time. But I am definitely becoming a stronger swimmer and if I am strategic about when I start swimming in the lane, then nobody passes me.

 

I no longer swim like the September Marie who swam like a fish caught on a line. 25 meters was an accomplishment for her! Swimming is no longer a series of mechanical movements. I can swim with relative fluidity and with more vitality.
 

I do still focus on certain movements. My arms don’t “drag lazily over the water before they plunge in again” as my swim instructor put it. They split the water with a force that would please any owner of a Slap Chop. And the catch and pull are embarrassing. There is no more check marking in the water because the abs are always engaged. And my torpedoing techniques are amazing. The one area that needs serious improvement is my breathing. I have yet to figure out the perfect breathing pattern to make my entire body happy while under water. And if my breathing is off, the entire body is imbalanced.

 

There is always an internal monologue running while I swim, like a computer humming. The monologue is no longer a chastisement of my terrible technique. In fact, my mind is quieter when I swim than when I suffer through a yoga class. Being underwater closes off the rest of the world and I don’t have to hear all the loud ujjayi breathing. I only hear myself. The monologue that now repeats itself is my own personal coaching mantra. As I exhale, I blow a continuous brrrrrrrrp of bubbles. Stroke stroke stroke breath. Stroke stroke stroke breath.

 

Brrrrrrrrp! inHALE Brrrrrrkickickabsrrrrp! inHAAALE! Brrrrrrchopchopstrokerrrrp inHAAAAALE!

 

Life in the fast lane.

Honouring Emily

 

There are some teachers who have a huge impact on the lives of students. Perhaps they offer a non-judgemental and listening ear, perhaps they silently sneak recess snack to the student who doesn’t have anything, perhaps it is the extra time they put in before and after school coaching sports, tutoring, directing plays or musical groups. Perhaps it is that they listen to their students’ interests and create lessons that are relevant to their students. Perhaps they are motivating.

 

To me, Emily Longworth is one of those teachers.

 

Em was a positive role model for her students and for everyone. She lived an incredibly active life. She rode her bike everywhere and was an avid runner. She was fond of hiking and travelling. Em believed in experiential learning and the more hands on, the better. So that none of the students at her low-income school would ever have to miss out, Em bought school supplies and paid for field trips out of her own pocket.

 

Emily lived every moment of her life to the fullest. She had a rambunctious, mischievous personality and boundless love and energy for learning and teaching. Em taught with authenticity- there was no “teacher self” when in the classroom, there was just Emily. In everything she did, she was never afraid to just be herself. I’m sure she was an unconventional teacher and took learning risks so that her students could have the best possible experiences. Emily’s students knew her to be kind, caring, silly, loving, generous and understanding. They connected with her and adored her.

 

Em died 7 years ago today in a hostel fire in Chile. At 25, she had just graduated as a teacher. Emily’s joyfulness, boundless heart and roguish humour were and are contagious and although she only had one sibling, Katie, her passing, for many, was like the passing of a soul sister or a daughter. To know Em was to have her spirit fill your heart.

 

Although Em is no longer with us, she continues to touch the lives of those who love her, and even of those who never met her. When Em passed, her family wanted to create a lasting legacy of Emily’s life and achievements. Through the Emily Longworth New Teachers Creative Activities Fund, Em continues to impact and change the lives of young students and teachers alike. The goal of the legacy fund is to sponsor “curriculum enrichment or extracurricular activities by student teachers which promote multicultural understanding, healthy lifestyle, environmental awareness, and inspire students to achieve their full potential in life." This seems like a lofty requirement, yet as a teacher, Emily achieved all of this.  The fund focuses on hands-on, child-centered and student motivated learning experiences and “has already supported a plethora of creative projects. It has helped Grade 1 students create “cuddle quilts” to be donated to children who have lost a family member to cancer and enabled Grade 5 and 6 students to start a school-wide composting program. It also financed a permanent, multimedia mural about the oceans, produced by Grade 2 and 3 students under the direction of artist Angela Grossman.” As Emily’s Dad explains, “the teachers don’t receive money themselves; the projects benefit students and the broader community. We also try and direct it to lower income kids who might not otherwise get these kinds of opportunities.” In true Emily style, the legacy fund has turned a tragic loss into an empowering and motivating opportunity for students and teachers.

