Teaching Philosophy – a Work-in-Progress

My sophomore year in high school in Homer, Alaska: a week’s study of poetry in an exuberant and intelligent Diane Gretchen’s English class turned me on to a saving form of writing, one which I perked up to, which in that very week began to steer my life in the direction of writing for survival, writing toward greater consciousness. Recently, I read Gregory Orr’s Poetry as Survival in which he outlines and defends the work and role of the lyric poet to her self and her society. I discovered I began the journey of the lyric poet that very week in Alaska, and continued on my own through the winter in which I wrote of the dark and cold of my external and internal worlds. I’ve been doing it ever since, different forms arising and falling away, with poetry, the personal essay and memoir as my current kicks.

The ability to write what and how I see has been a source of pleasure and enlarging consciousness for me. I find my self at one of the most contented when I am inside the writing of a poem or a paragraph: the greatness of the work doesn’t matter in those minutes – the process of being in the moment does.

The art of observation was taught to me early on by my father, and later by a college theatre professor. The bird-feeder in the back yard just off the family room, placed by my mother, provided a close encounter with many species of bird, with Peterson’s Guide compared often to what was supposed to be back there. The undeveloped woods and the eight-foot-wide drainage ditch that el-ed at one of the back corners of our property also provided a plethora of creatures for my excited eyes and mind.

But it was hunting with dad that really honed the skill of observation. We’d go out in the late summer through fall on the weekends with our bird dog Elijah and hunt quail, snipe, dove. Watching the birds’ and my dog’s behavior, and watching my father watching same was enticing. In the off-season, our family Sunday drives out into the country and just looking at things provided further education: pasture, cows, gardens, houses, woods, fields.

Barbra Graber, my theatre professor in college, and friend since, helped turn my skill of observation into art. At her instruction, we theatre students took long minutes walking up the hill to class; walking slowly, purposefully, noting our breath, noticing the trees, stopping as felt to observe a grass blade, or an ant. These times of practicing observation tweaked an already-developed skill into the art of awareness. For the next decade I took this into my writing.

As a writing guide, I attempt to notice each person’s gifts and weaknesses, with an encouragement toward greater awareness of the individual and the external world. Specifically in the context of composition, I wish to instill in each student the pleasure found in writing what and how one sees, and transforming that view into something more tangible, more graspable, so that we begin to personalize the world. So that we become intimate with the world, pulling ourselves up and out into the world, drawing the world down and into ourselves. Much like the swirling found in the place where a river meets an ocean, the transformative forces thrill, and change, the participant. Who knows what we’ll discover in our writing, in our going into and out-to our selves.

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Like the above creative, loose personal essay, my teaching philosophy has as its goal, for student and teacher, the discovery of self in relation to other: the larger self we call the world, and its subsequent texts. I believe the student comes to the classroom already with experience, knowledge and wisdom: the student is all ready to learn. I am at my best as a teacher, in preparing the syllabus and in front of the classroom, when I remove my limited self from the lens, and allow the process of inquiry to guide the page and the lecture, thus guiding the ensuing conversations.

Like the above wandering, uncovering essay, my teaching philosophy is one of walking with the student: at times beside, at times behind and, at my worst, way out in front. I read the texts I assign, and occasionally write my own response to assigned readings and/or writings. In the classroom, I model inquiry by asking questions of the text, the student and my self, both as student and teacher. In stride with the student, I do not always know where we are headed, what we will find, but I walk confidently in the knowledge something of worth will manifest. I enjoy wandering, and find students in my classroom experience pleasure in learning, even in the midst of occasional, brief lost-ness! That which is found, new or anew, outweighs the burden the path affords.

My leadership in the classroom is shared through peer response exercises, small group discussions and whole class workshops, and by my getting out of the way when discussion goes down a tributary I hadn’t envisioned. The classroom that finds me at the front is interactive: low on lecture, high on discussion. I find humor a great way to establish trust, humility and openness: three qualities that create the best environment for learning.

I use written exercises to allow the student’s experience, style of writing and personal path of inquiry to unfold in his or her particular way. Often excited by what my students write, I encourage the individual voice to emerge as often as possible. My written comments steer toward drawing out the student’s voice, style and fullness of thought.

Like the above essay and its author, my classroom, and its concurrent teaching philosophy, is a work-in-progress; at times meandering, at times atypical, but continually in formation with my students.