It took more than thirty years before I experienced snow coming from the sky, but this year it seems that wherever I go snow finds me. My first encounter with airbound snow in my 30’s caught me off guard. The southern Californian in me saw those delicate flurries as bits of ash–my first thought was worry that we were experiencing a wildfire, in spite of being at a teaching conference in Detroit!
Since then I’ve learned to both recognize and name some different stages of snow. I can see the light beginnings as flurries, the wetter thicker flakes that smash onto the windshield as a wintry mix, and I delight in the drier, firmer stage that is cold enough to accumulate on my scarf and hat. I don’t know enough to judge when snow goes from just weather to a danger. I have to depend on the forecasts of TV meteorologists to make decisions about whether to venture out and what kinds of risks to take when snow makes its appearance.
A February trip to the Pacific Northwest had us expecting rain, but before we reached the Olympic Peninsula it was clear that we were going to be playing in the snow. As a non-skier, snow options are more limited but I have discovered the delight of snowshoes! The first time I hiked in the snow in just my hiking boots I found myself hip deep with just one leg and struggling to release myself from a mysterious divot that my foot landed in. Snowshoes make hiking in the snow fun and doable, they rent for a pretty reasonable price, and there is no need for ski lifts or navigating crowds that form at popular skiing locations.
There’s something about novelty that can be exhilarating, motivating, and maybe even a little bit scary. I’m sure a steady diet of snow-filled days would become tedious and annoying, especially if I had to deal with the inconveniences of shoveling sidewalks and porches, bringing in groceries across slippery walkways, and constantly adding and removing layer upon layer of clothing to maintain a comfortable temperature. But walking in the forest in snowshoes, peering into wind-smoothed frosted valleys, and even stopping to roll piles of snow to create our newest snow friend who will greet others as they head up the trail is just plain fun.
I find myself thinking about the tedium of sameness, those gray spring days that begin and end with a deep marine layer when the sun is never quite able to break through the thickness of soggy cumulous layers. How is that like a steady flow of skills worksheets in the classroom, spaces to fill in, almost mindlessly, day after day? Does a school version of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) begin to set in where students begin to feel disinterested, disengaged, and withdrawn from the schooling process?
And how does that tedium of sameness, perhaps amplified with frustration at student attitudes, affect teachers? Are teachers lulled into believing that students need mind-numbing versions of repeated practice even when it dulls the senses? Or does this kind of classroom routine simply make the endlessly complex and demanding job of teaching more doable?
For me, I’d rather strap on those snowshoes and try something new with my students even if at first I feel clumsy and awkward trudging up a slippery slope. I want each day in the classroom to feel both familiar and like an adventure, with predictable routines and real and relevant learning work. I know that sometimes I may end up losing the trail and having to backtrack to find my way forward, sometimes even throwing out whole lessons when I find that they just aren’t working for me and my students. But even when we have to start again, we’ve moved forward, discovered some things about learning, ourselves, and the resilience of our community.
I’m convinced that students become more engaged and interested in learning when they are involved in making and creating–things, ideas, meaning–and when learning is social. Of course, this means that my classroom is seldom quiet and I’m also always wishing for more space for projects and small groups to gather and time to get those projects from start to finish.
It’s not unusual for me to pull out the paint–and at one point this last school year, some fat white yarn and clothespins to use as tools to replicate the mops that Jackson Pollock used in his abstract art. The first graders were directed to “represent” an idea in the abstraction of paint on the paper. These yarn “mops” were tricky, but students persisted swirling, dripping, plopping, and dragging as they worked to convey their ideas. They already had the idea they were creating in their head…this piece of art would complement the question poem they had written about something in nature from our exploration in the schoolyard.
As they worked, I could hear students in conversation about the colors they selected and the marks they made. Activities like these allow my students to explore their own thinking, express ideas in ways that make sense to them, and are playful and fun (if sometimes a bit messy). But then, learning is messy anyway. The best part though was students’ explanations of their abstract art. As they directed their families to these displays at our annual Open House, they helped them see the connections between the abstract art and the poem they had written. And even some weeks after the creation of these pieces, students were still excited to talk about them.
Like strapping on snowshoes, designing learning activities that engage my students in making their own meaning, allowing space to incorporate their interests and lived experiences, and giving them opportunities to express themselves ignites interest and energy in the classroom as we are also building academic prowess. And in the process, we build a culture of risk taking, of learning from mistakes, and of thinking critically and carefully about ourselves and the world.
There is this old quote that makes the rounds every now and then about the teacher being responsible for the climate and weather in the classroom:
“I’ve come to the frightening conclusion that I am the decisive element in the classroom. It’s my personal approach that creates the climate. It’s my daily mood that makes the weather.” Haim Ginott
When I read this quote earlier in my career, my interpretation had everything to do with my mood and attitude. I could be kind or harsh, in a good or a bad mood. But these days I know that it is more than my mood that impacts the students in my classroom. In lots of ways we are experiencing climate change in the classroom as well as in the environment. Someone always thinks they know better than the teacher about what students need to be successful in school, not always with student well-being at the center. I’m noticing the words “research-based” and “science” when associated with some viral “new” approach to teaching and learning often means fewer applications to learning outside of school and less opportunities for students to create and make meaning of their own. While it is important to be open to new approaches to teaching and learning and to work toward continued improvement of the art of teaching, it is also critical to attend to the needs of students–not just their test scores and other data that follows them through the school system–but also their interests, their levels of engagement, and the relevance of the tasks they are asked to do in school. And like needing that TV meteorologist to help make decisions about snowy conditions, teachers benefit from the support of other teachers, especially those who see themselves as learners who are always striving to improve their teaching, like those found in their local writing project.
I hope that in my classroom the night and morning low clouds clear, making room for blue skies, snow flurries, and maybe even some rainfall. Some of our learning journeys may be slippery, and we may stumble and fall along the way, but I hope neither me or my students will be lulled into seeing learning as filling in spaces according to someone else’s priorities, in a don’t-care-but-I-do-what-I’m-told sort of way. Let’s hike our way out of those spaces, with snowshoes, umbrellas, hiking boots…whatever tools help us find purpose and with the appropriate tools to help us explore the possibilities in front of us.
Credits:
photos by Kim Douillard