 

When she was alive, Em had a big impact on me. She and her sister always filled me with happiness and energy- I wanted to have the same approach to life as they did. I wanted to see the positive in everything. Now that Em is gone, forever travelling, she has had an even bigger impact on me. I fight a daily internal battle between my authentic self and my significator self. My authentic self is much like Em- rambunctious, silly, loving, child-honouring, and understanding. My significator self is my survival mode self. She is often grouchy, controlling, impatient and worried about curricular outcomes. My significator self is the self that isn’t my true self. It is the self created by a business or factory model education system. My authentic self is much like John Dewey or Maria Montesorri- she wants children to be honoured, to explore, to learn through hands-on experiences, to become independent thinkers. Almost every working day, the battle rages on between my two selves. More and more often, the authentic self is winning. And even more recently, it isn’t even my own self berating my significator self. It is Em. I aspire to teach and live, like Em, with my authentic self. I aspire to listen more openly to each of my students and to give them the attention that they deserve.

 

Em teaches me to learn and be in every moment with my students, to not worry so much about the mandated outcomes and to honour the curiousities and interests of my students. Em teaches me to scrap the planned lessons for the day and to go explore the living wonders of the park next to the school because there is much more powerful learning in the discovery than in the sitting and being told. There is much more powerful learning in digging in the dirt and sifting the soil through our fingers than there is in just talking about it. It is much more important to follow a child’s interests than to tell them “we aren’t learning that today,” because if that is what they hear, what is the lesson that they are really learning? And how will they learn if they are not interested.

 

Em will never know the impact that she has had on my life as a teacher. But every day, especially today, I teach in her memory and honour.

 

Read more about The Longworth Legacy.

Make a donation to the New Teachers Creative Activity Fund.

 

 

Through the Looking Glass- A Jeweller's Stange Loop Exploration

Through the looking glass I tumble down from Brobingnag into Lulliput. I leave behind the titanic shell and fall, fall, fall, fall, fall, fall, fall, fall, fall, fall,, fall……….

 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144… A skipping game of layers built on top of each other. An exo-cranial home. Skeletal blueprint. Tectonic fractures interrupt the architecture, interrupt the strong natural ridges with instability. Did the owner feel the cranial earth move? Surface craters mimic the moon. Are these natural hiccups in the calcium carbonate skipping game? Are these natural bruises experienced in the submarine environment? Briny spice mixes with gritty soil and flossy web.
 

 With the jeweller’s loupe, I begin to see the Strange Loops in the natural world. Science and math working together to create a Fibonacci skipping game across the ridges of the shell. Science and math are a Strange Loop. Can science exist without math? Can math exist without science? They are the same thing and yet they are not.

 A square is a rectangle but a rectangle isn’t a square.

The jeweller’s loupe reveals the Droste effect present all around me. I look at the shell and see a shell in a shell in a shell in a shell in a shell in a house in a house in a house in house in a world within a world within a world within a world within a

 The more I look the more I see. The smaller I look the bigger the world gets, THE BIGGER THE WORLD GETS!!!

I’M OVERWHELEMED

because everything is connected and everything depends on and is everything else.

 

Climbing back out of the lens and into the big picture, seeing how the little fits into big, and fits and fits and fits again, I wonder…

…if this is true, which it is, then why must we compartmentalize, organize, ghettoize our learning.  If the big picture and the small picture are really the same but different, because one is within, within, within, within the other, why do we

p

i

g

e

o

n

h

o

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e

 what we are learning? Why do you subject-ify the learning? If the natural world is integrated, should not our learning be fractally integrated?

 Cuz the curriculum’s connected to the… whole world. And the whole world’s connected to the… science. And the science is connected to the… math. And the math’s are connected to the… reading. And the reading’s connected to the… writing. And the writing’s connected to the… speaking. And the speaking’s connected to the… history. And the history’s connected to the… whole world. And the whole world’s connected the… curriculum. Now see the learning of the world.     

 ************************************************************************************

I try to explain to wondering parents that I integrate the subjects in my classroom… that in learning science we are also learning math, that in working on word study we are learning the mathematical patterns of language, we are learning patterning and patterns are in everything we do. Parents who were taught in a pigeonholed system have great difficulty taking the little picture and applying it to the big. I was taught in a pigeonholed system and regularly have the same trouble.

If, as a teacher, I allow the students to follow their interests and curiousities, or as a class we pursue each students’ questions, there is always a convoluted way that this can be woven back into what “we should be learning”- the PLOs of the curriculum. We all are curious and ask questions for a reason. As animals, curiousity and questioning help us give meaning to our world and help us figure out how to survive. So the pursuit of these questions and curiousities leads to authentic learning and education.

Looking through the jeweller’s loupe and exploring the worlds within our worlds helped me to focus the lens on more authentic learning. I was as enthralled with the Lilliputian worlds as I know my students would be. A million questions and curiousities burst into my mind and one question spawned a million more thus perpetuating the Droste effect of learning.