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Beginner's Heart

Beginner's Heart

love, T-Rex, and being ‘single’ ~

I love the ambiguity of the word love — but I also envy all those other languages their precision: aimer, affectionner, encantar… eros, agape… There are almost as many words for strong affection as there are things to love.

But on Valentine’s Day, it seems like only romantic love counts. What’s up with that? What about the friends who regularly listen to me whine and rant and go off on tangents? What about my sisters? What about my nieces? What about my amazing sons?? What about my dogs! I mean, of course I love my wonderful husband — I married him, didn’t I? And we’re STILL married? Still ~

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So I’m here to extoll the virtues of universal love. Which in today’s incarnation looks like a very dumb T-Rex. :)

Seriously — today you should send at least an e-card to a  friend. Tell a sibling how much you love him or her. Let your students know they’re more than papers to grade (I’m taking mine chocolate :)). Buy your bus driver a lemon bar.

And try to remember: NO ONE is ‘single.’ Each of us is connected. Love is like the loveliest of webs, connecting us almost invisibly, but still connecting us…

Happy Valentine’s Day!

 

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the important thing about comprehensive exams (from a Buddhist perspective) ~

There are a lot of things you expect to learn if you get a doctorate. Primarily, of course, your subject. But there are also things you don’t expect to learn. Like… well, what I realised yesterday in the shower (is that TMI?).

When I took my comprehensives, they were two Saturdays in a row. Writing. Most of the day. And you wrote the entire time. Even with the HUGE thermos of mocha cappuccino I took to mine, I barely took time to hit the bathroom next to the computer lab. Basically? You write for hours… And then? Well, you write some more. :)

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And here’s the thing: because you’re writing for such a very long time, you become too tired to pretend. If you don’t like a topic (Aristotle, for instance), it comes out. You may be able to BS a short essay. Perhaps you can finesse an oral question. And if you have time to revise? You can go back and surgically excise the parts you think aren’t politic…:) But when you’ve been writing for 2 1/2 hours, and you begin a 2nd question, you don’t have much BS left. What you write is, pretty much, what you think.

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This is both freeing and terrifying. On my exams, I learned that the incisive academic prose I prided myself on was ‘distinctive’ (as in lauded) by some faculty. It was ‘barely permissible’ by another.  My voice hadn’t shifted. My audience had.

This is not something I expected to learn from taking my comps. I expected to learn — and did — about research. About poetic craft. About poets, and the literary tradition, even about my 2ndary fields. But it never occurred to me that I’d learn something that would, as an old sensei  told me, ‘bloom long after the master had passed.’

Because it’s been years since I had my comprehensive exams. One of my dissertation committee died far too young, others have moved to unknown destinations. I don’t think of them often. But this piece of learning came back today, as I thought about my own students, and my own learning now.

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We can only really be what we are. I can work to give back — write with my life? — what I have learned, what I know. But I can’t keep up BS — especially when it’s alien to who and what I am. It will fail me, ultimately. It’s a lesson I try to offer my students, but perhaps it will take them as long to learn as it did me. That all we really have is who we are…

Still: it’s not a bad lesson from a Ph.D., really ~

 

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Darwin, Jane Austen, & my students ~

I love science. And of course Darwin — like Da Vinci, like Einstein, like Copernicus — dominates it. Yesterday was his birthday (sorry about the tardy Congrats!, Mr. Darwin). So here is a bit of Darwin reflection ~ and bear with me: I promise it has to do w/ beginner’s heart…:)

One semester — and one only — I tried to teach Darwin in a lit class. We do a lot of nonfiction in literature (Benjamin Franklin, Mary Wollstonecraft, Scott Momaday, just to name a few), looking at figures w/ long-term literary impact. Several of my students (and this was an honours class) flat refused to read Darwin. Nope, they told me. He’s … well, Darwin. And against their religion(s).

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Just to read him? I asked, incredulous. You can’t even READ him, to see what he said in his own words? And to a student, they shook their heads. I promise I’m not exaggerating, nor am I over-stating their adamant refusals. No negotiating — Darwin may as well be the anti-Christ.

Because this had never happened to me before, and because I don’t believe in putting students on the spot, I allowed them to read something else. But I’ve never forgotten that class. Nor the quiet, back-door responses of other students to this small cadre of their very vocal and conservatively religious colleagues. One told me she felt totally disdained by the students in the class, because she was an atheist. Another told me that he felt his religion — Judaism — was both maligned and dismissed by the same students.

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I have no facile comments or final conclusions about this class. I don’t understand it now much better than I didn’t then, if that makes sense. It’s always been incomprehensible to me that any literature is ‘forbidden.’ I did ask my students why they had been forbidden to read Darwin. They hadn’t been expressly ‘forbidden,’ they assured me. But to a person, they said that Darwin was evil, and they were ‘discouraged from’ reading his work. After all, he denied the divine plan.

But here’s what I wonder: how can mere human beings discern the divine plan — always given that there is one…? If something there is that created the spark that became today, the fragrance of Hao Ya tea, the crisp winter cold, the queue of birds lining up at the bird bath we just unfroze, how can I, addled mortal that I am, comprehend that? And what is there about ‘faith’ that is threatened by knowledge?

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My students were not interested in discussing this much at all. I did ask if they followed the Old Testament, and the Laws of Leviticus. This is what hurt my Jewish student — the Darwin-deniers were appalled at the idea. But it’s the Old Testament —  Genesis et al — that carry the Young Earth creation myth. And to be a Young Earther means you also deny the following scientific fields, as I’ve touched on elsewhere: physics, chemistry, geology, astronomy, cosmology, paleontology, molecular biology, genomics, linguistics, anthropology, archaelogy, climatology, and dendochronology. If a scant 1/2 of American believe in the Young Earth philosophy, no wonder we don’t have many scientists!

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So, Darwin, what do you have to say about this? Baptised Anglican, raised in the Unitarian church, you studied to be Christian clergy yourself. And you like a happy ending, it appears.  So this poem by Wislawa Szymborska made me happy. Especially when I think of Darwin possibly reading Austen, one of my all-time favourites: “the lovers reunited, the families reconciled.” It’s called: ‘Consolation.’

I’d like a happy ending too. But I’m not sure what it would be, or how my beginner’s heart — which would like very much to understand why science is seen as threatening faith — can help it come about. Any suggestions?

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the holy alchemy of teaching ~

I often tackle a new discipline — or learning more about something I know only superficially — by offering to teach it. Don’t cringe: you’re not in any of my classes :). And it makes me, I’d argue, a far better teacher. My enthusiasm is new; my passion still full-hearted. But it also makes me nervous.

Last night was the first evening of a new class I’m teaching. As we shared our names, why we were in that moment together, beginning a new project, I thought — not for the first time — what a holy endeavour teaching is. That the relationship which develops in a healthy classroom is (like all religions) based on faith, on trust. Teacher and student in fluid movement — the way currents inform each other in a larger body of water. Learning a kind of ocean…

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It’s transformative, teaching. Something we don’t tell outsiders much — sounds like cult stuff, doesn’t it? :) Students know that learning is transformative, and that a teacher can wield enormous power, for good or evil. But it takes teaching, day in/day out, to transform the teacher. Within the classroom, I’m somehow re-created, each hour, each class session. Some alchemical process transmutes me, turns my leaden nature into something that, while not gold, is infinitely closer to that spiritual state the alchemists sought.

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Alchemy too was a spiritual belief, often entertwined w/ religion, and certainly part of the tradition of seeking.The idea of the philosopher’s stone was part of it, but so was the belief that following the process changed the believer, transforming his spirit (it was all ‘his’ back then :)) into a purer state — spiritual gold.

Teaching is like that. Each class, I walk through the door knowing I will learn far more than my students. The evening class I teach is for ‘mature’ adults — meaning about 1/2 the class is even older than I am. I learn from them how I might be a better grandparent, how to write, how listen and how to learn. And I re-learn, nightly, how lucky I am to be a teacher.

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The afternoon class I teach is an entirely different demographic: more diverse both culturally and chronologically, although no one is a lot older than my elder son. I learn without even trying — I can’t help but learn. Preparing a day’s lesson plan, researching new information on a topic, reading a student’s work, trying to figure out how what a student thinks can be articulated, made tangible in words… All of that is learning. Today I learned — once again — how the process of k-12 education, as it stands today, leaves so many of our gifted students woefully insecure about their own abilities, and deeply mistrustful of unstructured learning. ‘Play’ — such a critical element of learning at all ages — is a foreign concept to my students. At least within the academic arena.

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All of this — at least for me, and for the many teachers whom I love and follow — is a kind of faith. A faith in the capacity of the human heart to expand with learning. A trust that what I know will somehow be useful to the learning trajectories of these wonderful people in my classes. Belief that one person can make a difference.

It’s also spiritual practice, strengthening my beginner’s heart. the process of teaching — blogging, poetry, journaling, whatever — is teaching me how to learn. I have to learn more about the topics, obviously. But I’m learning so much more. Like how to love. I didn’t realise when I took up teaching that it was a kind of Buddhist practice, but there it is. The holy alchemical practice of teaching. Who knew…

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